D’you ever just accumulate a bunch of internet identities for different purposes and realise you have hoarded a bunch of URL crap? I just realised I have 7 wordpress blogs.
…I need to do some serious tidying up.
D’you ever just accumulate a bunch of internet identities for different purposes and realise you have hoarded a bunch of URL crap? I just realised I have 7 wordpress blogs.
…I need to do some serious tidying up.
Hey guys, it’s been a while since I just rambled to you, as opposed to poems and friendship issues and family junk soooo… here we go!
Today I got a notification on WordPress telling me that I have had this blog for exactly two years now…weird. It feels like I’ve simultaneously had it longer and shorter than that. I have been blogging for a really long time now, which I suppose it feels like I’ve been using this blog longer than I have. (I was cyber-bullied on my old blog, and in a moment of madness I deleted 2 1/2 years of my life from the internet). However, it got me thinking about anniversaries; why on earth do we have them?
See, because there’s this debate as to whether time is a man-made construct or not. On one hand, events will occur whether you want them to or not and there’s no going back- humans can’t possibly hope to control that. But on the other hand, the measurement of time is a fairly human construct. Yes, the measurements come from the position of the earth etc., etc., but why break them down into months or weeks? Humans have an extra day every four years because it is more convenient for us than the extra quarter of a day every year. We put the clocks back/forward to optimise working hours. We start school in September as opposed to January because children used to help the harvest in the summer months. But anyway- anniversaries.
Why do we put certain moments on pedestals? Why do we remember certain milestones? Who chooses what becomes a milestone? For instance, I had my first kiss a year ago today; why can I remember the exact date of something so insignificant? Tomorrow is the anniversary of my first baby tooth falling out. I was seven at the time, how can I still remember it? The day after that is the birthday of someone I shared classes with why I was eleven; I don’t even remember their surname now.
What part of our brain retains these facts, as though we will need them?
It’s the same with people. We remember pointless facts in order to understand the person, yet we keep them even when the person is no longer in our lives. Their favourite colour is blue, or purple or green; they get carsick unless they sit by the window, they’re allergic to the adhesive on plasters (albeit that’s fairly useful to know). Why do we suddenly forget the answer to a question the moment someone needs us to remember? Why can feel something when it’s ‘on the tip of our tongue’?
Did you know that your brain never forgets a face? (Unless you have aphantasia) It stores them and relays them in your sleep. When you dream, you have seen the faces that feature at least once in your life, maybe three or four times. I don’t even want to think about where we source the images of our nightmares.
It gives me a headache.
As a wanderer,
It is hard, I must admit,
Not to drift away
Over the horizon and beyond.
But then you happened to
Gaze upon me with those seaglass gems
And I stopped,
Dropped the anchor.
I felt your warmth,
Radiating from within,
As though you were sucking in
The sharp frosty air,
Absorbing and depleting.
Rays of gold sunshine
Hung about your face as
Though they would look
Out of place anywhere else.
There were many legends of you,
Myths depicting an unstoppable love,
A friendly siren,
If you will,
And again, I must admit,
Submit to honestly,
It was the myths that made me stop.
Though a wanderer I am,
I long for a place to stay,
And yet the only sources I could find
Would run down so rapidly
Almost synchronised with the
Sound of the anchor dropping.
I found this in my old poetry book but the page was ripped!
So it shall remain forever unfinished. Ah well.
Something you may not know if you don’t use WordPress all that often is that you get a statistics page that allows you to view who your primary audience is. This is useful, particularly when attempting to target certain demographics; writing about events that happen in a certain country, perhaps, or typing up a memory that correlates with said people. More intriguing, however, is that it allows you to see when you get your views.
For instance, while most of my audience comes alive at night (Thanks you for your lovely messages, I promise I will email you back when I get a chance!), I do get a cluster of views from England at a certain time of day during the week.
Noticing a pattern, I asked a family friend (Hey Tony!) what he thought, as he works with computers. With some help, we manages to pinpoint my newfound audience to Hampshire, then my local town, then my college. This is the first time in a while that I’ve logged into WordPress from college, and I can’t rack up more than a hit for my own blog (even then, it only counts if I’m not logged in and I’m not that desperate for views). Ergo, these views are not coming from me. Soooooo, I did a bit of snooping around, and with the help of some accidental likes (Even if you unlike it again, I still get the email dumbasses) I now know who likes to read my blog during lunchtimes at college.
I just thought that was interesting.
If I die,
-No, hear me out-
If I die before my time,
Of unnatural causes,
If I die before my life is done,
Before I look back and am content,
Before my weary bones lay down to rest,
And my lungs release their final breath…
Don’t look at the things I finished,
Don’t read the sentences that end in full stops,
Don’t remember the outings that drew to a close,
Don’t look at the paintings that hang upon the wall,
Don’t look at my grades, nor my passes, nor my fails,
Don’t look at the clothes I grew out of,
Don’t look at the toys I no longer use,
Don’t remember the pen that ran empty,
Don’t remember the shoes that became too tight,
Don’t regard the friends I no longer speak to, nor the distant family members, nor any resolved fights,
Remember the plans I never got to make,
Remember the words I left unsaid,
Remember the people I had yet to meet,
Remember the milestones I had yet to pass,
Remember the birthdays I never had, and the parties left unplanned and the presents left unwrapped,
Remember the drawings I never drew,
Remember the stories I never told,
Remember the unresolved arguments,
Remember the songs I never got to hear,
Remember the steps I never took, the lands I never saw, the memories I never made,
Just please, I implore you,
If I die before my time,
Before I look back and am content;
Pay no heed to anything I may have accomplished, concluded, completed, because
I was worried at first,
That I wouldn’t know,
What to do, or say, or act,
Without a clearcut definition to
But I know the rules now.
Don’t speak unless spoken to.
Don’t show any sign I know you when
Others are around.
Don’t make a sound. Don’t cry aloud.
Don’t think. Don’t talk. Don’t feel.
Under No Circumstances get attached, or trust, or love.
I am not always happy, yet I stay.
You confuse me.
Censored but desensitised.
Bound by your smiles,
Gagged by your compliments,
I willingly suffer the sweetest pain I’ve ever felt.
I put my foot into the bear trap,
I hold my heart out to the thief,
I hand the knife to the murderer.
I remain by your side like a pet,
Doing tricks for treats and
Begging for scraps under the table.
You’re like that kid from the nursery rhyme,
The one with the curl.
When you’re good, you’re very very good,
But when you’re bad, you’re
Although it hurts to say,
Cripples me to admit,
The good is what makes you so horrid.
I lived for you.
I craved your attention.
I survived on your affection.
Every God damn time,
I think you heal me when
You trace my fingers or kiss my forehead or hold me tight.
But then you reopen the wounds when you
Brush me off, or shut me out, or shoot me down.
Soon there will be no more blood to give.
Soon I will have no more love to give.
Soon I will be nothing but scars.
You’ll never read this, you’re just a stranger now. Well, I don’t know, maybe you forgot to unfollow.
Anyway, this is my way of saying goodbye; closure, if you will. It hurt me, so much, when you disappeared. To have someone so important to you decide you’re not worthy of their time… it is gut-wrenching, soul-sucking, whatever you want to call it- at the end of the day it hurts like nothings else. But the worst part was that you didn’t tell me.
You talked to me, texted me, ate lunch with me, and then cut me out on the same day.
You didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me why. After four years, do I not at least deserve that much? It drove me crazy, trying to work out what I did that was so bad that you made me Public Enemy #1. I would call people up at random hours of the day asking if you’d mentioned anything, if I’d accidentally said something to offend you, or insulted you in some way without knowing? I lost my mind, pulling my hair out, sobbing into my pillow at night because I missed you and I hated myself for making you hate me.
But now I realise that it’s not my fault. It’s yours. They told me that you didn’t actually have a reason, that you did it because your girlfriend told you to. I mean, it’s common knowledge that she doesn’t like me, she doesn’t exactly hide it- I tried for three years to make her like me, and for what? Lies and rumours spread about me (Which I have since been told, so you can thank her for me). Luckily I don’t have to deal with her anymore. I realise now that I don’t actually want her to like me, I just don’t care (which, by the way, feels awesome)! So if you want to live under your girlfriend’s thumb, good for you! I’m sure you can find some friends that will put up with it.
They don’t believe me, you know. They think that this is ‘just one of our arguments’ and we’ll be ‘back to normal in no time’. But not this time. This time I’m done. What they don’t know is that I’ve deleted your number, your texts; I’ve unfollowed and unsubscribed; deleted all of the pictures on my phone and laptop. I can’t keep doing this again and again, and I don’t think I want to. What’s the point of staying loyal to someone who can’t decide if they like you or not? It’s like keeping a pet dog that keeps biting you and biting you, again and again. I’d say I don’t resent you for changing, but I do. it cut deep, what you did. It tore me apart completely. My family became so tired of me being upset all the time that any time they hear your name, they fly into a it of rage. The same goes for a few of my friends too; well, our friends I suppose. I get so anxious that you’ll say something nasty to me in front of them and they won’t know what to do.
The chances are, when I make a few more friends, I won’t stick around for long. I won’t make a fuss, I won’t try to bring anyone with me; they’ll probably want to stick with you anyway. But I’ll be okay. Because the thought of you doesn’t hurt me anymore. At most it makes me want to sigh and shake my head.
So that’s closure, yeah?
See ya sucker.
First thing’s first; I want to make it clear that I am not writing this to educate you on PDA. I know nothing about it whatsoever and I refuse to learn about it- but I’ll get to that in a minute. However, I will put a link in the bottom so that if you should wish to educate yourself on the matter, you will have the tools in which to do so.
I am also not writing this to inform you how it feels to have PDA. I do not have it, and any of my behavioural issues stem from a condition called “being a spoilt brat”. (Just in case it’s not obvious, that’s not a real condition and should not be taken seriously… I don’t mean to offend anyone).
I’m writing this to tell you what it’s like to be related to/live with someone with PDA. Well actually, I’m writing this because it’s important to my mama, and my brother; and because I’m tired. Of being the only one who has to be a teenager and deal with this, of being angry all the time, of hurting my brother’s feelings because we can’t get along.
I may have exaggerated when I said I know nothing whatsoever about PDA. Mama tells me titbits about it all the time and she thinks that I don’t listen to her, but they’re there in my head. I just don’t let on that I’m listening; because if I do that, she’ll want to get me involved- take me to conferences and talks, having family heart to hearts, joining groups on Facebook. Quite frankly, she’s lucky I’m doing this.
Please don’t think I’m a bad person who doesn’t care about her brother’s condition, because I do. I really, really do. But this is new to me. Growing up, my brother was just a bad little boy who threw tantrums to get what he wanted; and I hated him. I know that my mama’s reading this right now and is disappointed/ angry with me for saying that I hated my brother, but the fact is that I did. I really, truly loathed him. As much as I’m ashamed to say it, every time I looked at him, I just felt this ball of anger and disgust. I would refer to him as “half a brother too many” to my friends, and they would either be appalled with me or tell me that their sibling was worse. None of them understood just how much I actually meant it when we said we hated our siblings. I knew it wasn’t natural, to despise a sibling that much. I should know- I have seven in total, and I didn’t feel this with any of them.
Back then, before he was diagnosed with anything- even before the dyslexia and dyspraxia- I just saw him as this leech that followed you around and got whatever he wanted with a snap or his fingers or a stamp of his feet. He would cry all the time, and as someone who gets stress related headaches, that’s not a particular quality you can tolerate. He was the reason I couldn’t talk about my friends in detail, or bring home a party bag; because whatever I had, he wanted, and I had to share. I could never go out with my friends without bringing my little brother along. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him around, it was that they didn’t, and I would be torn between choosing friends or family on a daily basis. I also couldn’t hang onto a hobby before he dive-bombed in and claimed it for himself. Lego? His. Ukelele? I had lessons for a year with my school and yet he owns one. Fashion design? Now a potential career for him. I can’t even remember which hobbies I actually enjoy and which I started just to have something to myself. It’s a hard enough job doing that with multiples siblings; even without one that has PDA. I began to enjoy complicated psychological horror films because my brother couldn’t understand the plotlines. Reading, I became obsessed with, because he was dyslexic and couldn’t keep up. Netball, because it’s a ‘girls’ sport’ and he has too much pride to be seen playing it.
Reading this, you’re probably thinking that I was jealous; and you’re right. I still am. I can’t help it. The definition of jealousy is ‘the fear that someone will take what you have for themselves’ and that’s all my brother has ever done.
The reason I don’t want to learn about PDA is because I don’t want to understand it. If I understand PDA, I will empathise with my brother; and if I do that, then all of the hate I had for my brother will transfer onto me. All of the anger and the jealousy will become guilt and regret, and I don’t know if I can handle that. It was so easy to just blame my brother for everything- for example, if I get bad results from my recent GCSEs, I could blame the bad grades on lack of focus during revision, deriving from his outbursts. But if his actions aren’t his fault, then I’m just the girl who grew up resenting her little brother for something that’s out of his control. It would literally be like hating a wheelchair user for not being able to walk up the stairs. Because that’s what PDA is, it’s a disability that prevents him from doing everyday things that we take for granted. I would hate myself more than I ever hated him, and call me selfish, but I don’t want to hate myself. I don’t want to look in the mirror knowing that I’m a bad person.
I realise that I’m not painting a particularly nice picture of myself; but I’m not trying to make myself look good, I’m trying to be honest.
I do try to be a good sister to him, I swear. I would protect him with my life; he’s my brother, of course I would. Sometimes he goes to the local park by himself because no-one wants to come outside with him, so I’ll go along behind with a Frisbee or a football. When he used to have nightmares, I would let him sleep at the other end of my bed so he wouldn’t have to go all the way downstairs to wake mama. On Saturday mornings I used to read to him with my finger running below the words so he could feel like he was reading at the same pace. I once reprimanded an entire classroom full of kids in his year at school because I was in the art room (their tutor room) at lunch prepping some GCSE coursework and they were badmouthing him (clearly too busy to realise that the girl they’d seen talking to him earlier that has the same surname as his written on her art folder just happens to be his sister).
Sometimes my brother can be a really sweet kid. But more often than not, there is no distinguishable difference between the kid and the condition. He’s boisterous all the time, whether we’re getting along or not. He has no sense of priority- he will sit at his computer until he needs to run to the toilet, or is about to pass out from lack of food/drink. He tells lies, and somehow believes them. He seems to make up conversations or pretend some were never held to get his own way. He can cry on demand to act like you hurt him- sometimes even hitting himself so a mark will show up. He has no concept of saving up- he wants to spend his money as soon as he gets it, and complains when he only has enough for little things. He has this knack of twisting situations to suit him. More often than not, I end up in my bedroom just to get away. I’ll sit down on the sofa, and he kicks up a fuss because I’m in his seat. If he comes home from school and I’m watching television, he complains because I’ve been watching it all day and it should be his turn; and yet if it’s the other way around, he’ll just say that it’s not fair for me
There is just so much guilt and resentment involved with PDA. You can either have one or the other, or both, but you never go a day without experiencing one. Say you come home with a good grade. If your parents make a big deal out of it and you feel proud of yourself; the person with PDA feels bad and gets discouraged. That would be when you feel guilt. If your parents play it down so that the person with PDA doesn’t feel bad about themselves, you feel like it’s not important to them, and you feel resentment. That’s the first thing everyone should know about it. Not what causes it, not how many people it affects; the first thing people should know is that for the people who have it and their families, there are no good days. It’s a lose-lose situation no matter what you do. No matter how well you deal with the outburst, someone is always going to be upset. It might be the child with PDA, it might be the scorned sibling, it might be the mother or father who despite their best efforts, get dirty looks from other parents. You just have to wait it out and hope that you stay in contact when you grow up.
My mama thinks that I don’t notice the way other people look her when my brother has an outburst, or the way she gets close to tears when it’s been a long day and my brother just will not go to bed. She had to defer from University for a year because she couldn’t cope with the stress. She had to put her dream on hold because she couldn’t handle the pressure of looking after a hormonal fourteen year old boy with PDA and a stressed sixteen year old girl doing her GCSEs. She lasted a lot longer than I would in her situation. Both my brother and I take our problems out on our mother, we always have. I know we shouldn’t, but it seems as though it’s just one of the things that mothers are there for- fixing your problems that is. Then when they can’t, you just don’t know what to do, so you get upset.
This is all over the place, I know, but there’s just so much to say about it; and once you start it all just comes spilling out.
I don’t know where to go from here, if I’m honest. I suppose I ought to apologise to my mama, I don’t think this is quite what she wanted when she said I should show people how it feels. I don’t mean to insult my brother at all; as frustrating as it is to live with him sometimes, he’s still my brother and I love him.
The main thing I want you to realise though, is that PDA works both ways. That sounds completely ridiculous I know, but to me, my brother had everything, and it wasn’t fair. Now I know that he thinks the same thing about me. I’m told that he doesn’t understand me and the mannerisms that show my emotions, but the fact is, I don’t understand those things about him either. Where I might walk out when I’m angry and need to calm down, he’ll stay close to the person he’s angry at. When I’m told no, I might sigh or roll my eyes, whereas he’ll cover his ears and pretend that nothing was said.
People with PDA have a completely different language, both physically and verbally. I think that if enough people become aware of its existence, maybe that language can be learnt and everyone will be able to sigh with relief in the knowledge that there is a reason for this.
I don’t think there’s anything else for me to say, except that I’m terrified that it will turn out I’m the only sibling feeling this after all. If I am, then I’m sorry, I have no idea what’s wrong with me. If I’m not, then I’m so sorry that you’re going through this too, I know how hard it can be.
Just try not to feel selfish, okay? Because although we don’t have PDA, it is hard for us too.
The promised link: http://www.pdasociety.org.uk/
So for a while now I’ve been noticing that sometimes when I mention something about me, a couple of my friends look like I’ve announced that I have cancer healing nipples or an allergy to oxygen. So I thought I would write exactly one thousand words made up of whatever random facts about myself that pop into my head. So here you are I guess!
I have freckles under my eyes that are hidden by my glasses. I fall over when I laugh too hard. I have a scar on my middle finger where I cut myself open on a can of diet coke, and another on my other middle finger from picking up broken glass. My brothers call me “thistle” with a lisp because I got hit in the face with a football when I was younger, knocking my front tooth out and pushing me into a patch of thistles. I hate people touching my neck unless we’re very close. I’m terrified of being outside in the dark. Of being alone. Of not knowing where I’m going. Of forgetting. Of being forgotten. I’ve never believed in Santa Claus, and I’ve never liked Christmas. Despite this, I love tinsel, and stuffing, and wrapping presents. I sometimes still suck my thumb when I’m scared. I become cuddly when I’m sleepy and normal coca cola makes me hyper. I had imaginary friends when I was younger. I talk to myself. When I’m stressed, my hair falls out in clumps and my nose bleeds. I wear a lot of makeup because I don’t like how small my eyes are, or how much I resemble my dad. I get nightmares so bad I wake up screaming and I have anxiety attacks remembering them. I talk in french in my sleep, apparently having an argument with someone that to this day no-one can name. I like songs that make me feel strong emotions, no matter how terrible they seem to other people. I dance like a little kid when I’m washing up or cooking the dinner. I have tiny burn scars on my legs where my little brother jumped up on me while I had a pan of oil in my hand. Since then, nothing seems to make me jump. I want two Giant African Land Snails called Bilbo and Bobo. I desperately want a beagle. I love spending money on other people because it makes me feel good. I clean when I’m nervous. Pasta makes me sick. I’m allergic to kiwis. I can’t stand the smell of Haribo. I get headaches so bad they make me cry. I hate being picked up. I can’t stand to be touched by people I don’t know very well. I’m quiet when you first meet me and so very loud when you get to know me. I am obsessed with curly hair. I love brown hair and brown eyes. I blush very easily and giggle when I like someone. I cry when my favourite characters die or show character development. I have three memory boxes filled to the brim. My favourite meal is a roast dinner with trifle for pudding. My ideal date would be a movie marathon and take out. I detest anything unnecessarily fancy. I prefer to wear odd socks. I have three tattoos planned when I’m older. When I was five, I chose the names Callan, Coral-lily, Noah, and Jean-Marie for my future kids. I want to have twins when I’m older. I don’t want to have kids until I’m at least 26. I always wanted a baby sister. I can’t swim. I learnt to ride a bike when I was 10. I fall in love with the sound of people’s voices. The majority of my celebrity crushes are way too old for me. I love to cook. My favourite thing to cook is Korma. I love Indian food. I have eleven niblings, and seven siblings. My younger brother hit me on the nose with a tennis racket when we were very little, and the plaster made me look like a duck for a week. I was literally dropped on my head as a baby, fracturing my skull. I have two streaks in my hair behind my right ear; one black and one white. I tell people I want to dye my hair blue. In reality I want to dye it dark brown. I hate the way my face looks without glasses. I’m a Hufflepuff with Gryffindor pyjamas. I shout when I’m a little bit angry, and get quiet when I’m very angry. I’m terrible at Mario Kart, but surprisingly okay at Guitar Hero. I love it when people explain plot points they’re passionate about to me. I have seven notebooks full of old poetry. I hate hot weather but love the beach. The scariest memory I have is of my older brother having an asthma attack when he was seven. I was taken screaming out of the room because I thought the paramedics were hurting him. Ever since, oxygen masks freak me out. I have the unfortunate habit of developing crushes on my closest friends. I hate change. I go running three times a week but remain horrendously out of shape. I love to sit upside down on the sofa, watching TV in my pyjamas. I don’t know what I identify as when it comes to religion. I know absolutely nothing about politics. Or taxes. Or getting a job. Or renting a flat. Irish accents are my favourite. I’m obsessed with Dan Howell, but my favourite YouTuber is Shane Dawson. The majority of my friends are guys. As a result of this, I get called a slut all the time. I hate being told who to date more than anything else on this earth. My grades are way more important to me than they should be. I love rock climbing. I used to be terrified of heights. I want to share a flat with my best friends when I’m older. I want to take a gap year and tour the UK in a campervan. The only other country I’ve been to is Wales. I’ve never been on a plane, and I don’t own a passport. I use the words ‘dork’,’nerd’, ‘loser’, and ‘nugget’ affectionately. I like people who get passionate about fandoms. I love to make playlists for every occasion. My full birth name is Khiana Lillian Courtney Fountain.
One girl's journey to accepting her asexuality
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Feminist, biracial, pansexual, bipolar 29yo fatty talking about fat acceptance, body positivity, feminism, politics and social ills. And fatshion.
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