I kind of hate most of ‘how to’ books and blog posts.
The only kinds of ‘how to’s I can accept are the the technical manuals, as in ‘how to correctly assemble a bookshelf/repair your appliance and not brain yourself’ kind of things.
The ‘how to’s that talk about art and living in general make me nauseous.
I think, compared to my dislike towards people who need to have someone to tell them how to live or write, I despise those who are all too happy to tell others how they should live or create things even more.
can I please have a person who would just care to talk at me (and sometimes for me) and not expect me to engage in any social interactions adequately pretty please
I may be naive and childish, but I liked Internet so much more when people kept blogs and SNS accounts as ‘public personal diaries’, rather than for ‘businesses’.
What I liked is to read and look and stuff people posted for themselves, not asking and not caring what ‘readers’ wanted to see and how many views it would bring them.
I found a lot of good IRL friends through blogs like that when I was younger.
Even if me and my apergers are not any good at keeping said friends over distances as close as I would really like to, we still keep in touch. Which is more than I can really say about any people I met any other way.
I just… don’t understand why people would not choose ‘real and personal’ over everything else (and especially why they would create ‘fake personal to sell’).
One of the worst things about lasting anxiety attacks is that they often lock you into the place/state you are in, taking away your chances to take a breath and recover.
When you’re already ‘barely hanging on’, you will always instinctively choose the path of least resistance = the path that will bring less new anxiety. Which will also meant sticking to the ‘normal’ or the ‘routine’ that brought you into the place with anxiety in the first place.
For example, if you had your anxiety attack start during the night and last almost all the way till morning, preventing you from sleeping and making you feel like shit when you’re alarm trying to get you up for work, it would be a logical decision to call in sick and rest at home for a day, or at least take first half of the day off. However, the amount of anxiety involved in ‘picking up the phone to call work and tell them that you’re not feeling well and will take a sick day’ involves 2-3 times more anxiety than ‘make yourself get up and go to work as usual (even though there are people there)’. So you get up, no matter how bad you feel. Because, chances are, the worse you feel, the less chances there are to find strength to pick up the phone.
The same happens when you’re already at work and have an attack there. On one hand, you’re clearly not well, and your body tells you that it can’t continue on, and you need to get out. On the other hand, breaking the ‘everyday normal’, getting up to explain to people that you need to go home, bringing attention to yourself by doing all that, too often feels like something that will bring more anxiety than you can already handle. So again you sit there trying to imagine which is worse.
Getting out of your anxiety attack by yourself is very difficult, because it feels like quicksand – as in any kind of struggle you imagine attempting seems like it will only suck you deeper. It feels safer to stay still where you are and save your energy. And it’s really hard to know which of the options is actually the correct one this time around.
I’m trying to very cautiously consider the real differences between human behaviours of ‘accepting’ and ‘not caring’.
Every day since learning the diagnosis has more or less been: I still have no idea why/what xxx (insert an aspect of human behavior largely considered normal) is, but now at least I feel marginally less pressure to understand.
You won’t believe how many people actually spend their time and money and send Valentine’s chocolates and other sweets to fictional (game, in this case) characters. And all the handmade stuff then gets thrown out. It’s all very sad.
Sometimes it takes me a really long time to realize something.
Recently I’ve finally really understood the mechanism behind the everyone’s notion to tell people that ‘it’s all in your head’, ‘you’re the one who has to save yourself’, ‘you just need to change your mind set’, ‘you’re the key to your own happiness’, and so on and so forth, I can’t even remember or the major examples…
It’s quite obvious, really. We tell this to people so that there can be no notion that there’s a responsibility on us to help them. If we make sure that everyone believes that they must be able to save themselves from the inside, and not expect help from anyone else, no one is going to blame us from doing nothing. And we don’t need to feel guilty when people who needed our help lose their fights, we then can only say that they didn’t ‘want to try enough’.
And when we <i>do</i> decide to help someone, we then can be praised as heroes who went beyond anything that could be expected from us.
Fact is, sometimes some of us really fall into situations, in context of mental health or otherwise, where there’s nothing more we can do ourselves to help ourselves. Sometimes people drown and they can’t be the ones to pull themselves up. And while other people are not actually required by anyone to help them, it would be great if they at least stopped blaming it on those who are in trouble. Telling a person with serious metal health problems that ‘they must be more positive’ or ‘stop being depressed or autistic by changing their way of thinking about things’ is like standing on the ground above a drowning person and shouting ‘it’s your problem that you don’t even know how to swim properly, just do better’. Yes, some percentage of people will still have strength to float or swim ashore, and it may even work for them. But it’s <b>not</b> for the spectators to decide who can or cannot do it.
This pattern of behavior that equals to saying ‘I’m not going to help you, but I’m going to save you by telling you that you just have to save yourself’ really disgusts me. If you can’t/don’t want to help – no one forces you, be on your way. Just stop using people who are suffering to boost your self-esteem by pretending you’re saying something wise and helpful by telling them to stop hurting.
Sometimes I forget how English humor tends to be, but then I catch something like ‘Vexed’ on Netflix by accident and can’t believe I could’ve forgotten…
I never quite learned how people communicate with each other on personal topics correctly. When I’m trying to do the ‘I’m going to be polite and not pry into your personal life if you don’t want to tell me, but I’m open to listen to whatever if you do’, I somehow always end up in ‘I can know people for about ten years and meet semi-regularly, but have no idea what so ever about anything personal (even things like marital status sometimes, yes, I’m that awkward), and get very surprised when I hear or see something from a third source, but then pretend like I didn’t notice anything, because I feel it would be rude to act like I know things they didn’t tell me themselves’.
If you skip the first one, which is simply all kinds of terrifuckingfying, there are some gems in there I think are precious.
so, I have a specific relationship with words. Which I may have mentioned a few dozen times already. Words immediately form images for me, and they taste, and I don’t know how words work for all other people but I did notice that not everyone finds typos and translation mistakes as hilarious as I do, because not everyone gets those images in their minds together with the words, and not everyone cares about how words taste.
Anyhow, the point of my rant in this specific moment is that I may have been reading a lot of some non-serious fiction and fanfiction to unclog my brain, and have seen people use the word “wife-beater” a few too many times when they are specifically describing someone attractive, in an enticing state of undress. And all I can see when I read that word is a dirty piece of white cloth, stained by sweat and food and other substances we better not imagine, stretched over beer-and-fat belly of some unkept person with IQ below 40. I mean, honestly. Even I don’t go into the whole cultural background of naming a piece of clothing after domestic abuse. As a writer to fellow writers, how can you use it to describe something you want to portray as hot and not flinch? I can even understand how it can be used in correlation with an antagonist, to give a negative impression. But even that is not necessary, since it has so many other names – tank top, a-shirt, sleeveless shirt, undershirt…
Can I please order food without having the delivery person ask me where I am from?! EH?!
That’s like the easiest way to get the ‘go fuck yourself’ reaction from me. And there are not many of those, actually.
I can neither take nor give praise correctly. Some say that’s messed up. Perhaps. But I prefer people who’d look at something attentively, and give constructive criticism, and point out all the things that they think need to be corrected, than kissass. Also, absence of points of criticism makes me feel like people didn’t even care to look. Basically, it’s hard to think of something where there’s no more room for improvement, and I’d prefer people to focus on that. What to make better and how. And when people ask me for my opinion, and I can see that what they mean is that they want someone to pet them on how well they have done and encourage them, I seriously have no idea what to do.
The problem I have with assholes is that they wake up my monsters. The monsters that I shoved as far down as I could, and starved, and almost killed myself trying to starve them, and moved myself to the country with one of the lowest crime and aggression rates on this planet, and with people who keep wide personal distance and don’t shove themselves in your head just for walking by, and with one of the strictest outside manners, and I made myself weak and surrounded myself by docile things just to keep my monsters sleeping, and it takes 2 seconds of some random assholes to get my monsters to raise their heads and… it’s just sad. Helplessly sad.