MOOP!

So this is technically fifteen minutes late. Sue me, it's not tomorrow until the sun rises or I sleep.

A week ago, I made a post being all "Half-Naked Thursday, whee!". It was meant to be a look at more metaphorical nakedness, stripping down the walls to show you what I've really got going on in my world.

At any rate, then I mentioned that I originally had two photos and was only showing one of them. This makes this weeks HNT really really easy for me to manage --next week, I will have to actually look around to find a bit of myself to reveal, if indeed, I continue on with this trend.

But yes. Have a picture of me being naked. Odd, in that it's also not a picture of me at all.

Happy Thursday.



This second is a little more new, a little more raw. It's the ceiling of my room, directly above my desk.

A week or two ago, I was having a rough night. In talking with Rackle, she brought up the term "Index card days", where you're just so socially frustrated and out of cope that you have to communicate through tiny 3" by 5" cards.

I have a pile in my desk drawer. Out they came that day, and it seemed the most logical thing in the world to write some song lyrics across them. Lyrics from strength-songs, where the lyrics don't necessarily matter in the slightest, but the message of being strong is crucial to my well being. "Go Away Godboy" is the song I use the most for this --I've never really had problems with people trying to convert me or mine, but howling along with the words can stabilize my mood like nothing else.

Because the words are meant to say "fuck you, I'm stronger than that", and on days when I am weak and helpless, I really need that.

And I forced myself out of the sobbing¹ to write more of them, because if I am actively writing, I am forcing distraction, and that little edge of distraction is all I need sometimes to stabilize. All of them have wound up there, tucked into the framework of the drop ceiling. I've got ten of them now, apparently. I'm sure that, as I enter this mood, and need the music and lyrics, I'll think of more.

So that's my current vulnerability. Come visit, I'll let you read them if you'd like.

~Sor
MOOP!

1: Which itself was after that pervasive emptiness, and broken by my reaching out. I don't like playing shitty girl games, and I hate being cryptic, but that doesn't mean I manage to make all my words to people transparent. There are people who can read between the letters and the lines, through the /me and the carefully arranged punctuation and capitalization, and figure out what I'm actually trying to say over IM, that I just can't, because the words just won't come.

...and because there isn't an elegant way to put what I'd be doing in reality into words. It's that vulnerable look when I arrive on your doorstep, and ask for a hug, and pull myself into you, a double fistful of your shirt as I hide inside your arms, and pour myself out onto your shoulder. It's past want, straight into need, and I don't have a lot of people I've done it to, or *could* do it to (two? maybe three?) and I'm about to lose one of them, but I don't care, because sometimes there's safety there, and that's what I need more than anything else, that memory of safety. ((ETA: Holy run-on sentences, Batman! But this is kinda what my brain starts doing when I am in a vulnerable state))

It's an index card with eight words on it. It's an IM with eleven. It's being held, and being *held* and being held. It's the stairwells at Springstep, and just out the door at NEFFA. It's the long process of reducing the scarred and improving the weird. It's crying in June with the door shut, it's crying in July curled in the arms of someone I can't have, it's crying in August to a boy I barely know, it's crying-sobbing-breaking in January as I watch Next to Normal and try to separate their pain from mine, and try to find the strength I need to say the words I can't, I couldn't, I did.

It's the response I need, when I need it. It's breaking the emptiness with a *kiss*, and breaking the sobs with an *embrace*. It's *comfort*, from everyone who's ever given it.

And it's s00j and Dar and Vienna and Amanda and Alice.

If you can figure out a quicker way to tell people I need "that" than all the above, I'd love to hear it.

I am not crying anymore. You don't need to give me sympathy or hugs, though I won't especially mind them, especially if they're accompanied by an actual comment.

But sometimes I do cry, and when I do, I generally look like absolute shit. Tonight pretty much wasn't an exception. But if I shade my eyes and look away, there is beauty in all that pain. Because I'm human, and because crying is human, and humans are beautiful.

One of the things I feel in the back of my mind is that I don't post enough pictures to this journal. I think it would be nice to change that. I like this self portrait.

Not every picture I take is taken from before the walls¹. Every once in a while, I take one behind.

~Sor
MOOP!

1: Behind the Walls is a term I've used for most of five years now. It is everything that is secret, and not for anyone but me to know. Sometimes I share it, a little. Theoretically, I've been getting better at sharing over the past few years. Before the Walls would, of course, be anything that anyone could see --most of this journal.

Four years ago today, it was 2005. And some shit went down in a chatroom.

The long story short was that my planet, MOOP! (which was then far more tied in to my emotional stability than it is now) got half melted. This is largely because Mallory Alis had returned to my brain, and got into a fight with someone stronger than her. Basic effects were just somewhat of a loss of stability for a bit, not aided by the loss of the internet that came to me six days later. These conditions -broken, able to get on the computer but not the web, and with a brand new guardian to try and protect me- were what got me to start the original BehindtheWalls file --more about that on the sixth.

The real lasting effect was that Alis had returned, as it were, in the incarnation she remains now. Also, it puts Gabriel's age at more than four years, since he was definitely around before she showed up.

For those of you going "um, who?" Alis and Gabriel are two of the three denizens who live in my head and talk to me. If you're familiar with the idea of multiples, it's a little like that (though I refuse to give up control), but basically, they are the voices in my head that keep me sane and safe. Hyde, the third denizen, is the voice in my head that tells me to kill, but can you really expect better from a serial killer?

The denizens are pretty cool folk, and interestingly enough, they have been wicked active lately, for no reason I can really suss out. Usually it takes me hanging out with other people with named voices for them to come out and play, lately, they've been talking to me much more often, and wanting to talk to and interact with the rest of the world as well.

As with most things about myself, I am just fine with answering any and all questions about the three of 'em. Butyes. I like my denizens, and am happy they're around.

~Sor
MOOP!

And I read thoughtstreams from a year and two and three ago.
And I read BehindtheWalls, the first one, the one that coined the term.
And I read secret journals, that I was never meant to find in the first place.
And I read letters that were never meant to be sent
And I read notes that were left on my keyboard

And I talk, to you and you and you. And it doesn't really help. Not right now.

I just feel empty.
I just feel so
frigging
empty.

And I'm doing things off Al's radar. She pays such careful attention, should I cut-scratch-bite-hit myself, she swoops and grabs me and stops me.

But there are more ways to hurt yourself then with knives. There are ways to hurt yourself that don't hurt at all, that shouldn't hurt at all, that only burn because you're a freak.
(Other people are not the only ones who are not to touch my neck. I don't even like it when I touch it myself)

You pull strings tight round your wrist, and cause your hand to tingle from the loss of blood. And then you stop, you release the cord, the chain, whatever it is you have, and let your hand return to normal. Maybe you caused slight indents on your wrist, that fade within moments. Maybe you didn't. You didn't actually hurt yourself, just caused the world to feel different for a little bit.

You're all about making the world feel different for a little bit.

...

And in the middle of the empty and the hate and the lost and alone, she says one beautiful perfect priceless thing, without reason, without warning.

And the stretched thin emptyness, keeping you from doing anything stupid snaps away, and the saltwater starts running down your face. Fucking tears, you've been here before. How long since the last time you cried? Perhaps a week?

Fucking tears.

Maybe it's time to go away for a little while. Take all of who and what you are and bundle it up in a shirt and a robe and a hoodie and a coat and go walk. Walk the paths that you've made familiar, familiar because you hurt sometimes, and when you hurt, you need to leave. You need to go somewhere new.

Were I in Maryland, I would go to my playground. The one I don't bring other people to. Because other people taint memories, and I need a place where all the memories are mine and mine exclusively.

It's interesting to see how hard I have to work to find any given reference to any given thing. It's interesting to see whether I choose to use the reference when I do. For the last paragraph, end it "My 'Das Nonstop-Programm'." A reference that one and only one person will get. Good for him, then.

From Dar Williams* to Clam Chowder* to Dresden Dolls* to Marillion* All the words, all the lyrics are different, all the tones are different, all the moods are exactly the same. Sad and quiet and beautiful and melencholy.

Where to next. They Might be Giants? Where do they make balloons? I suppose.

It's time for me to wrap myself up and leave. May you find happiness where you need it. May I find happiness before I sleep.

BehindtheWalls

*The Christians and the Pagans, Windmills, Sing, Lavender.

( Cut for emo and swearing. )

BehindTheWalls

PostScript: I also really really hate whatever livejournal did so you automatically get a space after the comma when writing tags (ie, you hit comma and it shows up as ", " instead of just ","

See, I'm smart enough to hit space after hitting a comma. Please fix it so I don't keep frigging doublespacing after every goddamn tag. Thanks.

...Shit.

Crying sucks. *pouts* I hate this.

And no, I don't need to talk about it. Or rather, I do, and I have. So yes.

~Sor
MOOP!

And now, right before I turn off comments, and make this post avaliable to teh world, I'm forced to think about myself.
Never a pleasent task that is.
Oddly, I'm not thinking of that which is making me cry right now. I'm thinking of attention whoring, and wanting to be the star. Which really does happen to me a lot.

Take this post for instance. I don't want hugs, or sympathy, or lendings of ears. I'm specifically turning off comments so I don't have to deal with anyone saying anything that would just upset me. So why am I even posting this?

Logically, it's for the attention. Yet that attention which I need, I have been given in the form of conversations with those more intelligent then myself. I don't *want* attention from the rest of you, for one reason or another, mostly because I don't know you well enough, or I don't want you to know me that well.

And for all of those going "Shock and Awe! Kat doesn't trust me!!" don't feel bad. I don't trust a good 96% or so of the people I know. Not with myself, or my thoughts and feelings and emotions. Not with what lies Behind the Walls.

And yes, all of the people who I do tend to let further behind the walls ARE people I know online. This doesn't mean I don't like the rest of you well enough, I do, and I highly enjoy spending time with the most of you. But somehow, having that extra level of removal from the version of my world that exists in this reality, makes it easier for me to let you see me.

Perhaps this is because, even though I intend to meet all three of the people I've been confiding/ranting/bitching to, there is still at least some level of anonymity.

...Holy shit, I just spelled that right on the first try. Wow.

Right, right, back to what I was saying.

I don't know. I just really don't know. I'm a very private person, while I gladly (and ocassionally loudly) share my thoughts and ideas, I keep my feelings and emotions very hidden. I also tend to keep issues I'm having to myself, only asking for advice when I come to a total loss.

Could this be pride? It may be --it fit's the descriptions. I could very well be too prideful to ask for help, and that, paired with my own cynicsism could be a large part of why I tend not to trust people.

But what were we talking about at the start? Attention-whoring? Somewhere in my personal writings, there exists a sequence of words that, I believe reads, "I am an attention whore with stage fright." It is always a frustrating thing when I look back on myself and find that I'm being incredibly fucking RIGHT, and fitting whatever situation perfectly. I am, in fact an attention whore, I have known this for some time, and I try to realize when I'm being stupid for attention, which is never a good thing. And, although I don't believe stage fright is quite the right word at all, I DO avoid the spotlight. I hate being fawned over, which makes crying an absolute nightmare. Because people are good, and nice, and friendly, and because I have been good and nice and friendly to them, they feel obligated to come over and crowd around me and ask if I want to talk (which I generally don't) and if I'm alright (Which I'm sure as hell not, but I'm not going to tell you that). And really, when I get to the point where I'm crying, I reeeeeeeeeally don't want you to pay any attention whatsoever to me. I want you to ignore me, and do what you're doing, and let me find my happy spot and just melt back into the real world at my own sweet pace.

Did I ever tell you folk about the breakdown I had back in...October? It's what sparked a lot of things, including my getting therepy, and sequentially, my getting ADD testing and diagnosed with ADHD. It was...not a good thing. I was re-reading things I wrote while I was having it, and it is...scary. It's scary to remember the fact that, I really was caught in a thought-stream, and had NO FUCKING WAY OUT. The thoughts really were just too fast and too intense, and there was nothing I could cling to to pull myself out.

My saving grace with that one was that it was during a test. Yes, this did meant that I really only finished half of the timed essay, and had to make up the rest later, but it meant I *couldn't* have people fawning over me crazily. And I think that if I *had* had that, I would have snapped, and gone into full bitch mode, and possibly said some things that I would very much regret.

That might be part of the problem with my life. I get mad about as easily as anyone else, I figure, but unlike a lot of people, I really don't have any rational way to release my anger. Yes, I can try and play DDR if I'm at home (although Nik tends to invade) and I can always write and write and write, but in all truth, I don't think the latter really helps very much. It does less to clear the anger, and more to link it to everything else, like my mind links everything, and shut the anger away until the next time I need it. But I don't punch things, I don't scream, Alis won't let me bite my tongue or dig my nails into my palms or scratch up my arms (which were all things I used to do on a fairly regular basis until she came along...and theres a whole stream by itself) so I can't get rid of it through self-inflicted pain, and I always wind up feeling far too guilty to take it out on other people. So generally, when the emotions get to be too much, I wind up crying, writing in a notebook, or both.

And neither activity really condones having a lot of people standing around staring at me with worried looks on their faces and asking if I'm alright.

Also, I noted the other day that when I'm in an especially people-hating sour mood, I go very quiet. This is primarily to keep myself from yelling at people, and I figured it out by watching a friend, who was bitchy and WAS yelling at people. So really, if I go quiet on you and detach myself from the group, I probably really would prefer to be left alone.

*laughs bitterly* My own silly memories. Like bowling. To date, Eric is STILL the only person who has ever managed to figure out the above without my telling them. He's a good lad.

*thinks*

This turned out rather further then I suspected. I meant to discuss attention-whorism, and figure out what I could possibly gain by posting my above post. I still don't know, other then the fact that I HAVE gained a lovely bit of SoC (Stream of Conciousness)

It's odd, thinking about it. When it comes to writing, I think of myself as a fairly good fiction/fantasy writer. But when I write SoC, I find myself IMMENSELY more eloquent. I prefer the subject matter, perhaps? Or maybe I just write best when I really am in such a quiet mood. If life tells me right, I do recieve more, or better compliments on my SoC peices then my stories.

Somehow, that depresses me a little. Perhaps because this is never how I've seen myself when I've said I wanted to be a writer?

Another thing I've figured out, which I don't remember if I ever posted here, is a bit of mathmatical ratio type stuff. I figure that about 80 or so percent of my time, I am happy, or at the very least, indifferent on the positive side of the mood spectrum. I also figure that, out of all my emotional intensity, about 75 percent or so of it comes from or out of that 20 percent of the time where I'm *not* happy. Do negitive emotions just mean more, or do they just stick better? And I know I can get happiness highs, I've done it before, but it's much harder to remember them, and how they feel when I'm feeling negitive then it is to remember the low's I've hit when I'm feeling positive. Do I really just hate myself?

I feel so disjointed. No doubt that if I went back and actually read this peice, I would agree with the fact that I *am* being disjointed, and that I'm very much letting myself swirl about the thought-stream. Controlled though. I try to avoid letting myself be in it uncontrolled, the results are rarely pretty.

*sigh* I have to go babysit. In all truth, I only may or may not actually be around on AIM, and if I am,I only may or may not want to talk. So ta.

...And I turned comments back on. The first few lines though, the first post...that is not to be commented on. Alright?

~Sorcyress
MOOP!