#life 1

[vanilla-waffles]

3 Years 222 Days! Happy Halloween! Have a normal doodle

[ers-210a]

swiss baby moments from stages 3-4!

[vanilla-waffles]

1 Year 61 Days! Still more bits of that animatic I’m still working on. With the lyrics taken out again.

[kawanogitsune]

It’s apparently mental breakdown day, woo

[vanilla-waffles]

2 Years 112 Days! God those wings took forever... There’s something really nice about his light colors and I like them.  Also he has pants now.

[vanilla-waffles]

2 Years 98 Days! Resident dumbass here accidentally deleted the very first couple of days of their daily art so I’m reuploading them here

Have the original like... seven days in no particular order besides the first one which was indeed the very first daily art I posted.

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7... reposted here

The very last one here is one I apparently NEVER posted??? So uh. Yeah bonus. This art is all very old though ghfjdskhg

[erikthedead]

entry #1

I have finally acquired Microsoft Word! I really didn’t want to pay a monthly subscription for it, but it is the best writing software out there. Every time I mention myself spending money, a small prayer goes out to all the tax-paying members of the nation, since all my money comes from Universal Credit, which is the United Kingdom’s cute name for a type of welfare money. I much prefer just calling it ‘welfare,’ or even better ‘NEETbux,’ which I discovered used in online forums as a word for the money people receive when they are not in education, employment, or training (N.E.E.T), which has been my status for about two years now. Then ‘bux’ is just ‘bucks,’ obviously. Bucks is just money, obviously. Many people receiving Universal Credit also work as well; they just receive less - enough to supplement their wages if they aren’t getting enough money from their jobs.  

My last job was working in a busy restaurant for just about a year. Before that I was in university, but I dropped out after only completing the first year out of three. Before that, I worked as a carer for elderly people for just under a year. Before that, I was in college for two years, and I actually passed the course. I only passed it because the subject was forensic science, which included lots of writing about psychology, criminology and lab reports. I was never that good in the lab practically. I got flustered and bewildered in such a bright, sanitary environment that required precision and organisation to achieve the desired results. When it came to scrambling together a report to submit the next day though, I was pretty golden. I only dropped out of university because I had a mental break down as a result of poor mental health and just the fact that going outside and interacting with people was and still is incredibly exhausting for me. After a year of doing that consistently it seems, I get fatigued. In the end I got an average grade for the college course because some of the work was difficult, or boring, and that fatigue was hitting me by the second year. However, the grades I was getting on my university assignments for psychology and sociology were anywhere between top marks and good marks (Between 1st – 2:2 in UK student language). I never once read the feedback from the tutors who marked my work. All I needed to know was the mark was okay and moved on to the next assignment, firstly because I was arrogant and secondly, I couldn’t handle criticism. The mental break down itself involved me walking through the campus one day only to find myself slipping into a dissociative state. Nothing had happened immediately prior to trigger this, it just happened. It felt strange, like I wasn’t really real, and neither was anyone else. Everything felt distant and off, both externally and internally. It was frightening and strangely peaceful, as if at any moment someone could come in and blow the building up and I wouldn’t even react to it. That wasn’t normal. The only way to snap out of it was to lock myself in a toilet cubicle and lightly slice my arm with a tiny knife I had on my keys. It worked, but now I was in floods of tears and a state of distress, so I went to the student welfare services to see if they could help me or at least let me sit somewhere nicer than a toilet while I calmed down. It was an open office waiting area at the side of the bottom floor of a building that matched the layout of a prison ward with the stairs and the upper floors creating a square boarder of classrooms, that would have been cells for a prison. More for practical purposes than for aesthetic reasons, I’m sure. Still sobbing, and hiding my self-inflicted cuts, I asked the person behind the desk if I could ‘see someone,’ which is one polite British way of asking for help. After waiting a little while, a plump middle-aged lady appeared and brought me into her own little private office to ask me what had happened. She gave me her sympathy and asked me about my life and my history, and gave me some more sympathy, while relating her own experiences to mine. She was a good counsellor, basically. But having a good counsellor on site wasn’t enough to keep me on the course after that incident. Getting a degree just wasn’t worth it at the time. Being such a depressed and pessimistic person, I was only actually doing the course for ‘fun’ anyway, not for the hope that it will bring me a better future. Until recently, I never saw a future for myself. It wasn’t even a bleak future I imagined; it was just blank. I couldn’t even conceptualise it.

It’s not a mystery where all my misery came from. My childhood was a bit inconsistent to start, and from what I’ve observed, children need consistency more than anything to develop promisingly. I remember reading a study once that found children raised by parents who were consistently abusive to them were in fact more mentally stable than those raised by parents who could be lovely one day and nasty the next. It was not knowing what treatment they were going to get that did them in. It makes sense because if you’re always expecting to face a thrashing or a shouting at every day, you can at least prepare for it and train yourself to deal with it. We’re very adaptable creatures, but we need to be able to recognise patterns around us to do that. If there is no pattern, then how can we possibly make predictions? Without predictions, how can we possibly feel secure about our future? Having said all that, I was never abused in any way growing up, but I was sometimes neglected by my young mother, who was only 16 when she gave birth to me. Of course, it’s understandable now, but from a child’s perspective all you think is ‘why doesn’t my mum want me?’ When she sends you to your room for no reason and tells you not to come down for hours at a time. I asked ‘why’ a lot. Never got a good reason. I’m sure plenty of people who were raised by a drug-addicted parent can relate to this. She herself was a good mother, not amazing, but good. She told me she loved plenty of times, she gave me what she could, including a little sister when I was three years old. I think it was shortly after her birth that mum started taking heroin. It was only during drug education in year five of school (I would have been about 11) that I put the pieces together. She hid her addiction pretty well from us, but I sometimes found pieces of tin foil lying around the living room with lines of black residue on them, and once or twice witnessed her junkie friends ‘nodding off.’ There’s also a clear memory in my mind of being taken along by her and my nan to score some brown out of town and I can picture in my head the massive set of old-fashioned scales this drug dealer had sat on his coffee table right in front of me. I was too young to understand any of their lingo, though. Yes, I mentioned my nan, my mum’s mum. They got smacked up together, and they eventually got clean together. I’ll never know the details of how that came about because neither of them are alive anymore to ask. Mum died when I was 14 by taking an overdose of her methadone, then nan died when was 21 of a heart attack, likely due to the COPD she had developed from years of smoking.

My nan was so full of love for my mum, my sister and me. Some of my favourite childhood memories are being snuggled up in bed listening to her read me stories, which she did with flare and enthusiasm. She would affectionately call us her ‘wobblies,’ and give us more hugs kisses than we ever wanted. My mum definitely inherited her loving nature from her. But love on its own isn’t enough to keep kids clothed and fed and able to go out and do things. This is where the legend that is my grandad comes in. He is still going strong at 66 years old as of writing. God knows where I’d be without him. He’s been my father figure all my life since I never knew who or where my real dad was. He’s hard-working, reliable, responsible and strong. He supported us immensely despite not relating to him biologically. My biological grandfather was a free-spirited busker who liked to smoke and drink a lot, who I only met a hand full of times before he hanged himself when I was 19. His death did not affect me, but my mum’s and nan’s certainly did. I’ll probably have to see my grandad die as well eventually, and I don’t dread anything more.

Although I started off describing my family background by saying it’s obvious where my source of misery comes from, I must emphasise that my family is not the source of my misery. My childhood overall was pretty forgettable. I only have a few memories and they’re fond memories, despite the unfortunate situation I just described. Even getting my face ripped open by the neighbour’s dog when I was six didn’t faze me. It was only when puberty hit me that life started to feel horrible, and it just got worse.

I was an early bloomer, if blooming is what you call it. I call it mutating. I started getting hairy and growing tits when I was 10, and got my period about a year later. Now THAT is a traumatic memory. Waking up and going for a morning wee as usual, sitting down on the toilet and being overcome with horror at the sight of blood covering my pyjamas, realising there’s only one place that could have come from, then investigating the source only to confirm ‘Oh shit, I’m bleeding from between my legs!’ I was living with my nan and grandad at the time and I stayed there (or here, since I’m still living in the same house as of writing) under their guardianship while mum sorted herself out. After the shocking discovery of blood, I immediately ran into nan’s bedroom to wake her up. I vividly remember what and how she responded to me. With a sigh of what seemed like unsettling disappointment she said “Oh, darling, I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ve got your period.’  I wonder now if she said it like that because she felt guilty for not warning me about this, as she should have. Someone should have. In all fairness I was young, but the other kids in my year at school were soon popping into adolescence alongside me, so I thought that soon enough everyone else would be going through what I was going through, but that wasn’t the case. I was bullied for having chronic acne. I was also a bit of a chubby boffin, but it was mostly the acne that people targeted me for. The girls shaved their legs once they started to get hairy, and I remember thinking ‘Damn, I suppose I’ve got to do that too,’ despite never wearing a skirt. They also seemed to relish in showing off and comparing their bras in the changing rooms, while I hid away as very best as I could. Make-up was a constant battle between students and teachers because they all wanted to look pretty, but it wasn’t allowed in middle school (Year 5-8), so luckily, I had an excuse for not wearing it. I’d regularly complain to my family about hating going to school, and how depressed I was, but it was all put down to teenage blues. ‘You’ll be alright once your hormones settle down,’ I was told more than once.  I remember my nan telling me I would miss going to school when I was older and so far she’s been proven wrong.