You ruined everything, you stupid bitch

Let’s not pinpoint one sole reason, but I do feel that largely my output of posts here has declined severely due to really something quite simple as fear. June 10th was my last outfit post. Sure the reasons were for a large part practical: I had no place to photograph an outfit. Also, even if I did it would have probably been aesthetically unpleasing. The background, that is. Because I was hospitalised for a mental illness. I wanted this. I never knew it would take months but I’m glad I went through the process.

I don’t know if I can, I don’t know if I’m willing and I don’t know if I dare write about it. But somehow I want to, probably need to. Because, though healing, it was also alienating. I feel a disconnect from the world outside of my therapy bubble. Then there’s the stigma both of hospitalisation and my diagnosis. How can I publish something like that online? But then again how can I find ways to reconnect? Over the past year I’ve started so many drafts then grew too scared and closed all tabs. So silence. This only fed the chasm. It grew wider and cracked and fissured until I didn’t know how to bridge it anymore. But I refuse. Just refuse this disconnect. Just no. So. maybe, I will write.

For many, I think at least, it must seem stupid; attention-seeking; desperate; plain dumb to want or need to post about this. And some of that may be true in a way but what isn’t in some eyes?

A hint: Sing with me! Yes I deserve this!

don’t know where I’m going cause I don’t know where I’ve been

Perhaps as of late here I’ve been vague, maybe alienating or straight up harrowing. Well, see. I checked in a mental hospital, thought I was going to stay there for a handful of weeks and be up on my merry way again. It’s been ten months (apparently – where has the time gone). Full-time therapy and also I am trying working on my ghosting thesis. Life gets in the way of this and that and so on until I realised I stopped doing so many things I loved. Writing inane nothings, tinkering with websites until I give up crying out of frustration, spending half a day on an outfit and trying take a photo of it… I mean I guess people see it as so silly and narcissistic but it is really just very me. I miss it though I don’t feel like I have anything to show or share or give. It’s sort of also like the early quiet days, speaking in a void that may not be a void but you.

I’m scared that this blog will be cached and saved by google for future employers or even friends to find. But I don’t want to give in to that fear or that particular urge I feel to era make myself less than.

it whispers

Ōtomo no Yakamochi (Vol. 19, poem 4291) in Man’yōshū.


Currently I’m dipping my toes and fingernails in the realm of the impossible. The one where boundaries live. Maybe the true ghost realm (for me?). The one that’s easily forgotten, but once known, turns towards you with a painful weird sort of vengeance. Slippery, only vaguely visible, seemingly unreal, often cited as unnatural. Ghost-like; hard to catch, to see, to understand and when they do show themselves they bring a pain and truth hard to swallow. And as ghosts do, they make you look to the past and into yourself.

Difficult, too, because it often comes with the realisation you are not as emotionally impenetrable and tough as you might have believed and wished you were. Tip tap, clicking and clacking, tok tok tok tok clank clank clank and booming. The sound of people, places, things, situations, little sometimes petty things crossing, without regard. Because how could there be understanding when you never knew these were boundaries (not meant to be crossed)? Or when they were crossed so often it no longer seemed like a strict line. Or when you were brought up believing your lack of clean delineators is what made you good, open, special. And, you whisper, are you sure these are boundaries, why can’t they be crossed because, if you look at it rationally and you take in the context of all these years then perhaps stepping on me was justified? Don’t you think?

Breathe. Pause. Distance. Observe. Look.

Kai Cheng Thom, A Place Called no Homeland


Do I let myself collapse ever inward, or can I chose to expand and draw a criss-crossing of lines and tell you: beware not to cross them. In a sense, don’t I let my old self, or rather my self that lives in other’s eyes collapse? And if so, what will my expansion come to mean to those around me? I am scared to ask if anger is in the mix. What will you do when you are not allowed to stomp so casually anymore? Or not allowed to stomp at all?

Maybe I’ll hum, sometimes I’ll whisper but can I show my ghostly boundaries, say them aloud? I’m terrified.