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30 Nov 04: Waiting

Trying to get back on track, slow as usual. Got myself to Vera's place at least. Had a good chat and far too much caffeine.

No kittens yet. Zenya nearly made her nest inside the bottom of one of my old armchairs, wanting to stay in our company downstairs. She agreed to move back upstairs to her box only when someone stayed nearby. She also seems the type to complain loudly, poor thing. Hope everything goes okay.

I hate bad books. Mom decided to splurge on a couple of paperbacks on our way home yesterday, and I zeroed in on a thriller that sounded really gripping judging by the back blurb. Unfortunately, I did not try and read a bit in the store. The writing is atrocious, on the level of Reader's Digest true story clips (I can't comprehend that the author has several books under her belt already!) and the real culprit was glaringly obvious from somewhere around chapter three. As rare as new books are for me these days, it really galls me when one turns out to be bad.

29 Nov 04: Family Affairs

Spent most of weekend with Mom, so coming home today has been most restful. Should not complain, now or in general, with all the help she's given me... it's just that if I ever try to talk something old over with her; or update her about my progress-or-lack-of; or really talk about my illness at all, it invariably turns into a therapy session for their marriage. Invariably. Not only has it been over, like, twelve years, and not only that, but the things she always, always returns to are thirty years old... she really, absolutely, won't get into her head that I don't bear to hear. I have told her so every single time she begins to go there, but the message seems to have got stuck on some infinite loop before arriving into her comprehension centres. Probably the same loop that does not let her move on and live her life.

I may sound overly snarky here, but I'm tired.

There were two unpleasantly, surprisingly ovewhelming moments in the weekend. The first came on Saturday: Mom's putting together personal photo albums for my brother and I both, and for some reason I had a violently negative reaction to seeing all my past in those pictures on the table. I had a hard time trying to be civil when working on it, which is really strange. It's not like I ever really thought I hated my childhood or hobbies as such... but even so, looking at the photographs made me hate the person in them.

I guess it's about being a failure, and having to face up to that so thoroughly.

The other moment was on Sunday, making Mom happy by pretending to do Christmas shopping with her ("pretending" because she never bought anything, particularly not the nice small things for herself that I almost convinced her to go through with - she always dithers and then puts the thing back on the shelf in the end, anyway). We were in the Academic Bookstore, and I was confronted with dozens of books that I absolutely should read just simply to stay in touch with even the most basic cultural and literary discourse. Dozens, even without all the fantasy and magical realism that I would actually like to read. And I hated not having the means to get those books, and probably not having the means to get them for a very long time even if I got a proper job right now.

We talked a bit about this money thing today with P&P. My brother generally just shrugs it off, saying, "Well, nobody ever has any money anyway; that's just how normal life is." And Paula and I held rather forcibly that no, that's not what normal life for university- educated people is. You probably won't be rich if you're working in the public system, but you should be comfortably off. But somehow, for some reason, we never had any money, and we never learned how to deal with money, either. For my brother, it was not so bad - it just made it easier for him to accept the financially uncertain life of the professional musician. For me, ever the neurotic, it resulted in this: no ability to deal with money or ever even believe that I could have the ability, the right if we can say so, to live comfortably, without fear, and be able to keep up with one's health and with culture. (That's all I'd want, really - I don't want a car, and I can't even dream of aspiring to a place to own, nor do I lose much sleep over said lack-of-dream. For me, I'd either want a manor or nothing at all. I despise the Alvar-Aalto-Iittala-Ikea-Scandinavian-Finnish school of architecture and decor. I love antiques, and I'd rather have all my furniture from fleamarkets and then one really lovely piece of antique stuff than all the pale birch sofas or Aalto vases in the world. And if I had enough money to be in shape, that would apply to clothing as well.)

This became a great big whine. Oh well, we all know my life sucks. And, you know, today the thought passed my mind that I really seem to be stuck on these insidious ways of self-destruction, no matter the therapy or anything. I missed two days of my medication just by sheer forgetfulness, and now the deceitful reluctance has got a hold again, and I want to go on forgetting about them. I don't really believe, even now. What's there for me anyway? The only positive thing I can see about living on is that I'd love to see what the world is like in fifty or sixty years, but getting as far as that seems well nigh impossible without being more of a waste of perfectly good air, space, time and resources than can be justified. I was supposed to become something extraordinary. Instead, I was just a stupid, sheltered, self-centered little girl with delusions of grandeur.

And even so... the person that lived through my life does not look like the person in those pictures.

Ever the Queen of Fine/No Fine. Which end is the truth? And why can't I ever get there?

(P.S. It's astonishing how much of a taboo talking about money and the handling of it is in our culture. I'd think it's just my uptight family, but Liisa agreed it's a wider phenomenon. I feel as if I've been writing something altogether obscene about my parents. And it's just money. Just matter, for fuck's sake!)

27 Nov 04: ...And Disconnected

Lost all contact with people during these weeks. Time just rockets by, and I sit here dumb, waiting for it to stop on this tiny, dilapidated station.

I have been able to touch my sewings again, but actual work is still slow and hesitant. I've had the oddest of schedules lately: I fall asleep early in the evening and wake up in the small hours. The time between is still slow and purposeless, but at least there is such a time of being awake. I actually am back to the early-autumn feeling of really wanting a regular job. (No, sewing isn't that, unfortunately - at least for now. It's too easy for me to procrastinate if I'm on my own, and since I always fear that what I do isn't going to be good enough, I always procrastinate. For the same reason I fear that translation would not work yet, either.)

I even got as far as to do some small amount of cleaning yesterday. Very small, but it was something, anyway.

There's going to be kittens in the house very soon now...

23 Nov 04: Feeling Small

It's so easy to clam up, decide one has nothing worthwhile to say. This infallibly happens to me when others have lots of things to say around me, and I don't feel bright enough to take part, even though I'd like to. But what can you do? If you're not sharp, you're not sharp.

Slept both Sunday and Monday, but now feeling slightly more awake and... well, not really energetic, but at least a bit more like some activity might be in the realm of possibility. Want to meet people, which is a good sign.

21 Nov 04: Mission Completed

Well, well. Not totally hopeless, after all. I made it to the last game of the Helsinki Camarilla chronicle despite feeling badly nauseous all afternoon and being considerably late because of that. I didn't give in. Not to the nausea (which is about the least encouraging physical state one can happen to have), not to the fear, not to the panic about dress and appearance and lateness and everything. I grinned, bore it, made it. And had a good game, and a happy ending.

I didn't give in. I didn't give up. And it feels really... good. Besides, I had a very pleasant time at the afterparty, as well. Lovely people making me feel like I belonged.

But above all, I didn't give in.

Now, sleep (eight in the morning... but this time I know I'm not the only one...)

19 Nov 04: Little Progress

Not yet up and running. Sleep, sleep and more sleep. Very little eating, however, not that it helps much when those calories don't get used (but at least it's better than bingeing-and-sleeping).

Conflicted feelings in preparation for the final Vampire chronicle game, as could be expected. Not yet enough energy to get excited and proactive as required. And there's the costume agony, again.

At least I managed - finally - to be wise and give up a task that I clearly was not up to, despite feeling hopeful about it in the beginning of the autumn.

I dreamed about Grandma's place in Savonlinna once more, like so many times before, even though she has moved now (after almost fifty years in the same apartment). The dream acknowledged this: the place was under renovation. Even so, I found myself waking up there in the middle of the night, my head on a pile of sawdust, with no memory of the trip to Savonlinna (though that had been in my plans) or how I had got in... but I saw the door was ajar and thought I heard someone coming in... It was one of those very detailed and believable impressions of actually waking up from the sleep in which you are in reality (I remember a lot of very sensible-sounding reasoning on why and how I'd ended up there and asleep). Also a typical example of my dreamscape: I am somewhere I have no business being, and/or no money or other means of survival and security.

Also the first dream I remember for weeks, despite all the sleep. (Lack of dreams: definitely not a good sign for me...)

15 Nov 04: Dredging the Depths

Been very tired and very ill. Slept mostly, waiting for the medication to kick in. Any moment now...

04 Nov 04: Mostly Bad, Some Good, And An Important Link

Could not get up in time for therapy, or for calling about the meds, or for calling about social support. So even when I actually make an effort to write it only has bad results (had I not stayed up writing I might have made it).

(Later) ...In a surprise development, I got my medication. Once I finally got to checking my prescription, it turned out it was for a bigger amount than I had thought, and there was a lot left. And when I got to the pharmacist, I heard that the prices had gone down quite a bit, too. Still need to call the psychiatrist for an appointment anyway.

Going back to what I said yesterday about a great many Americans living their lives governed by illusions - George Lakoff, one of the world's foremost living linguists and a long-time idol of mine, told us why this is so a year ago already. There are links to more current interviews or comments from Lakoff on the page (haven't read through all of them yet). To summarise, he talks about "framing", choosing words deliberately so that the conceptual frameworks they bring with them label the concept under discussion in the way desired by the speaker, and claims that the conservative elements of the US government have understood this and deliberately worked towards doing this better and better for thirty years and therefore dominating politics in ways that baffle the casual, more progressive observer. The idea is not revolutionary, of course, but the reality of it bears reminding. Apparently, progressives woke up and smelled the foulness only after this article: now Lakoff's books on the subject are required reading for them.

What does it say of the world when truth has no meaning any more and everything, even good things, must be won through manipulation?

As an aside, that is the sort of linguistics that I always wanted - yearned - to do: to get behind words to meanings, and behind meanings to motives. Somehow, I never really found my way to it through the very-nicely-discouraging messages I got in my studies. (This link? Found it in the comments of Making Light, as could be expected.)

03 Nov 04: Q.E.D.

...What is there to say, really? Except that I was right: everyone is fed up with me already. Which means, since last time that I was this miserable, I could not get up without help, that there is no getting up any more.

Musings on self-image, and lack of same

I've been thinking about self-image - it seems an obvious issue, but an unexpectedly hard one. I keep saying how I feel dumb and ugly and unlikeable, and it's true... but at the core of it is this twisted idea that that is not really me; that somehow the real me is brilliant and gorgeous (yes, not just quirkily pretty in the right light but gorgeous) and actually really lovely and warm and giving, but for some reason there's this odd spell or unhappy fate on me, and that actually I deserve better; that the universe owes me all these things. Which (the deserving, I mean) is clearly, blatantly untrue, as a) I have not done anything to deserve to be fantastic b) the universe does not work like that. And I just keep waiting for the spell to be lifted until it's too late, too late... So, actually, it's not at all about having too little self-confidence - it's about being too proud to accept one is just ordinary.

Would be good to think about that, too.

When have I ever felt good about myself? Well, I thought I was sort of attractive the year I came back to Helsinki and really got into larping... And the beginning of the summer I turned seventeen. That's pretty much it. As this is me, I can't really measure this self-confidence thing with anything else except either other people's attention or my weight. Oh, and perhaps I felt pretty okay the first spring at University, dancing in Pikkarainen's Coppelia (but we all know how the dancing thing turned out)... and maybe the autumn when I was taking the poetic elocution classes, right before running and hiding in Lappeenranta. But not really much otherwise. And not at all later - not with any poorly executed attempts at games or dance performances (that were nowhere near pro level, or even journeyman! and that were probably not even wanted as much as they were tolerated). Not even with "A Kitchen Line", not really - I guess I should have been proud of that one, but I wasn't. So many things weren't as good as they should have been, even in that one. It was shoddy, and not particularly biting, and several people loathed it. I have been satisfied at not giving up a task a couple of times - Faerun III, perhaps - but not happy with myself, as even then the task has only been executed bearably, not well. And every time I've stupidly prepared for something I thought might bring me the feeling of accomplishment, it has failed spectacularly.

As to attractiveness... the funny thing is, the memories that make me feel best about myself are from the (not very many) people I've dated casually or "unofficially": there's at least three that did make me feel I was attractive and desirable (and a couple that did not, though it probably was not everyone's intention). And then there were all those gorgeous people I could not help falling for who clearly did not see me as being worthy of them... Of my two serious relationships, the first one was to the School Nerd and still makes me shiver in disgust (now, that my eyes have been opened to the fact that I never, ever was in love with him). He was a security blanket because I could never have the one(s) I really pined for, and because my parents got divorced. And the second one... well.

I loved Tommi like nothing else on this earth, ever. I loved him so much that the world was completely different around us because of it. I loved him so much that ordinary things just melted away, and things like eternity, death, and self-sacrifice were right there in bed with us. He was my dream and my illusion and my exaltation: someone that drove all breath out of me simply by being there, and he was in love with me! But he did not make me feel good about myself. Even in the beginning, his attitude towards my past was rather judgemental (as if there was much of a past by then, really!), and though the sex was great, he often made it clear that on some level, he hated to see himself as "base" as a sexual being - even going so far as to hate me for "making" him so, sometimes! And then, he had this special, spiritual, faerie-minded female friend whom he wrote to more often than he ever had long talks with me... and who was extremely thin, fragile-looking and in all ways the romantic waif I could never be and for a while had foolishly thought I would no longer need to be! Of course, it was my fault that I was jealous, so he never, ever reassured me of finding me more beautiful than her - I should not have doubted him in the first place. To be fair, I do know their relationship was never physical, but it was certainly romantic in that way that a girlfriend can never compete with, because it's "pure". Well, we worked that out in the long run (sort of), but by then he had already got violent. Our friends and acquaintances did not see it for a long time, particularly not the emotional abuse that had been going on for a long while - I suppose it was his way of dealing when things were no longer illusion-perfect. (He, of course, says it was his response to my being brighter in arguments and trying to control him.)

Even now, when I have finally learned that any contact between us is pretty much impossible, writing about the violence is hard and writing about the emotional abuse almost impossible. It seems no-one believes anyway, like they didn't when it was first happening... it was just me and my unreasonable jealousy, of course. And saying stuff like this is so disloyal, I must be lying, maybe because I still carry a grudge? And so how can I try to evaluate how much his despite, his rejection, his twisting my arm until I was sure it would break and I could not panic because if I stayed calm I might snap him out of the unreasonable behaviour... his hitting me... and when we went to couples counseling it was all about how our communication had problems and not about my having been beaten... and how after he went to this short solution-geared therapy period everything should have been okay and I should have forgiven him and been able to trust him again, and when I could not, it was again my fault for rejecting him until I could not go to sleep at night without giving him the sex he demanded as a reassurance - if I tried, he went to the living-room to sulk, and came back to throw me out of bed and hit me if I did not pay attention to that... And those are the easiest sentences, the ones that became almost a rota to explain people what had been going on. I really, really cannot even begin to form an actual picture of what it all did to me and my self-image. How could I? How does one, really?

And even now I fight to suppress the screams of disloyalty, of speaking ill, no matter the truth. It's terrible that I have to feel that I wouldn't have the right to say these things.

I do know that I am no longer the person I thought I was when I got into relationship with him - even less the person I was before. I do know I would not be able to live with him now even if everything bad that happened was magically corrected, nor would he want to live with me. I envy his innocence in certain things - not in all of them - but I could never try to go back to it. It would be false, and some parts of it would be dangerous ignorance. Of myself, of the world. But even so, he was the greatest love of my life. And he did not make me feel good about myself.

It seems to me that the theory that I tend to fixate on people who reinforce my deep-seated feeling of not being deserving might have some merit. Not even starting on the issue of A Certain Someone (though that one, I think I'm well rid of by now).

Idle thoughts on slash

So, for something completely different (that would disgust Tommi enormously, so it's good we finished that subject, neh?). And lighter. Since I surf through quite a lot of fanfiction these days, I cannot help but having an opinion on the tsunami that is slash - after all, it's pretty much impossible to avoid it for lesser waves, even if I try. So, slash. I am pretty much indifferent to it most of the time; aggressively irritated by it in the context of it being the fandom mode du jour; and a true connoisseur when it comes to some very, very good and specialised subsections of it (actually I only read one writer that I've gushed about to at least a dozen people, and since she writes LOTRiPS AU's, I don't want unsuspecting innocents getting any links by accident - if you don't know what those letters stand for, be very very sure you actually want to before asking). The thing is, in some stories I get it: for example, I find it quite plausible that Angel and Spike might have got to some interesting stuff during their decades together; I find it possible though not particularly interesting that Sam might have tried to console Frodo physically during their horrible journey. And I quite like a few threesomes that work best when all parties are involved equally: Buffy/Angel/Spike (because, hey, what's not to like about the pretty men?), Rose/Sam/Frodo (because Frodo deserves all the care and love in the world!), Harry/Hermione/Ron (just because). I would probably not have been alerted to those without the slash phenomenon. But in most cases I Just. Don't. See. It. Actually, in some cases that are dear to me it really, really bugs me that it's almost impossible to find anything else (cue the obligatory Connor reference)!

Many, many theories have been presented as to why heterosexual women, from teenagers to mothers, write and read slash fanfiction. The attraction of the unknown; the opportunity to create new, unclicheic language about romance and the erotic; the empowerment of looking at men as objects for a change. I'm sure those are all very good reasons. A slightly more stupid reason is "I don't want other women spoiling my fantasy about the men I idolise" - and I understand this one is not quite unique. Me, I'm just baffled about this attitude of seeing the women in a story or a fantasy as competition. I tend to identify with them, and even if I don't, it's somehow more reassuring to see the fantasy male as, well, someone that might like the sort of bits I have. But then, of course, there's the hardcore school of the "girly bits, ewww!" sort. More mature slash fans often defend these teenager cries (and what are those teenagers doing reading porn anyway??) by saying that they know their womanly parts and so writing a story where they feature is just boring - so no, it certainly is not misogynistic, no way!

Well. Perhaps it is not about hatred of women as such, but I think there's something fishy there in any case. I think it's simply about shame. In two ways, where the one less concerned with sex is actually the more misogynistic one: literary romance is seen as a female thing and somehow not that worthy a genre - but if it is written about men, it can't be just stereotypical female fantasy fulfillment, now can it? And the other is simply that sex is intimate and so even now carries with it a sense of both excitement and shame; so is and does writing about it... and for women, writing about the female experience in sex is more intimate and therefore more shameful than if there is no female. In a sense, it is a shame of our girly bits, but only in the sense that I think men would feel a similar shame (or perhaps not, simply because they relate to their own genitalia differently ...or that is my vague impression anyway). It feels less dirty, and therefore, more artistic, to write about something that does not concern your own intimacy, no matter how kinky the details.

Or, well, that's my theory.

It also occurs to me that occasional subject lines might be nice, so I went backwards and added some. Though that smacks of conforming closer to the current blog norm than a diary, so I may have to rethink it later. (I can't for the life of me now remember what the correct translation for "väliotsikko" is and can't come up with a quick way to find out. Shame on me. Which also reminds me: I can't believe that I'd forgotten how to spell "migraine" - and heaven knows for how long!!)

(Oh, by the way: the US presidential election? Worried me enough that I dreamed about it. Unfortunately, when I finally got up, it turned out that my dream was wrong and reality was just as unbelievable as I feared. It's not that I had a very strong opinion of the qualities of the challenger either way, but... well, let's just let it be. I am not good at political rhetoric in any language. It just seems that the US is more and more ruled by illusion - in many ways - and that a frightening amount of people don't even want to see through it.)

02 Nov 04: The Deathly Feeling of Futility

Oh, this is just... unfair. Most people seem to have this one bout of depression, eat meds for maybe a year, work it out, be normal again - and me? Still in the same desert after years and years of despair and even two years of active treatment by now! Still unable to get up in the morning and call about medication, or make it to therapy. Still in the state where someone already says, "Don't you have anyone to take care of you; to see that you do those things, that you get the help you need?" Well, no. Because I've leaned on people already so many times, and they think they've done their part. And I'm still not better.

In fact, I really seem to be worse. Again.

01 Nov 04: It Is Possible We Have A Problem

I have just spent twelve hours on the web. This means, from the moment I woke up until now. Continuously. Minus munch breaks, minus half an hour with a book (and even that one was just my attention wandering). The extent of productive work I've done is two short emails and lots of guilty thoughts about sewing and writing more important emails.

I think I need to do something about this. Actually do, not just vaguely understand about needing to do but putting it off indefinitely (just like so many things). I'm pretty certain the depression is not as bad as to preclude any useful activities altogether - such as finishing up costumes that friends have already spent money on and that have a deadline looming. I mean, flu and everything, sewing is not strenuous work. Or, well, it is for your back and fingers but not for lungs and constitution.

I have to stop procrastinating on things this badly and just get to it.

But what if I do it wrong? What if I botch the work? It can't be - it isn't acceptable. So... no, of course the solution is not to do anything. Except... when one just freezes up. Completely. Totally.

And I suspect I've been so mindlessly obsessive and ingenious in finding new sites to read because there is another matter with which I am frozen up in this same fear. Much bigger, much more urgent than the sewing projects. So bad it's starting to keep me awake at night. But I'm all stone and unable to act. It's not going to work anyway. It can't. No matter how good an idea, it was mine, and since it was mine, it can't work... And not enough people liked it anyway, so it must be unworkable. And everyone involved has turned away from me already. I can't do it like this. I can't. I can't make decisions, or take action, or take control. I need to follow. I need to be told it's okay; it's gonna be okay. But there's no-one for that role in this one. I should just... do. And not just do, lead. And how on earth could I possibly??? Me???

I really, really would need some support about the thing right now, or preferably weeks ago, but... well, it must be because people hate me, because there isn't any.

In other news, Liisa asked me last week about things that would make me happy - not completely, just feel some happiness at least - and I could not get anything out of my mouth. It's either things too small - drugs, almost: reading, eating, fannish things - or too big. The only thing I could squeeze out was losing weight. It really would make me feel happy (of course, not just that but also getting into better shape, as bad as the shape has got during the hateful years). Then why is it so completely, totally impossible for me? It's funny: half of the time it doesn't feel impossible, yet again and again turns out to be so. It works only at the rarest, most stressful of the rare, stressful times of trying and even then never holds. What is it, that I don't believe I deserve to be happy like that? Is it too selfish? Too vain and shallow?

At least part of it is the overall mountain of fear that paralyses me completely about everything. Another part is, of course, that food means security and lack of it insecurity bordering on (no, well inside the borders of!) despair. And one more is the persistent association left from childhood of exercise with agony - and not the nice, tolerable sort of agony. Just pain. As I've often said, I really do loathe any sort of exercise for its own sake - particularly jogging or cross-country skiing or, well, any sort of running, really. Only dance, martial arts (if taught well!), riding or swimming work for me. And I just can't do anything alone. The thought of pain is too bad. I've sometimes wondered humorously if my endorphins perhaps aren't working correctly - other people talk about how great it feels once you get them flowing, but I don't really remember feeling like that very often or very strongly.

I don't know. Perhaps I am just lazy and incompetent. How could I know?

...Those bigger things that would make me happy? Even those dance lessons, or going to a hairdresser, belong in that category now. Money would be nice, but so far, nothing has turned up. I don't know. The real issues of meaningful job, ability to be freely creative and courageous with one's hobbies, trust in one's ability to have and keep friendships, and perhaps even love, go without saying, but they are complete impossibilities. Liisa keeps telling me they aren't, but I know it's all past me already. It's just too late. Not all for the same reasons, but too late anyway. I don't really know why I keep hanging on, or going to see her, when this is what I really believe. (That's why most of the stuff is about instant gratification for me - long-term goals are impossible anyway. And I distinctly remember setting down this same thought quite a bit earlier in this diary: so you see, nothing is changing. It's only a matter of time until I finally get it.)