Blog, take 173

So I’m doing something goofy and writing blog posts to myself here, in Scrivener1, until I can get up the nerve to post any of them publicly. I had an anonymous blog once upon a time. It turns out it wasn’t so anonymous in the end, but I tell that story all the time anyway. It’s the first thing on my lips when I think about blogging, when I think about sharing.

I have been thinking about Amanda Palmer lately. I’ve been listening to her music. I can’t read the name The Daily Mail without thinking of Amanda Palmer singing, “Dear Daily Mail, you misogynist pile of twats.”

I’ve been… well, I haven’t been good. I’ve been making it through, same as anyone else. I think I’m trying to hate myself less. It’s kind of a shock to realize I still hate myself at all. I always think I’m good on that, you know. That I’m fine, that I’ve learned my lesson, learned to accept myself more than I did when I was a kid. I have and I haven’t. Sometimes it turns out that the worst things never die.

It’s all layers and layers, right? You dig some stuff up, and you realize how much is rotted underneath. You realize that you still have that tired old soundtrack playing low in the background, distorted and singing you hell tunes that keep you up at night and carve out the hollows between your eyes. You find yourself snapping and snarling at those closest to you, withdrawing into your den, and you realize that no, actually, you’re not all that okay after all.

2020, man. We’re making it through.


While I’m on this, I have a small request for you: I’m going to say things, okay? I’m going to peel back the layers that I usually keep glued down, because I feel like it. Because I’m getting to a point where being unknown by absolutely everyone in my life is starting to feel intolerable. It’s been a long decade.

I’m still the same person I’ve always been, underneath everything—strange and often sad, trying my goddamn best. But I don’t want sympathy, and I don’t want advice. If I say sad things, if I talk about the ways I tie myself in knots—trust that I’ve got it. I’ll ask for help if I need it. I’ve been dancing with these demons for a long, long time. They know me, and I know them. I’m fine. I promise.

1 As you can see, I’ve since found my courage and decided to post it to the public internet.

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