Writing

So Mihra saw the new Star Trek movie, then started reading fanfic, and now she has a fanfiction.net account, and is writing a story that's gonna end up being a whole bunch of smut.

At the same time her muses are throttling her to get sketched, put somewhere where they can interact, and generally being annoying. So Mihra might be starting a new blog...two actually, or one and then updates here, that's a story of her muses. She's putting them on a living space ship. She's starting to hammer out characters for them and places on the ship.

But in the meantime check this out: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1939932/Mihra-Attar

Yeah, she's insane. She knows. As long as she gets all her homework done and doesn't flunk her finals she really doesn't mind.

'sides, it's fun.

Research

Mihra's been rather curious about what weed would do to her for a while. Now she knows.

She apparently gets -very- high. This is bad. Being high is not good. It is lacking control of things that she would rather control. But in many ways it is very good in that she relaxes and is not bothered by her past.

Though, she does get the munchies rather badly. But that is okay. And when she had the munchies she wanted savory...when she realized there were no NewmanOs.

This morning she is -very- good. She is more calm and relaxed than she has been in a long time, and she can see things with less badness in her glasses. She thinks that she will wait at least a week to see how school and her brainfunctioning is effected, and then she wants to try again because a first means nothing, but this time was good. She likes this feeling of calm. She does not want to become a pothead, but she thinks controlled usage could help her a lot.

She feels very good right now, but she does not know how her working will be effected. She also has to be careful to take b-vites every day and drink a lot of water in case she has to take a drug test for a job. So of course a week is too short a time to wait because she doesn't want to loose a job because of that, though if she can talk to a psychiatrist who is marijuana-ok and get a scrip for medical marijuana that would be nice because she feels very -very- good in that the stuff that's usually bothering her that she thinks has to do with PTSD isn't really bothering her that much. It's there she thinks, but it's not so bad as it usually is, and that makes her happy and grin.

The things I remember, like the things I forget, are all bound by my consciousness.

I really don't know what to say. I want to talk, want to journal, to write out my fears, my passions, but I'm lost. I don't know how to start. Maybe now's not a good time, when I should be getting ready to sleep, to prepare for the new day, the new passing of time.

You know, I never can see years ahead. I can't picture myself older than I am. They tell us in class to think of what we'll be doing five, ten years from now, and I can't. I see, nothing. It's not that I see myself as gone, it's that I can't see myself. I can't create a path for me.

Things I want to make, those I can picture. I should draw them sometime, first in 2D, then in 3D. Maybe I'll make models, that might be fun. Of paper and tape. I think I want to try that sometime. Color them even? Though maybe not. Perhaps cardboard, though it's thick.

I can see things I want to do, but not me doing them.

And there's that concept they call sex. That thing that repulses me, but that my body craves. And pregnancy. What exquisite torture getting pregnant would be. The choices, so many to make, each with its own consequences, each with its own pains. Do I abort or carry to term. Perhaps I do whatever possible to make the fetus die, poison my body to see what my limits are? Or maybe I keep the child, care for it, raise it as my own. Or give it to a loving family to raise another misfit, another spark of pain. Oh the possibilities are endless.

Or maybe I'll go back on the pill, then find a guy or two who doesn't care. Someone who'll just use me, abuse me, something so familiar. Why not? Well, my friends would object, my life would be endangered. But so tempting the pain, to fall back into the abyss, to not have to be real, to be here.

Fish has trouble, I think, believing that I am asexual, simply because I've a sex drive. But see, there's no attraction to the person. There's attraction to the pain, to the disgust towards myself.

But then, he says, that could all be a product of Lexicon. Truly not I think, for even before that exquisitely wonderful hell sexual pleasure was pain. Masturbation was something disgusting I did when my body wouldn't shut up. I had to punish my body so I continued to the point of pain. Even then it wouldn't quiet, not for long.

So you see, maybe this was the place to start, to just shut off my mind and let my fingers tell my heart. But I feel disgust, just writing this, so mild that if I read over it I will wish to throw up. I will delete it, so I won't read it. Just post it onto the blogosphere, onto the internets where anyone can come along and learn what it is that I do in the privacy of the dark of my room to release the disgusting urges of my body. But perhaps there's not enough in here to pull a sicko to this blog so perchance I am safe, at least for a time.

Safe. Such an amusing word. Be safe, I say, and people say to me. I'm worried about you. It's not safe. But you know I'm not safe. Not in my own skin. Mayhap Prime Intellect should be created to make me safe for all eternity, along with everyone else. That would be interesting. Safe the children, from their own machinations. Maybe I could find a psychopath to use my body for all of eternity then. Maybe. Or maybe I'll die before the singularity is reached. Then I won't have to worry...unless there's reincarnation...or a heaven and a hell. I think I'd like hell. Seems more interesting than an eternity on my knees. ...well...unless doG is into bdsm...then it might be amusing...but I'm not into the whole humiliation thing anyways. Just the pain really.

And you know the funny thing. I'm not even all that energetically depressed anymore. I mean, yeah, every minute of every day I want to just go back, but that's because change is the most frightening thing I've ever tried. Every minute of every day I want to fall far enough that I can just disappear. But still, I'm not really depressed. At least, not in the same way.

But I digress from getting ready for bed.

School

She's off to her first day of classes for the term. She's looking forward to them too. Though she will have to get off her lazy ass and bike down there soon. But she can relax another minute or two. Still has to pack her pack, grab her pannier. She thinks that is spelled wrong, but her spellcheck's not picking it up.

And now she's done with her coffee so she will get up and start moving. Because that is the good thing to do.

Wishes

She wishes sometimes that she could just sleep, fall into that littlest of deaths and not wake up until it's gone, but that would do nothing. She has to be awake to make the bad become different. She has to live, to breathe, to wonder and dream. She doesn't know how she's going to do it, but she knows that for now at least she has to. She doesn't have any other option. She needs to be...she doesn't know even, except that there is a world out there that she doesn't want to live in and yet she has to. She doesn't see her place in it, doesn't see how it's worth going through, but she's here so obviously she has to go through it. She doesn't want to, but what else can she do? She doesn't know what she will make of herself, but she has to make of herself something. Has to be someone. Has to do something.

Maybe someday she will know why she was born. Maybe someday she won't wish she had been aborted.

People

Mihra realizes she needs people, needs physical contact. Actually she needs it rather a bit more than is probably healthy at this stage seeing as that's what got her all turned around and (mind)raped at Drexalar.

She wants to be a friend but she doesn't know how. She doesn't know how to balance her needing physical without consuming too much of others' energy. But without the people, the hugs, the cuddles, she goes insane, wants to slice and dice, or curl up and disappear.

And she knows she'd regret it, but sometimes she just wants to get fucked...mostly so that she doesn't feel so out of the loop. And it doesn't make sense.

Very little makes sense for Mihra these days, but more and more from the past that comes back to her, it starts to make sense. She doesn't like some of the past that comes back though. A lot of it is...well, it hurts.

She knows she shouldn't feel all rejected and unwanted when her friends want to do things without her, but she does. She feels the bad, and the good is so small, so rare. She feels so alone, even surrounded by people. Yet the alone isn't always there. The alone isn't as bad as it used to be. Now she's living with the SeaFish, at his house anyroad, she's not so alone, specially not physically. But still it's there, waiting. It comes up like a tide at midnight. IT can't be seen until it's washing over her, drowning her.

She wants to be whole. She wants to not feel these things. But there are so many things that she feels that she doesn't want to. So many fears. Always fear. It makes her curl up in caves and hide, or flop on her bed and disappear forever. She thinks she knows why she feels this even though she doesn't want to; thinks it's hard-wired into her.

Mihra needs someone, someone she can be close with, someone who can be like a boyfriend, but the kind not like the Lexicon, not like the one who helped make her pain and fear. He made her hope that life was worth it, then used her mixed torment to pressure her into letting herself get raped over and over, so many different ways. He took the word love, a word that was already twisted around, convinced her to untwist it, then twisted it even worse. But when he untwisted her first he taught her how cuddling and caring and physical closeness and seeing much of each other was something she liked a very much. And now it's something she realizes she needs, and she doesn't know how to balance it out. She needs to retrain so that the closeness of friendship is enough because she needs the closeness, but she doesn't know if she can have a sexual relationship. Truly it may likely be that any sex she ever has will simply be consensual rape, and she doesn't know how to have a relationship with the closeness of partners, with the precedence of partners, without sex.

The things she knows

Mihra is learning a lot about how she works. She's learning about the panic, about the fear. She's talking to people, the people she lives with, and they are understanding she thinks. She would say she hopes, but she thinks is stronger and she needs to be stronger about these things. She needs to beat the freeze.

She knows that people arguing makes her fearful.
She knows that people telling her she's done wrong sends her into panic.
She knows that these should not be.
She will work on them.

She loves her friends.
She loves, and she knows what love is, in some ways.
But she is afraid of love too.
Afraid of the bad males.
Afraid of the Lexicon.
Yet she remembered, that time she pushed him off. Now she doesn't have any desire to keep her friends from hurting him for his sake, only for theirs. She knows what he is, at least for her and people like her. He is a predator, an abuser, a rapist.

She is learning herself.
She is not happy, but she is sometimes.
She can learn to be.
It is nice.

Whyfore

A blog has been created, but for what purpose? Well, I shall tell you the purpose. You see, I need to have access to all my links from all my computers, not to mention school computers. So I have created a blog. I may chitchat on it too. Who knows.