Underneath my yellow skin

Tag Archives: therapy

Ignorance is Bliss–and Sometimes Necessary Escapism

relaxation is my game
Chillest cat ever.

Today, I woke up for the first time in two weeks not feeling an all-encompassing sense of dread. That’s not to say I don’t still think we’re fucked (I do), but I didn’t want to repeatedly bash my head against the wall for hours on end. It helped that we were supposed to get snow today, which we are now getting. Fat, fluffy flakes falling aimlessly to the ground. I hope it sticks. I love snow more than almost anything, and seeing it everywhere makes me happy.

I avoided most of the news today. Not because I don’t care, but because I was making myself sick reading about the new presidential team. I have very political friends, and they’ve been diligent about posting the latest news. I can appreciate that, and I think it’s necessary, but it can be overwhelming to see post after post about the horrors that is Trump. I’m still having difficulty accepting that this is the new reality, but glutting on the news isn’t the way to acceptance.

Wanna know what I did instead? I did my morning routine, which calmed me a bit. Then, I started a new Dark Souls (original) playthrough, this time as a tank. Those who have read my posts about Dark Souls know that I love the games* and play them pretty much exclusively now. I’ve tried other games, including Shrouded in Sanity, which is definitely Souls-inspired, but they all pale in comparison to the Souls games. Shrouded in Sanity tries so hard to be Souls, but with a few strange control changes. The heal button is Y instead of X, which is puzzling and too foreign for my brain to grasp. Plus, the camera is manual in a way it’s not in Souls, and there’s no shield. You get a sword and pistol, much like Bloodborne, which means you have to rely on parrying and dodging, rather than blocking. I am horrible at parrying. I’m too old, and my reflexes are too shitty for that. In addition, Shrouded in Sanity is a pale imitation of a Souls game, and the whole time I was playing, all I could think was, “I’d rather be playing Souls.”

When I’m a caster, I can stay a safe distance away from the enemy and keep backpedaling from them. When I’m playing melee, I use my shield to block and count on my high poise/endurance to tank the hits. This works very well except for a certain optional boss in Dark Souls 3 who shall not be named, mainly because he doesn’t have a name. No, seriously. He’s the Nameless King, and he’s my personal nemesis. I’ve soloed every boss in that game except him, and I am struggling mightily with him. Part of the problem is that I’m maining the Greataxe, which is very short. He flies around on a dragon, so a longer weapon would be more useful. I’ve tried other weapons, but nothing is as comfortable as my Greataxe, so I’m trying to make due with it. I don’t know why I’m being so stubborn about it, but it’s a point of pride at this point.

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I Don’t Want to Talk About It

i can't stop crying
Raining tears

I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was fifteen years old. That’s two-thirds of my life for those keeping track at home. I’ve been severely depressed since I was seven, which is, coincidentally or not, the same time I became aware that I would die one day. Once I realized that, I became obsessed with death, alternately horrified by and attracted to it. I haven’t made a secret of the fact that I’ve been suicidal most of my life as well. Suicidal is too harsh a word for it, though. It’s not as if I wanted to kill myself, per se; I just didn’t want to be alive. I was terrified of what was on the other side, however, so I stopped myself from crashing my car into the divider on the highway, from sitting in the garage with the door shut and the engine running, from submerging myself in a bathtub and never come out again. It’s been a long time since I’ve actively had to stop myself from doing something rash, but the thought it never far from my mind. Whether it’s, “I could end it all right now,” or, “Holy shit, I’m going to not exist one day,” death is hovering over me. I know it’s coming for all of us, but it feels so intimate and personal. When I was getting my MA in Writing & Consciousness fifteen years ago, my thesis was death, and every story I wrote for it had some element of death to it. It wasn’t as if I made a conscious decision to write about death, but that’s what interested me at the time.

To be honest, it’s still what interests me. I like reading and writing murder mysteries, and most of the fiction I write these days still centers around death. There might be some romance in it, but it’s secondary. Don’t get me wrong. I like writing a good sex scene as much as the next person, except, most people don’t write good sex scenes. They’re not easy to write, and it’s further hampered by the fact that many publishers won’t let you use the actual words for genitalia. Any time I read sex scenes, it’s ‘throbbing member’, ‘loins’ (sometimes even moist, which is so fucking gross), ¬†and ‘nether regions’ all over the place. Nary a penis nor a vagina in sight, let alone a dick, cock, or pussy. I don’t even read ‘tits’ much in literature. When I write sex scenes, I use explicit language because I think the euphemisms are silly. They take me out of the moment because who the fuck says, “I put my hand on his hardening member”?

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