Devil child
On the demonization of emotions by social media's toxic positivity masquerading as a legit spiritual practice (it is usually whitewashed bullshit) and a real life example of how emotions run their course.
Long post, but worth it. In where I try to get you to journal (if you don't already) and share another glimpse into an interesting portion of my own little diary.
April 13th.
It is a beautiful day outside. Sunday, literally.
I am a blurry stain, a murky cloud, the brewing of something unholy. It is Palm Sunday, and I feel enraged. I hope [REDACTED] dies soon. I don't stop to ponder what that makes me; I don't quite care. Not while my emotions are sitting heavy on some organ they should not be in. Maybe I've always been vitriolic inside, so quick to hate, it just took long for it to bubble up. Let's unpack this without making it into some elaborate piece of edgy prose.
It bothers me; The sagging of skin, the tired breaths, the nonsensical babbles. Good deeds go unpaid. I suppose that is the lesson for me, or for her. I do not cradle, but I am compassionate (though it is undeniably clinical). I feel the impotence she radiates, the exhaustion. Why is enough not enough yet? Die already. Rest.
But rest is not the main thing, I am not that honorable. First is die, then oh, she is resting now. I'm just tired of seeing my mom work herself to exhaustion to care for her while she rots and the prodigal son looks the other way. As if we didn't have enough trouble already, we have been shackled to this for years, and it only gets worse.
I am rotten in a different way. Not the kind that comes with pustules on the skin from being unable to ever move independently again. Mine's arguably less noble. No wonder a certain 'God' never answered me—and yet, he doesn't answer them either. Doesn't answer the 89-year-old babbling her way through the rosary, begging for the pain to end and the doctors to find the right antibiotic, for someone to tell her what is going on because she doesn't understand how it got this bad.
It would seem 'God' draws the line in very interesting ways. Rapists and abusers are alright, that he can stomach— welcome to the kingdom of heaven, right this way. But suffering old ladies... meh, we'll see. Okay, good, I'm feeling better already. Blasphemy usually does it for me.
Today I ate a weirdly tasting meat. Horse, I'm guessing. It'll linger between my teeth for days. I will eat something infinitesimal for dinner, maybe I won't eat at all, and let the rumbling of my stomach purify me from all that I am confessing in these cursed pages.
"I hope she dies soon." It plays on a loop. Unbridled echolalia of whatever thing inhabits me. My grandma is old and my mother is working herself sick, so I will bite the hand that fed me once because I am indeed my father's daughter (backstabbing and selfish) We have bunk beds in hell, him and me (I would be in the flaming tombs, my dad will be in Caina) I don't believe in hell either way, so I'll just skip that stop—go straight into oblivion.
Okay, so, present me speaking. Hold your horses before I am placed under moral scrutiny.
This was written during a very difficult time (things are objectively worse now but shush. I am covered in suds and everything just glides off me, not mine to keep) I share this because I have a very basic and obvious reflection on the benefits of getting yourself a notebook and a pen and fucking writing for ten, twenty, thirty minutes non-stop daily, or as often as you can. That shit is therapeutic for a reason! The world might be falling to pieces, but one thing about me is I refuse to hold onto it. Out into my journal it goes, and then I move onto the next thing. And with time, dissecting it comes naturally, I start to see the patterns in my emotions and my issues, find the natural conclusion to cycles of pain, and the progress unruffles seductively in front of me like the feathers of a peacock. Each one a new, beautiful possibility.
I also think emotions, especially negative and intense (like truly fucking intense, of the sort I expressed here) are constantly being demonized by new age spirituality. That we have to be all love and light is bullshit, is limiting. Back then, getting these feelings off my chest allowed me to continue, to be more present and attuned to my body instead of being swallowed up by my circumstances.
Now, that's not to say my life is all fine and dandy; it isn't, but I cannot change most of it at the moment, so I roll with it and try to control the one thing I can. Myself. Please do not think I am one of those Stoic baddies, I am not (albeit I'd be flattered if you think so)—I am, clearly, the complete opposite of Stoic, emotional to the point of hysterical, really— but that's not bad. I like feeling because it is the core of my art. I just want to save at least one person from falling for the trap of social media's commercialized toxic positivity dressed as spirituality by white influencers who want to be spiritual coaches. Writing is a good catharsis, and cathartic activities are necessary for emotional regulation. Even if they sometimes look or sound ugly.
The feelings on this entry mostly came from the utter sense of helplessness I was experiencing. I couldn't do anything meaningful for my grandma or for my mom, and that drove me crazy to the point sadness calcified into wrath and then poured as this entry. I have worked these feelings out during the next few months until I found a way to lay them to rest (yes, this is basically an ad for journaling)
If you are still reading (I love you, by the way), emotions are meant to run like a stream, we are supposed to watch—maybe dip our toes if the water looks particularly scrumptious— marvel and how it shifts and then continue. What you'll read was written the next day, as soon as I woke up (I know because my handwriting is kinda drunk and the start doesn't make sense).
April 14th
Gratitude, I suppose. That's the only message I can gather from these feelings rising inside of me. All throughout the night, I found myself murmuring [REDACTED]'s name over and over again. Anytime I became even remotely lucid, I called for him. Just how silly and pathetic is that?
Regardless, I believe I have made peace with the thoughts. I just hope my voice rippled and found him. I hope he's haunted by it too, by me. Gods, I'd be so hopeless in a 'situationship' that lasted more than we did (or gasp an actual relationship). Anyways, I won't even try to jump through hoops in an attempt to deny I liked dreaming about him, that I didn't wish that they could flesh out into a reality where we perdured.
After pondering about my only straight 'situationship' ever, I conceived this, as I have been feeling off for a couple of days.
"(...)and in these places I feel blockages of sorts. I cover them instinctively, and that action brings me a sense of comfort. Like I'm covering a gaping artery and the blood can finally get to other places, or like putting on (an) oxygen (mask) after struggling to get a satisfying breath in."
That's my journaling at its finest (misspelled words and all because I was so right) I remember doing a candle and egg cleansing afterwards, and I only felt better after smoking the whole house (for a supernatural musing read Play with dark magick. Yes, this is shameless self promo to one of my favorite pieces, mwah!)