Transscript and thoughts on another notebook from a similar time period.

The journal begins with descriptions of people both who do and don’t exist, mostly people I either looked up to or down on – almost all female and all cisgendered. There are a few pictures of beautiful, heteronormative-looking girls. I think I was trying to deny my gender issues at this point.

Next page – a picture of a double amputee. I was experimenting with really out-there sexuality motifs, and amputation/crippled/injured people were definitely in there as a symbol. Perhaps representative of how I felt internally ‘crippled’. The next pages include a ballet dancer, a middle-aged woman, and three girls with cat-ears, all with long hair and a prominent female figure, by which I mean, tits. There’s a motif of girls prepared for school and looking… successful. A lot of the girls are wearing dresses or makeup.

The girls shift into more powerful images in the middle of actions. There is a contemplative looking girl laid out on a tree branch with the words in immaculate handwriting, “I still don’t really know how life works,” highlighted with a few curliques. The next page shows a native-american girl staring across a flat landscape towards a sunrise (set?). The plain landscape probably represents something about how I wanted my life to be totally obstacle-free. 

The next image, I believe, was from a dream – a girl (long hair, too far away to see features) perched above a high cliff beside a waterfall flowing straight from a flat landscape into an idyllic-looking pool below. 

It switches back to catgirls and effeminate imagery after that. Beside one of the better drawings of a girl in a skirt and tank top holding a ribbon-twirly-wand-thing, there is the word “ugly :(”. Probably refers to the drawing and not me, but it’s really hard to say. Beside the girl are the light planning lines of somebody sitting on the floor, eyes downcast, hugging her knees. The next page shows a girl merged with a bear.

The next page is a picture drawn after I first kissed my first girlfriend on the cheek of two girls (both really feminine AGAIN), one kissing the other on the cheek, the other looking shocked and perhaps appalled.

Then there is a terrible looking cyclops with ferocious teeth and some sort of a paisley cloak, it’s rather trippy, with the captions “I love forums” and “My eyes aren’t focusing right”.

After several drawings of especially wispy, waiflike girls there is the first male drawing, incomplete, wearing jeans and with a bare torso and spiked hair. 

Aaaand then it ends.

Transscript of a few months of journalling (not many words, tw: abuse) below.

But it’s kind of sad – the first few pages talk about how much I love my boyfriend who later became abusive and then there’s drawings for a few pages and then it says, with some drawings, “I absolutely adore my life in every way.” As if I was trying to convince myself. 

Then the page after that is overlaid with a red ‘x’ covering the entire page because I drew two ‘furries’ (not in a sexual way even, just people with fox ears, I mean jesus) and I remember that he drew that x. He went through my drawings and crossed them out and just ruined a bunch of them, it’s through a few pages of the journal. 

And THEN, …I barely want to think about this. There’s this place in my journal where I had written “I am ready.” (I should point out that i never showed him my journal, he just repeatedly took it from me.) And he had it boxed in in red. He had been trying to pressure me into sex and I had been trying to refuse, or convince myself to do it, to keep him. 

Next page: “FURRIES! :C all furries must die. yiff in hell.” in red. There are no “furries” on the page, only drawings of cats.

For quite a few pages after that, there are mostly blank pages with just pieces or unfinished drawings on them. I hated to look at drawings that I thought were ‘not good enough’ so I would skip the entire page if I messed up a part of it. The next writing besides some unintelligeable school notes is by me. “120 cuts. I mean come on. That’s emo territory. Suicide :)”. The 120 cuts were in one… session.

Then there are two pages folded over, which signified that I had decided not to return to looking at the previous pages. The next few pages have a few drawings displaying adults having sex, I suppose I was trying to come to terms with everything that had happened to me (relationship abuse, being molested by my (ex) boyfriend, being pushed around (sometimes into traffic), being flicked hard enough to temporarily impair hearing on the ears, pressured into consensual (?) oral sex.)

It’s sad to look back on that time in my life, but I feel like as I write about it and come to terms with the memories I am healing the last few scrapes 🙂

I’m reading over one of my own journals and apparently I decided to journal in a conlang (constructed language, alternative alphabet, sounds, vocab, grammar, etc.) and apparently I was really good at it?

Like it reads, “Kyd ad mu rafifu! Hy da zo tech. Kyd da zo dy-swsofifubafy. Ky fwduka dymwdswsofifu kwnu” and it just goes on like that… on the second page there’s a bit of English mixed in (“Dy-swsofifukafy day. It’s super boring. Zat kyd edez da swsofifukafy zo silad.”)

Jesus I used to be SO COOL. 

Pearl in the Ash

The problem with pussies is that they are so damn mysterious. Even to Ash, who likes to think she knows her body well, her lower lips are an enigma. 

The inner workings are perpetually encased not only by her thighs but by her lush outer lips and frilled inner ones. She cannot curl around enough to see it well and, while she knows the basic external anatomy, she is not an expert on the inner bits. At the height of her puberty, Ash’s vulva is ensconced in a cloak of curly hair, thickening the mystery into an impenetrable subject not approached by the faint of heart, and in this case, Ash is quite faint of heart.

Today she is determined to fix that. Never a devout feminist, Ash nevertheless feels as though she should be empowered in matters of her own anatomy. So she has stolen (‘borrowed’) one of her mother’s makeup mirrors from the bottom drawer under the sink in the bathroom and now she is stretched out in clear light from her ceiling lamp in the middle of the night, fully nude, the image of supple, lusty young sexuality, mirror between her spread legs, fingers probing towards some great secret inside her.

Theory, 10

10. 

Jake was at home again, richer by one phone number, poorer by some increment of social normalcy.

He felt fine. Everything felt the same. He was reminded of his thirteenth birthday. He had always held the assumption that as soon as he hit thirteen, he would by a man. He would grow chest hair and a beard and take on some element of adulthood that he had not been allowed access to in previous years, and, spontaneously, mature.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise or a disappointment to him that this did not come to pass, but it was. Even at twelve, about to enter middle school, he had hoped that he had been missing something but that it would be revealed to him and suddenly he would be independent – or even just normal. Accepted, if not popular.

On his thirteenth birthday, he accepted, finally, that manhood was not something that could be triggered on a certain date, or at a certain phase of the moon. Manhood would come independent of his wants or his needs, or how much he was bullied for being short.

Having sex with Samuel, like turning thirteen, hadn’t fixed anything.

How lonely, how lovely

How lonely to be an animal, unable to communicate your emotions to those worthy of hearing them. 

Forced to keep them locked inside, imploding with the furor of a minor star,

Starved for affection and comfort by your own vocal chords (or lack thereof). 

How miserable to never have the privilege of feeling the stratifying indecision

that separates those who share universally from those who release selectively the solar flares of their inner fires. 

Mom, on Rolling in the Deep: I can remember that it’s “rolling in” something but I can’t remember what it is
Mom: the sea,
Mom: the mud…

if I type only the letter w into the google search bar my first two personalized suggestions are 

-wikipedia bokeh

and then

-wolf piss dropped from helicopter

Theory, 9

9.
It wasn’t even anyone she knew. It was a featureless dark figure, always male, always menacing.

The dark figure would lean in, close enough to kiss her. She wouldn’t struggle. It would lean in, closer and closer, and whisper in her ear.

She never remembered exactly what it said, but she remembered the trembly, nauseous feeling of the voice on her ear, of his lips, and in one smooth movement he was up, kneeling over her, and he stabbed her and she woke up.

The sudden calm silence of her room was shocking in comparison to the chaotic background noise of the dream. The nausea, the fear, the adrenaline died down in her, leaving just an undertone of nerves to deal with. She moaned to herself and rubbed at her face. Her room was all but pitch-black in the wan early-morning light.

Theory, 8

8.
He woke up suddenly and threw himself out of the bed, panting, crouching animalistically on the floor for a moment before getting up as nonchalantly as possible.

He turned and looked at the bed. Jake was just waking up. Samuel tried hurriedly to smile through the shakiness, glancing around the room, still only half-conscious as his dreams buried themselves again in his vast memory.

Jake’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled sleepily and groaned – it was almost a growl, Samuel thought – and mumbled out a “Good morning.”

As he woke, he glanced back at Sam and his face registered surprise. “You’re still here?”

“…Of course?” Why would he not be?

“Oh.” Jake quickly adjusted to this change of plans. “Are you… you… You can go, if you want,” Jake said, grimacing at his choice of words. Sam seemed to shrink. “Do you want me to?”

“Not really.”