TERROR AND BEAUTY

THIS ISN'T REALLY A BLOG

It’s a last resort — a Hail Mary. A tired, pitiful plea for life. But since you’re here, I’ll divulge.

I grew up lonely, so the internet became my warmth. Tumblr felt like church; YouTube felt like friendship. And I didn’t believe in God. Or have any friends. So... I clung too tightly onto people like se7enteenblack and all of O2L. I depended on total strangers to hold my happiness together.

But Tumblr changed. YouTube changed. And I’m not 13 anymore. Comfort doesn’t come as easily now.

These days, I’m drowning — in the overwhelming feeling of feeling nothing at all. My emotions run rampant while my mind chases behind them, only ever nipping at their heels. Same cycle, same misery. And it's pure, unadulterated torture.

I used to journal and actually feel better afterward. Now I can’t get through a single page. It feels pointless. The words leave my head, hit the paper, then seep right back into me like they never left. So, as a result, I’ve turned to the internet once again — posting on Instagram, talking to myself on camera. That’s my release now. And even that isn’t very comforting. It feels shameful, embarrassing, pathetic. Being this desperately digital, relying this hard on a screen… it’s quite dreary, don't you think? Because it’s not a harmless quirk. It’s the reality that my own company means so little to me that I had to invent fake company — fake people who make it feel okay to bleed. I just don’t feel as lonely when the blue light is on. And I'm SO goddamn lonely.

Imagining a watcher — a pair of glowing eyes beyond the screen — it reminds me that I’m not dead yet.... even makes me feel a little seen. It’s a real Schrödinger’s-cat situation, cuz I know I’m not actually being watched, or seen. Trust me, I’m aware. I’m not trying to be some kind of emo Tana Mongeau. God knows I don’t want to be. It’s just that... pretending helps. It softens the blow. Makes me feel a little less worthless. Makes everything hurt a little less. My pain feels less pathetic when I turn it into art or irony.

So no — this isn’t really a blog. This is me playing pretend. A trick I use on my own mind so I can get a grip on my personality disorder. To get through the shadow work, the DBT, the transformative healing. All the shit I’ve put off, but so desperately need.

This place is a digital journal for my shifting thoughts. A scrapbook of poetry and art. A collection of the memories I like to revisit and the ones I wish I could erase. All of me, thrown together in one place — a clusterfuck of beauty and terror.

A blog that’s not really a blog.

So, to the imaginary watchers — the dead-but-alive audience I’ve conjured in the glow of my screen: welcome to my head. Thanks for being here, truly. Just… don’t stay too long.