Untitled.txt

content — s--cide, ab-se
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i'm faltering over a precipice.

for 10, 12, 14 years, it was difficult for me to write. i dissociated & embarrassedly texted my uni ex whom i'm unfortunately still in-denially in love with {& still denially} in spring 2021 after i broke up with [redacted] & ended up homeless again. anyway, after that, it started to feel like i could write again.

{neuro-atypical masking} makes me suicidal.

i told somebody recently that every moment that i'm still alive, is a moment in which i am {neuro-atypical masking}. bc i am pretending to be somebody i'm not. somebody who wants to be alive.

it's not {even} that i don't want to be alive. *really*. it's that i do not want to live in this particular world, in my particular violated body, in my particular life. but, *especially*, not *this* particular world.

lately, i have been letting myself be a little fake sometimes. i am learning to be fake sometimes recently, bc i am too tired to constantly feel love for everybody, the way that i used to. so i do things sometimes, when i don't actually feel like i completely mean it. when i don't necessarily *feel* the love or kindness or friendliness that i'm expressing. {i am starting to think that this is how "normal" people live, huh?} & then sometimes, i ask myself. maybe i shouldn't fake it, bc it's kinda goes against my morals. but then i asked myself what the consequences of *not-faking-it* would be.

& the consequences would be me not doing *anything*. not trying to do *anything* good for myself. i would just completely give up on even *trying*.

by still being alive, i am faking it.

/

do i love too much? i think i do. i love everybody more than they love me. it's not about a lack of boundaries. i value life, but nobody values mine in the same way. i care about every single death, including the deaths of strangers. i get my feelings hurt by strangers who are stranged{weirded} out by how much their loved ones' deaths affect me, how much a stranger's death means to me. me, the loveless. the unloved.

/

there's this artist whom i follow. & they make comics about the people who love them. & i'm envious. envious, not jealous. somebody with a birthday i still remember, somebody i met in high school, once taught me the difference between "jealousy" & "envy". jealousy, he told me, is envy within relationships. of other people's, like, positions in relationships? of the love that somebody else is getting, from somebody that they love? i'm not sure. envy is coveting what somebody else has. i'm not jealous, i'm envious. they make countless comics about their family & friends, about how much their family & friends love them, about how much they love their family & friends. today i recalled that even when *other kids were violent to me*, when i was a child, my own parents would take the other kid's side. they hated me *that* much.

i know just as much as any other homeless human being that people hate & abandon homeless human beings. i know bc of how everybody i loved, treated *me*.

i am now the Weird Person from school {to those who knew me when i was younger — or, at least, i assume so. i speak to none of them, anymore}, who somehow ended up drowning in over a decade of deep tragedy. it's "Because I Am Mentally Ill".

isn't it?

no. it's Not.

it's bc usameriKKKa is disposability culture. & unless people think you're "cool", & unless you're lucky, *nobody* gives a shit about you.

especially if you get sick.

i accidentally wrote, two nights ago: the truth. the world wants me dead. the world wants trans people, queer people, impoverished people, Disabled people, crazy people, abuse victims/survivors, & anti-white-supremacy activists^, especially LOUD ones, *dead*.

^ { i hate that word— "activists" —, but i can't think of a better one right now, that's not *too* incomprehensible. labelling myself with that word lumps me in with a bunch of people i hate, tbh }

& i've been fighting death my *entire* life.

i've been fighting being murdered, my *entire* life.

several months ago, i wrote that i'd rather kill myself than die of covid-19. bc just one reason, out of myriad good reasons i have, i have for being suicidal, is so that i get to be in control of my death. kill myself before an abuser, an ableist, or covid-19 kills me *first*.

i feel heartbroken.

wait. what truth did i write?

oh, yes.

nobody is saving *my* life.

because it isn't me who needs to "keep myself" safe. it's the world. & the world doesn't want to keep me safe. the world never did.

the flip side of that is:
the world wants me dead.

& it *does*.

my non-traditional, anti-carceral supporter believes that i can be happy & without constant pain & panic one day. i would like to believe them, but i also think it's absurd. how can i be happy in a world where, even if *i* am not in excruciating pain, even if *i* am not being abused, i know that somebody else is? i feel like they perhaps do not understand me enough, or my intentions. i am not okay with this *world*.

i think i would have to shut most of my heart off, if i could achieve personal happiness for myself in this world.

i miss *my* world. yes, i am extreme. i never feel like i'm doing enough, & i swear this isn't a trauma response — jk it probably is. but i am not satisfied. i am not satisfied bc this world isn't what i need it to be. more caring. more loving. more supportive. i will never be able to save as many lives as i want to save. & i also know that not everybody will ever agree with what i'm trying to do. or understand it.

nobody tells me "don't kill yourself, you are so loved".

because they know i was not loved.

& in this society, we believe that we deserve what we have. even so-called "anti-capitalists" — well, the neoliberal usameriKKKan fake ones, anyway — are under this spell, even though if that were truly true, we would all equally have food & shelter & healthcare already. but we do not.

& in this society, people {are led to} believe that other people have what they deserve. so if nobody loves you, there must be something wrong with you, right?

who loves the screaming human being in psych prison? the mentally Disabled human beings whom their "families" have given up on, & whom they throw into an institution to forget about, a shameful whisper nobody ever likes to bring up at holidays' dinnertime?

i've been sitting on a draft since february. part of it is about that. nobody cares about the signs i give them. this world is fucked for people like me. & now that i have fought for what i have — a fight that i didn't deserve to have to do, for something i deserved in the first place: somewhat more stable housing — i want to give up. i do.

i am deluding myself because i haven't felt safe or loved in years. i am deluding myself within a single, fleeting moment. yet another wound. take me for granted, i will cut you in half.

what is inherently unloveable about screaming & crying?

absolutely nothing. throw away your baby, while you're at it.

i wrote, a few weeks ago:

if you think that crying is manipulative, it means that your parents didn't love you enough. sorry, i'm not the one who parented you badly lol

— or, you know. you live in a cold society. {both: they create each other.} the word "capitalism" is overused, at this point, as well. i shared covid-19 resources for almost 3 years, but i slapped a "capitalism" into my new username, & then i went small-time viral, for talking about a virus. go figure.

when i wrote about capitalism being disposability culture, i was thinking about on an individual level. fake "anti-capitalists" believe that as individuals, they're free from inflicting systemic violence onto other people as individuals, & that they're also free from benefiting from it. but they're not. when i wrote that, i wasn't even *thinking* about capitalism in terms of, you know, corporations or whatever. *{said, tongue in cheek.}*

but if you forced me to explain it to somebody in a way where it would obscure how much interpersonal capitalist violence they also participate in & benefit from, i would say: capitalism treats human beings as disposable. doesn't it?

the Black/Brown woman/MaGe pop star of the week, until we learn that we're supposed to hate her, for some reason {bc it's usually a Black/Brown woman/MaGe human being whom we're taught to hate}.

the workers, here & abroad.

Disabled human beings.

i fight my death every day. i fight my impending death every day. i don't know why i'm still here. i don't know why life matters anymore. the only times i deeply hurt somebody were bc my brain was basically splitting apart, & i was basically homeless. one of the times was after i hadn't seen anybody in person except for people who had literally severely physically abused me, in an entire year.

maybe my neurotransmitters simply only know how to misfire. yeah, i know they do. probably. i don't know. i don't feel things normally, that's just a reality of my bodymindheartspiritsoul.

but it feels like what i do doesn't matter. it may matter to many people. yeah. but i don't want anything fancy. i realize, & feel, that i am ordinary, more & more, every single day. i am just one human being. the way i think does *not* make me special.

*nothing* makes me special.

i don't know.

like i said.

i don't want anything but love.

& so here i am. exactly where i was when i quit when i was 21. with people who love my work, but not with anybody who loves *me*.

& all i want is to be understood. & loved.

i would give up everything for that.

or, at least. i used to.

but real love shouldn't require totality of sacrifice.

but real love, *does* require sacrifice. i will not erase sacrifice from the definition, or, at least, *my* definition of it.

here i am. exactly where i was when i quit when i was 21. i have no friends, no family, but i help human beings with my work. & yes, my life is & sounds strange & unconventional. i did not choose this. sometimes, i feel like the loneliest human in the world.

even chiron had found family as a child.

but love is complicated. but i refuse to love abusers. i refuse to love people who knowingly hurt other human beings. that minuses most of the human beings in this damn country.

it truly does.

i finally published march 8th, 2020, again, but completely publicly. a few months ago, i wrote:

"i don't even believe in love anymore," you say.

but love doesn't need you to believe in it
in order to be real.

in april 2021, i wrote —
"i feel like believing in true love is like believing in god. no smart, rational thinker would do it."

^^ "smartness" is an ableist concept. "rationality" is also an ableist, specifically saneist, concept. the concept of perceived lack of "reason" is literally what gives oppressive power validation to imprison human beings under the guise of "they're too neuroatypical / 'mentally ill' for society." i'm struggling to find better words to describe this, but the point of the line is a touch of irony & self-awareness, anyway { *explaining the joke*: i am *not* rational. }. i will update this wording when i can think of better wording. in the meantime, i apologize for being ableist/using ableist concepts.

but anyway. apparently, i don't know if i simply thought up the lines again organically, but i first wrote —

"i used to wonder if i believed in love
romantic love

but romantic love doesn't need you to believe in it to exist."

— nowaday, it's not just romantic.

true love evades. —

anyway. i apparently first wrote those lines, those thoughts, that *idea* — on march 9th, 2020.

so i put off publishing march 8th, 2020.
& i've been putting off publishing march 9th, 2020.

&... now?

what i wrote on march 9th, 2020, was about how easy it is to become homeless, *really* homeless, & how society does not care about human beings like me/us.

i am oracular. i am closer to death, so, i see everybody *else's* futures.

i have always been very sybilline. all i knew back then was that covid-19 lockdown meant it would be impossible for me to get an in-person service job, which is the easiest job for me personally to get. which means i had no idea what i would soon do about rent; i was already comatosely depressed, but i knew i would have to "force" myself to make money, soon enough. the day of march 9th, 2020, i cried about how i ended up homeless, about how easy it is in this country to end up homeless. the night of march 8th, 2020, i cried about the thought of contracting a terminal illness. it's just a common thing i think about. sickness & death, even before i ever learned the sequence of the two words, *disability justice*, in its proper order. i never read any book on disability justice. my comrade would say that claiming that that is superior, is ableist {&, indeed, it is. it *is* ableist to claim that being self-taught is superior. & i'm *not* claiming that it's superior — i'm merely stating a fact.}. but i just say that to express to you that i have never read a single entire book about "social justice" or "feminism" or "leftism" except for a book by [a very famous feminist] when i was 22 that i didn't actually like & was very critical of at the time, before my brain kind of puttered out completely — but everything i learned about *all* of this, i learned from being fucking oppressed every single day of my life on these stolen Lands.

everything i learned, i learned from thinking a lot. everything i learned, i learned from my parents abusing me, random cis men abusing me, my parents / my parents' abuse & the state impoverishing me, the personal experiences & free-form thoughts of & my conversations with other oppressed human beings & not books, & everybody i loved abandoning me, the moment i got just a tiny bit too inconvenient for them to support. it didn't matter that i'd helped them apply for law school, or supported them in a career that now makes them literal millions. i was no longer useful; i ended up abandoned => abused => sleeping in my car, they ended up with six-, *seven*-figure careers that i supported them in starting.

& i also read some articles & zines. back when i still *had* the ability to read. /lh /sincere

usameriKKKa does not care how "smart"^^ i am, if i only use my "smartness" to defy usameriKKKa. capitalism does not care how "hard-working" i am, if i can't obey my oppressor's time schedule. & nobody in this cruel world cares about the contents of my heart & mind & soul, if to them i'm a fucking "nobody".

^^^ once again, "smartness" is an ableist, classist, cisheteropatriarchal, white supremacist, capitalist concept, anyway... — "hard-working", as well.

i am a foundling. a human {child} being deprived of human contact. i only happen to be one who's good with computers, & knows how to write.

i am a feral child. a feral feline. a feral cat.

i am a stray cat.

i am a feral child.
i forget this a lot.
because even i am in denial.
because this isn't the life *i*, *anybody*, wants for themselves.

i am not special. i am just sad. i am unloved. i am audrey hepburn holding an éclair outside of tiffany's. i am a stray with no name. i am not "normal".