i have no reason for the title of this blog post except that, obviously, i grew up with and love slavic mythology and, also obviously, chernobog is my favourite because ~~
and i guess it's fitting, the black god/god of darkness because we all know my ~aesthetic, right?
right. more on that a lil later.
what i actually wanted to talk about here is to reflect on my mental health and the relationship to my writing. may is mental health awareness month and i don't really talk about my mental health (illness?) irl so.
i started off not being able to talk about it even online, but somehow...it still seeped through into my writing. i guess i can't escape it? back when i only made graphics they were always pretty dark, though i don't think it ever occurred to anyone that there's a connection. idk, i'm pretty good at being able to fake through stuff, like, it's easy not saying something. except it's not. at least not when i'm writing. my journey started out small - some throwaway lines about victoire weasley, then a oneshot, then more oneshots, digging slightly deeper though never quite as deep as to make it unbearable.
in my quest for talking about it without talking about it, and understanding, not just myself, but other people as well, helped by a friend, i started a thread i consider super valuable in terms of our community [ culture, identity, race ] but also myself - i yeeted stuff out there and i stopped myself from deleting it. it wasn't much, it's not nearly enough, but at the time, it helped me. hopefully, it helped others as well. there's an entry that made me hurt because i recognised myself in it, but from the other side, the side that hurt other people, and i think it also helped me understand some of the people in my life even when it hurts knowing i've been hurting them.
until one day, when i was feeling extremely low, i wrote a couple of poems [ lingering darkness ] and yeeted them into the void. the archive. whatever. and i stopped myself from deleting them even though, even now, after so many months, the urge is still there. but, i felt, not better, it doesn't work that way, different? more honest? than i've ever been? i don't know. i continued writing them, people read them, people reviewed them. some of the reviews hurt, not because of the intention of the reviewer, but because ...i don't know how to explain this particular feeling, even though i love all the reviews and feedback i've gotten (tbh i think the way people kept reading them, reviewing them, connecting with them - it's one of the things keeping me from deleting them).
and then, there's prose [ favourite worst nightmare ]. little snippets of life, not great, dark, yes, expanded poetry perhaps, some metaphors to disguise deeper pain, and it's a major work in progress, being able to write it. but it's (still) there (because, yes, i also keep wanting to delete it).
i don't know what's the purpose of this blog post. i know i get a lot of ~aesthetic vibes but...sometimes that whole thing, the aesthetic vibes i supposedly have, the compliments i get - it makes me feel as if i'm romanticising something that shouldn't be romanticised, something that definitely *isn't* romantic or pretty. am i doing it wrong? idk though i often ask myself that. maybe, if i did it any other way, it wouldn't be *me*? hell if i know but it's mindfucky. i wrote a poem about the whole aesthetic thing, which i'm copy&pasting below.
but ultimately, none of this would have happened had it not been for the supportive community i've found here - you have all helped me be more open, and honest, and to use writing as an outlet. not therapy, it can't replace that, it doesn't help in that way, at least not to me, but...it's something.
especially some of the friends i've made that have helped me by being there and being supportive and saying 'i know how you feel' or helping me understand and verbalise some of the things i've wanted but couldn't because i was either too upset or angry or just couldn't find the words to know how i'm even feeling. they've also taught me how not to say sorry when i have nothing to be sorry for and wow that's,,,
i can't say i'm doing great because that would be a lie. but, i'm trying and that's enough.
twist of a knife
i wish you would
not believe me
i wish you would
see my bloodshot eyes
for what they are
the curve of a smile
and what it hides
i wish i could say
the things going through my mind
but the image of me
silhouetted in smoke and indifference
cool and collected
take a pill
a little bottled happiness
to keep me going, keep me alive
take a shot, do a line
dance under starlight
smile (does it reach my eyes?)
i let go
and the world comes crashing down
it’s just a dark aesthetic
a beautiful hot mess
to the voyeurs looking in through a broken image
and i play it off
play with my demons
a dangerous game
and one day
i don’t play any more
i wish you would
twist a knife inside my heart
until all the poison bleeds out
Edited by grumpy cat