A living journal of becoming, unbecoming, and becoming again. Featuring: Misdiagnosis bingo, AuDHD revelations, gender euphoria (and dysphoria—hey, balance), fluidity on tap, nonbinary mischief, transmasc tenderness, big art dreams, grief spirals, improv brain, existential crises, and the stubborn refusal to quit.
The Stacks lay on nearly every surface of my room –
Here the stockpile of theatre-improv-acting books
There a pile of trauma-informed therapy
OH and here is the neurodivergent mountain
Over here? the pile of healing your relationship with money.
Don’t forget the pretty books, the spooky ones,
The Gold leafed Pooh collection nestled between Neil Gaiman Illustrated and Cthulian nightmares
Carefully planned, barely controlled, chaos
a whirlwind of ideas and dreams and wonders.
Overlapping, expanding, and shrinking with the swing of my moods and interests. Loved and hated in equal measure. Holding the possibility of knowledge, the siren song of research, the dopamine hit of something new and exciting. The dust collected on regrets forgotten passions. The shiny new, the possibility wearing off they become piles of admonition, guilt, and sometimes even shame Aminda 4/9/2022
In the halls of “things you can’t live with or without” my stacks of books are my one true nemesis that I also love beyond reason. They are so indicative of my bipolar brain and that makes them all the more beautiful and terrifying. This started out as a Hahaha look at all my books and really became something very helpful. That’s the power of writing y’all. #accidentaltherapysession
This concept is so embedded in my life that I named my future dream punk band Faulty Earth Suits of FESS for short LOL I even share my blog there because this whole mental health journey is about this FES 😛
(from a FB post March 2021) last night I dreamt that I was drowning in purple ink… and it struck me this morning that I had started writing poems every day and then just stopped.
Not sure I want to keep up an everyday thing, but it was obvious my one-shot poetry was keeping my mind at ease somehow.
SO not sure if that was a case of doing something else creative to unblock or that my artist was saying hey it’s great you enjoy this thing too…but the words still want to come out.
Guess I’m back to writing… Words on the Page
When I write with pen and paper the words bleed themselves onto the page
The hand moves to catch up but the words have already decided where they will be
If music plays in the background my mind follows it out of the way of the words
They crawl out hesitantly at first not sure if they will be sequestered yet again
They have often flowed joyously onto pages shifting, teasing, searching, seeking
Only to be disparaged, judged, ridiculed no peace no kind word of encouragement
Thrashed and beaten they retreat not wishing to be scolded for existing
And now I sit ready, weeping for all the times I punished those words
Those sweet words that understood my thoughts, my pains, my fleeting joys
Words that began as meaningless mumbles mere scratches on the page
Those words that grew and appeared and filled the pages with healing with release
Over and over, they tried to be there coaxing helping pleading only to be rebuked
Once again looking for refuge once again crawling back my schemes and ideas vanishing
Fading into the fears swallowed up by pride and ego and crushing doubt
CobaltFae 