I'm Walking Around The House Braless And My Grandma Was Whining About It And I Asked Her - In A Very

I make homes of places. I make homes of cafes with soft lightning, reading nooks, and faceless people. I make homes of the narrow, empty corridors in second-hand book shops housing hardcovers with creases. I make homes of strangers sitting opposite to me on the over-night train going home, talking about travel and the story behind Don’t Stop Believing. I make homes of all the terraces I walk on, indentations of my feet on once empty spaces.

I don’t like it. I don’t like that when I leave, parts of myself are left behind. I don’t like that my mind hangs on to the feeling of nostalgia the way moss covers trees. I don’t like that my attachments are fleeting. I don’t like that I cannot put down my roots anywhere because change is the only thing that is permanent, and trees can’t move, they just keep shaking. I don’t like that I remember feelings. I don’t like things that are intangible. I don’t like what I cannot see, because people don’t believe you when you say you see shadows of things that aren’t touchable, hear music that isn’t recordable.

I want to be a palm tree. I want to live on a beach. I want to be so sturdy; the sands of time won’t change me. I want to settle down so deep, storms and waves won’t move me. I want to be a tree house, my own home, made of myself, made of my blood and skin and bones, so that from people, places and paroxysms of nostalgia I remain free. I want to stop leaving pieces of myself like breadcrumbs for heartbreak; I want to start collecting what I have already lost, the way the sea reclaims shells, the way birds return to their trees. I want to be whole again, but I am simply living kintsugi.

  -kpm ©

I was fourteen when I first read 50 Shades of Grey, or as Catherine Scott puts it — that book. What I appreciate most about it is not the spank-bank material it gave me, but the world it introduced me to; the hole that took me to my own wonderland. As my kink journey - in theory, mind you - progressed, I discovered aspects of myself I don’t think even therapy would’ve helped me access; the way I needed to be loved, the way I needed to be taken care of, the way I needed to feel small to grow, the way I needed to give myself over to reclaim autonomy.

Kink took me to regression, regression to self-awareness, and self-awareness to a yearning I sometimes cannot contain inside my body because of how large and all-consuming it is, how much space it occupies, and how it swallows me whole, especially on my worse days.

The question “how could non-sexual kink possibly be therapeutic?” has many, many answers; it is the hope I get when I imagine how I would no longer have to be responsible for myself; the relief I feel, knowing that someone wants the best for me, and letting them take over my entire being would help keep me alive; the knowledge that even though I am capable of taking care of myself, it is too much of a burden, too much of a leach sucking my battery, and so I choose to give it away, pass it over.

Someone who would squeeze my thigh, and tap it twice to indicate I need to lower my voice in public spaces, instead of an explicit “reduce your volume”, inadvertently triggering my rejection sensitivity dysphoria; someone who would wrap me up in a blanket and make me tea, cuddling me, crushing my body, until I come back from an episode; someone to make sure I can do the things I want to do, that inhibition due to my executive dysfunction wouldn’t make me a completely useless person; someone whose idea of what is best for me is my idea of what’s best for me; someone who would take care of me, when it hurts too much to take care of myself; someone I trust enough to kneel in front of because I feel shame choking me when I imagine myself submitting to anyone else; someone who chooses to stay; someone I can be a child with without fear of annoyance or judgement; someone I can be awkward with, weird with, loud with; someone whose rationality never hinders or limits their emotionality; someone to give me a healthy alternative to the unsafe pain my coping mechanism provides; someone to provide the sensation of hurt without causing me harm; someone whom I feel safe with even while constrained, blindfolded, all senses switched off; someone to gently squeeze my neck when my thoughts are too loud; someone to take over conversations when I face a sudden bout of energy loss; someone whose energy is dominating, all-encompassing; someone who would be my advocate, my shield, and sword; someone gentle, someone soft, someone who would never let me give up on myself.

Regression ≠ kink, for myself.

-kpm ©

I'm so tired, like so so so tired

I just wanna end but I can't cause I'm a coward

Can't stop crying why

No point

I feel so POWERLESS. I feel so fucking powerless. I'm not in control of ANYTHING in my life, absolutely NOTHING. I have a goddamn fucking bed time, a wake up time, I'm told what I should wear and what I shouldn't, everyone has unnecessary opinions on every tiny little thing I do. I've to go where they tell me to, stay where they tell me to, talk when I'm asked to, lower my voice when ordered to. People make me feel bad for asking for things, well, they had for a long time. And now whenever I ask for even the tiniest little favor, I feel like a burden to people, an inconvenience. I've been told stuff like - when I stay at my grandparents' place for a long time, I'm adding on to their stress, they have to make food which I like, do stuff while keeping me in mind and that just inconveniences them.

I basically have no control over anything and on top of that I feel like I'm a baggage to people and I feel like breaking away, I feel so overwhelming emotions because I feel like nothing I say, none of my choices matter - that my voice doesn't matter. But I can't talk to them about this, if I do it's ALWAYS going to be "it's for your own good" // "if you don't want us to tell you things, then fine, you don't care about us, you'll understand when we're no longer here and you have no one to tell you" // "if you were more responsible and knew how to take care of yourself we wouldn't have to do this".

AND THAT'S NOT THE FUCKING POINT! THE POINT IS THAT I FEEL LIKE I CAN'T DO THE TINIEST THING WITHOUT ASKING FOR PERMISSION, I FEEL LIKE I'M A FUCKING INCONVENIENCE TO PEOPLE IF I ASK SOMETHING OF/FROM THEM, I FEEL LIKE I'M JUST FOLLOWING PEOPLE IN LIFE AND THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO ON MY OWN and now it's so fucking difficult to change things and I feel so empty and de-motivated inside, I don't feel like putting energy into anything. I can't do anything on my own without an external push. And this "just be determined and you can do anything" is FUCKING BULLSHIT, THAT'S WHAT IT IS! I CAN'T BE DETERMINED BECAUSE MY BRAIN ISN'T WIRED TO BE. YOU THINK I HAVEN'T TRIED? YOU THINK I STOP DOING THINGS I LOVE, THAT I LOSE INTEREST IN THINGS I LOVE OR I'M PASSIONATE ABOUT BECAUSE I WANT TO?! I HAVE NO FUCKING CONTROL OVER ANY OF THIS! I don't know why I'm this way, but I genuinely, legitimately cannot.

And now, I just want to rebel and disobey people, but there's always this guilt that drowns me and I hate it but I want to go against people, I want to be a bad child so I wouldn't feel so bad about myself, I want to lie without choking, I want to all this without my fucked up head thinking thoughts of death and disappointment and killing myself and running away and guilt, so much guilt and cowardice.

I feel so suffocated, so, so bad.

OPINIONS

This is kindddd of an unpopular opinion, but...

I don't really think it's "morally wrong" for straight guys to watch gxg porn and feel turned on by it, I think it's only an issue if these guys meet a wlw and ask them if they're up for a threesome or something like that because they believe a wlw's sexuality is somehow connected to them or that a wlw somehow exists to cater to their sexual fantasies. Of course I acknowledge the fact that just because straight guys watch gxg porn, it doesn't mean that they're not homophobic/biphobic. I can acknowledge both of the above at the same time - it doesn't exist in dichotomies.

There's a huge difference between the two.

I think it's important to know that there's a difference between reading a particular genre of erotica or watching a type of porn but NOT wanting to have anything to do with that in real life. And I don't think erotica/porn actually influences people in such a way to such a large extent like how most people make it out to.

Just like how, when people read or write fanfiction, though they imagine their characters to be like this person, they don't usually *_identify_* the character with the person - I think that difference is important. Like, when I read Larry fanfics, I don't identify Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson to their character, I imagine their relationship dynamic, but I don't think of real life Louis and real life Harry doing whatever it is that's written in the fanfic - except for a rare few people, literally no one does that. But a lotta people don't understand that difference and that results in them being against fanfiction altogether.

//

One thing I don't like about 'one night stand' culture is how people make it out to be "fucking and dumping" and that shouldn't be so.

Sex is a form of intimacy and we're human beings, after doing something that requires both physical and emotional effort/energy, we need to feel soft, we need to feel safe. So the cuddling after sex or the resting for some time after sex together to feel like a person who had sex with a person and not like just a toy is super important. In books, they kinda make it sound like staying till the morning after and grabbing breakfast together ruins the whole "it's an only sex relationship", when in fact people need that to not feel like they've been used, it's extremely valid. It doesn't mean they have a _romantic_ connection per say, but they do have a connection because having sex is a vulnerable thing, no matter how hard a person tries to keep emotions and feelings separate, that doesn't happen. But just because you feel emotions doesn't mean that you necessarily want to date the other person, it just means you did something intimate and meaningful together - and you can have that vaala relationship and connection with how many ever people you want. But not actually talking after or having aftercare later does affect the person's mental health.

I think that's why so many people are against one night stand/only sex culture, when instead of being against that, they should stress on the importance of aftercare and communication.

reasons to live-

The last few seasons of Grey's Anatomy

The stack of unread books at home

Yet to write love letters to all my best friends

Diana and Kuttus and kitties

Haven't got enough of eating certain food items

People in my life

Boating

Bianelle

Louis releasing COACOAC and Change

Reading COAGDP again

.

when people ask me what I’m particularly good at, I want to tell them, “ruining lives”. it has become such a niche talent of mine that instead of overwhelming shame and disappointment in myself, I only shut down these days, because my body has now been inundated. I ruin lives like it is something I was born for – to make my father cry and my mother develop a chronic illness; for my grandparents to feel unloved and for my aunts and uncles to regret loving me; for ruining my therapist’s weekend-nights; for my friends to feel like they’re giving too much and not getting enough; for never doing justice to my pup. I was told that since the day I was born, I never drank milk – if drinking milk is to sustenance as love is to living, I was and am and will continue to be an abject failure at both; there is something hidden in this analogy of milk: a baby is born with the natural inclination for drinking milk, as is a human being their capacity for love; it is then unfortunate that I have repeatedly disappointed my family’s expectations of following both. I am now lactose intolerant, and it seems as if I am intolerant of love as well. I’m not usually an essentialist, but even I can see that I lack something essential; something that should be here isn’t, though there is something darker and uglier and tar-like making my chest cave in on itself like a black hole, in its place. it is hard for me to process love, it is hard for me to consume milk; when you say I don’t hold space for your love, I want to ask you why you believe I can, why you believe it is a choice and not a deficit; because the only love I can accept is in the form of lactose-free milk, not milk powder, and while many have packets of the latter at home, they don’t go through the trouble of buying the former: milk powder is nothing but milk in its powdered form, and while easier to take, doesn’t make it much better; your love is easier to take when you’re funny and kind, but it does not make it easier for me digest. and it is so silly, but so crucial. new-born babies don’t have a personality, and if they do seem to, they must be fundamentally flawed – no one ever tells you how hard it is to be a whole human being when you’ve been considered a fundamentally flawed baby. nobody ever tells you how to learn to love; if love is an action, and actions speak louder than words, and it is actions which give meaning to life, is it surprising that I ruin lives through inaction? I talk about caring for people the way they want to be cared for, not the way you want them to care for you; at the same time, I do not serve milk to my guests, it doesn’t even pass my mind to offer, the option just does not exist for me – which is very curious indeed.

I fucked up, I really really really fucked up. The first thing you need to know is that I overshare, a lot, I literally cannot function without oversharing. I need to give explanations and I need to clarify things which other people may have not over thought so that my brain shuts up and gives me peace of mind.

I've this teacher who is really awesome cool amazing etcetc and I send her interesting stuff - after asking her first. But Yada Yada, I tell my uncle how awesome she is and everything and he's like '

Btw, remember something.. she must be going out of her way to respond to your msgs n be nice to you.. but do remember she has a life too, tto.. don't over burden her so much so that she feels 'aaagh.. She has msged again n I need to respond since she'll expect one..'

And since I'm a person who overthink the shit out of stuff I had already had this insecurity and he just solidified it. So I went and talked to ma'am about it, made everything weird and since then I couldn't get it out of my head that I'd done something wrong and that I needed to apologise for it but not really clear on what it exactly is.

And then a few days ago she was late to class and I personally thought it was an as per usual thing and no one texted her to come either, and plus I have in a terrible mood that day so I was having a heavy conversation with my friend outside the class. So when she suddenly came I was shakey and I couldn't respond properly when she - kinda upset aayittu - asked us why we didn't let her know. So my friend and I were kinda stumped pole, and I guess she realised something or it was just because she was late that she walked in the class. It must've seemed as if I had ignored her after this very deep very weird WhatsApp convo, and also I didn't get to thank her after class because I was thanking my friend for being there for me. So yesterday, which was a few days, 2 or so, after this had happened I text her out of the blue apologising to her for this and now I want to fucking punch myself in the face because I honestly, genuinely hate myself so much because I literally fuck everything up. Like everything. Why can't I stop overthinking so much and overeharing so much, why am I such a fuck up. She must be so weirded out, she must think I'm a fake person, she must think that it was a mistake to allow me to text her in the first place, she must think that she just wished I left her alone and I don't fucking know if it's my bpd or if it's me as a fuck up of a person but goshhhhhh, why the fuck am I like thisss

And I cannot control it. I legit cannot, I swear, fuck, if I could, I would've. I hate myself so much

thoughts i had/have as a person with BPD that I need to let out or might drown me with guilt and shame:

I want to break up with my best friends because they both have romantic partners now; and they don't like my write-up posts anymore and they don't interact with my insta anymore. Because i feel like something has changed between us after the last time i broke up with them when I was drunk and having a breakdown

I want to cut out a friend of mine who hasn't spoken to me in a long while, even to my happy birthday message on her birthday; but i see that she hangs out with others because a mutual friend posts pictures of them having out and clubbing together

I feel chronic loneliness and i hate everybody.

I want to die because i want to break up with everyone and that's not possible without death.

the tpwk music video -

1. saved me

2. was the furthest thing from cishet

3. portrayed queer culture aka Phoebe and Harry

4. showed gender non-conf Phoebe (who had stated that she was gender non-conf) and Harry, just like they are in real life, which just proves the fact that Harry is not cis/confined by gender [PHOEBE WAS LEADING AJSJSJSJS LIKE!!! THAT'S FUCKING SYMBOLISM RIGHT THERE]

5. was one of the best fucking things to happen to this world