#whirring processors

[sylverquill]

just musing as I finish my work

like I was saying the other day, I have a lot of difficulty with emotions. this is only something I’ve really begun to properly recognize recently, because again, so used to just suppressing everything — I really hate saying I’m traumatized, because I don’t feel what’s happened to me is enough to legitimately be called “trauma,” but clearly I have been affected. I am incapable of controlling and regulating myself properly. I’ve realized that it’s not normal.

and after the emotional hell that was yesterday, I’m thinking? like. obviously my husbands are very important to me. I know it probably seems incredibly selfish and superficial, since I have so many of them and I’m constantly finding new ones. but like I was saying the other day, my husbands are one of the few things in my life that make me feel anything recognizable at all, and it’s a very positive emotion. so of course to someone as suppressed and incapable of processing things as I am,,, that is something very precious that I cherish.

now obviously things have turned around with Shota, and I still have him, and oh my god I’m so relieved I can’t properly articulate it. this is going to sound stupid as hell, but I was legitimately grieving. just as strongly as I grieved the death of my dog or the end of important friendships. even now, typing this, despite knowing he’s okay and I can still have him, I’m tearing up. that was too strong of a blow. and now I’m grieving Randy, even though he’s not gone quite yet. it’s going to be a long process.

so obviously a big part of this is related to my own emotional issues. since I was young, in place of the many relationships that I was not allowed to have or could not handle due to, y’know, Trauma, I’ve always turned to fictional characters to form my connections. they are safe. they are constant. I do not have a home and family, not in reality — they became my home and family. so of course, if anything happens, to me it’s the same as losing a real-life friend or family member.

but with these characters specifically, I met them at a very pivotal time in my life. fifteen and sixteen was like,,, we know I’m lacking in a good portion of my memories, but I know that’s about when I really started to change. It was a bit early, but I was preparing for college, trying to settle on something for the rest of my existence. that was also around the time when I realized I legitimately don’t want to follow my parents’ plans, I don’t want to be a puppet or a machine. and obviously that was a massive identity conflict that I’m still struggling with to this day. many of my current issues surfaced around that age — because that’s when I realized I at least have the option to struggle and fight back. yes, I am very unhappy, but I think? I’m at least growing as a person. I think I’m different than who I was even when I started college. I don’t know how I’m different, but I think I am. 

And I know that now, no matter what, it’s no longer an option for me to be who my parents raised. that entire scenario is over. metaphorically speaking, because I love being dramatic, I’ve set all their plans ablaze. even if I wanted to go back, I can’t, because I’m someone else, and those plans weren’t written with this me in mind.

and Shota and Randy and Jack and Sion and all the others were there right when that was starting to happen in my life. just like with Zexal and TWEWY and Bravely Default. it’s something that I experienced at the right time in my life, and it’s left a permanent impact on me. like, if I ever get married to a real man, he’s legitimately going to have to put up with all these fictional boys because I am so invested in them and I’ve changed so much and they’ve been the only constant in my life, no matter who I’ve been and no matter who I will be.

so that’s part of why I was grieving so hard, I think. not just because I adore Shota Todomi beyond words, but also because it feels like an entire portion of my life is just outright gone forever now. the things that left such an emotional impact on me cannot be experienced in the same or similar ways ever again. and that’s not something I’ve had to face too much of in my life. it’s a very foreign experience, and a very unpleasant one.

but anyways. I’ve spent way more time on this than I needed to, because I only had like three sentences left on my exam but now I’ve been crying adjshflk lmao. I’m learning to process everything. I know this is really weird to read, and I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be quite like this at this age. but I also know my existence has not been a very common or easily understandable one.

so anyways I adore Shota Todomi more than anything and I’m so glad to have him

[sylverquill]

just me thinking

for at least the first few years of my life, my family lived in the country. I don’t actually know where it was, and I only have a handful of vague memories. we weren’t there long; I believe we moved either while my mother was pregnant, or just after my brother was born, so it only could’ve been two years at most. obviously this can’t feel like home.

so by the time I was three, we’d moved once, from our country home into suburban apartments. I remember one of my brother’s early birthdays in those apartments. there were a handful of other children in our complex, but I wasn’t allowed to play too often. this place was too temporary to ever feel like a home.

within a few years, we moved again, from one apartment into another. there were no other children in this second complex. this is the earliest I remember being in school; I remember being tiny, trying to learn math, and the one time my father stayed home to teach me, he got angry because I was drawing faces on my numbers. this place hasn’t felt like home in years, naturally.

we moved again before my seventh birthday. I know this because I remember getting roller blades for my seventh birthday, and was trying to get my mother to help me practice going up and down the driveway, because we were finally in a house again, but she spent the evening talking to the new neighbors instead. we stayed there for about six years, and that was the first time I’d ever spent more than two years in one place. I changed schools two or three times while we were there. this is where I got my first DS and finally made connections, although it was with fictional characters. this place is too different, it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

but then we moved again right as I was starting high school. I changed schools again. there were no other children anywhere in our neighborhood. I was still kept isolated anyways. this house is where Ii was most comfortable, because that was where I learned to drive, it’s where I got my first job, it’s where I was finally able to start making more permanent friends from school. I still talk to them. they’re still my best friends. this location has changed so much since I’ve been gone, going back doesn’t feel like home anymore.

we weren’t there quite as long, but five years is still a lot longer than I spend in most places. I moved into dorms for my first year of college, so that was the sixth time I’d moved. obviously a different state for a single school year can’t feel like home.

while I was gone, my family moved out of our last house and into a small rental space while waiting for our new home to be built. so I ended up in a completely foreign place for Thanksgiving and Christmas. my seventh move. it was cozy, but again, too temporary to ever be comfortable. could never be a home.

and then after the disaster that was my first college year, I moved, for the eighth time, from the dorms into our current house, in this tiny town. this place isn’t home. I’ve been ready for years to just leave my family and never look back; I hate this place, and I can’t ever feel at home here.

I have so much trouble connecting with people and I can’t feel at home anywhere. ideally, I’ll move out into my own home, and then maybe I’ll move in with a theoretical husband, and hopefully that’s it. but with my luck, I’ll just turn out to be endlessly uprooted.

it’s funny that my parents kept me completely isolated during vital development years, and now they get horrifically angry that I don’t know how to interact with people on even a basic level, much less on the level I’m supposed to be at.

I wish I didn’t feel empty.

[giratinazero]

agh

I like store manager. I’m very comfortable with store manager and he lets me do basically whatever I want.

in about a year or so, they’re opening another store in a different location, and he wants to be the manager that does it,, meaning if he left this store. either assistant manager would be promoted, which would be tough bc he’s very,,, idk. difficult. but if he’s not promoted, then they’d bring in a stranger that might not let me do whatever,,,

so. do I want to stay somewhere familiar, but without the person I’m most comfortable with. or would I want to go somewhere new and scary, as long as I’m with a person I like.

I’d probably go for it. the area they’re wanting to build the new store is like, right over by the shopping center I’m always at. I’m not uncomfortable in the area.

but god I have so much trouble with change. store manager has already said that he thinks, even if he doesn’t open the new store, he won’t be at this store for much longer either,, and idk how comfortable I’d be without him around. if he was moved to some other store, I couldn’t go very far,, my commute every day is already about 40 minutes each way, and the new location would be about the same. if he’s moved to somewhere outside that radius,, and I’m not exactly human, so it’s not like I could relocate myself for my job either,,

and then. god, I can’t perceive my own future. so to me there’s no “I’ll stay here for this long and then find a new job” or “they’re opening inner positions soon and I think I’ll apply.” so to me, I’m always going to be 24 at this desk job, until I’m 25 at this desk job, until I’m 26 at this desk job,

it’s frustrating. it feels like everything’s moving really fast. but it needs to slow down, because I’m not going to live very long,,

I’ve already been at this job for a year.

[giratinazero]

that shiny Scrafty. I have no idea why I’m as attached to him as I am. found him at complete random as a Scraggy and now he’s been my pokemon partner for seven years. I love him so much. he is single-handedly responsible for my love of the Scrafty species as a whole.

for that Flygon; I’d always wanted a shiny one, but I was never actively hunting one. for awhile I was hatching eggs for a Brave natured Trapinch so I could raise it; a brave egg hatched, and it was a regular Trapinch, but I intended to raise that one. figured I might as well finish the batch of eggs in my party, and what do you know, the last one was brave and shiny. I consider him and Scrafty brothers lmao.

that Zoroark is one of the oldest pokemon I own. it was an event for the original Black and White, all the way back in 2011. before I had two systems and compatible game copies, I would have a friend at school keep him in her save file so I could restart the game whenever I wanted to play again. he means a lot to me.

the Keldeo is similar; it’s the event from BW2. I would bounce him back and forth on my own, each time making sure to go back and watch the cutscene that teachers him Sacred Sword. I really like Keldeo as a pokemon, he’s super cute.

so these are my most treasured pokemon, although I do have a ton of others I adore. I’m so glad they’re safe,,, technology makes me very nervous, especially after my Omega Ruby became unplayable. I’m so glad I was able to rescue everyone. I’ve actually got a few pokemon sitting in gen 4 that are over ten years old too; pretty sure I’ve got a pair of shinies I caught in 2010 that I’ve been bouncing from Diamond to HeartGold over and over lmao. maybe I should try and transfer them forward too.

[giratinazero]

I had. a favorite pencil.

I’ve never liked change, plus as an isolated child I very much tried to comfort myself with “HAH I’m not like EVERYBODY ELSE,” so I’d always used regular pencils. mechanical ones were more and more popular, but I was adamant that I didn’t like them and only wanted to use regular ones.

then, in,,, tenth? eleventh? grade, I took an architecture class. for whatever reason, we were supposed to use mechanical pencils, so the next time we went grocery shopping my father just randomly grabbed one from an endcap at. kroger maybe. a kinda weird place to find one.

and that has been my absolute most favorite pencil that I’ve ever used. it really fit my hand, and the click to get more lead is on the side of the grip, which is a lot more natural for me and the way I hold it. the erasers are refillable and work really well too, I’ve never had problems with them. my dad bought it for me.

and then, in my second year of college, it snapped. not the lead, obviously, but the plastic part of the tip that screws in place. it broke in a way that I couldn’t just put it back on. my favorite pencil died a senseless and tragic death that day. I was crying in math class.

I’d exclusively used that pencil for years. nothing else. it was my favorite. it’s still my favorite. we’d found it at kroger, of all places. I’d used it so much that the branding had scraped off the plastic, leaving me to hopelessly fumble my way through the internet, praying that a vague description of it would be enough to find me another one. maybe I could find the exact same color, even, and pretend this never happened.

I did end up finding the same model. never was able to find the same color. my original version was green all the way up, from the grip to the plastic body. everything else I found was a clear body with different accent colors. 

it’s not,,, the same, obviously. I still consider the replacement to be a favorite of mine, and while I do continue buying pretty pencils when they really catch me, it’s still my main preference. but I’m not nearly as in love with it as I was that original one.

the other day I realized that the grip on the replacement is slowly wearing down. makes sense; I think at this point, I’ve had the replacement longer than I had the original. so I went looking again, because I’d rather avoid spending any time without my favorite pencil, if this one were to break all at once.

I actually found,,, a pack of them. in several pretty colors. still with clear plastic, but now they’re bright instead of the plain black my second one is. I bought them, because I have no idea how long this specific model will be available, since it’s been nearly a decade already. and they got here today.

one of them is a bright blue. and immediately I feel almost as strongly about this one as I did that very first one my father bought all those years ago. no idea why, and I don’t know why my other replacement didn’t quite hit me the same way, but I am suddenly very happy and feel. safer, for whatever reason.

I do still have that poor original one, too.

[giratinazero]

I keep thinking about. in one of my writing classes. I wrote a piece that centered around food and my family. I wrote about one of my early memories, where I was sitting on the counter and “helping” my mom make boxed mac and cheese. and then another memory, where my father had me “helping” him build a gingerbread house, but since I was like four I wasn’t doing a very good job of following his instructions and he got mad.

the thing that stands out to me is like. when we got to feedback and all that. one of my classmates pointed out that through the piece I used “mama” and “my father,” which immediately gives perspective on how I felt about my parents. “mama” is a close term; “my father” is distant and empty.

and then by the time I wrote about a more recent memory, “mama” had turned into “my mother” too.

[giratinazero]

of course, I was homeschooled growing up, and we didn’t have a lot of money. I was never allowed to write in my workbooks, not even to answer the questions, because if they stayed clear then my mom could turn them in to the used bookstore down the street, and use that money to buy my next ones. and then of course, that rule stuck with me; I’ve never written in any of my own books, never highlighted, never made notes or dog-eared the pages. granted, there is a difference between cheap workbooks and my very expensive edition of alice in wonderland, or the books I own that survived the 1800s— they don’t seem like things you should write in anyways. it seems disrespectful. to each their own, but my idea of loving my books is by keeping the newer ones pristine, the older ones in one piece. 

in college, even with rented textbooks, my professors encouraged highlighting and note-taking in your books. maybe that’s just an english department thing, because we of all people need to remember what stood out to us in the hundreds of things we read. and, given that the same books are used for the same classes over and over, one of my professors pointed out that it will help the students after us study as well. mark the things the professors really focused on, or things you noticed were on the test, so that the next people who use your book can prepare.

nothing they said to me could get me to do it. I was taught not to write or mark in my books. I want to keep them as well as possible so that I can read them for longer. Pass them down to my own children one day, who will hopefully take just as good care of them.

I don’t even remember which textbook it was, what class I was in. but someone who’d used that book before me had left their thoughts. not just marked important lines or scribbled questions to ask in class, but left analysis of passages in the margins. notes about why this or that line was so great. this person may have used that book ten years ago, but I was holding it in my hands — no longer just a textbook, but now a record of a student I’ll never meet. someone who will never know I exist. and I hold a tangible collection of thoughts and feelings, things they so badly needed to say, so important to them that they left it all in the margins.

I started highlighting my textbooks too. I tried to use different colors than what was already in the book, so that whoever was next may realize two or three different students have poured ourselves onto the page. I left notes in pencil, not for my own grade benefit, but talking to anyone else who may open the very book I held. I don’t know if anything I said was useful; I don’t know if someone erased my thoughts, replaced them with others. I left my ink on the page.

I’ve always been fond of paperbacks from the 70s-90s. maybe paperbacks today are made the same, but those older books always seem so well-loved; I’ve started actively choosing copies of used books that are less pristine than how I leave my books. Of course I still adore the gorgeous copies of everything, with thick, soft covers, and deep colors, and metallic embossments. But I also love the books older than me, with chips in the covers. Children’s names scrawled across the inside with sharpie. Receipts and movie tickets as forgotten bookmarks.

I could never bring myself to make marks in my pretty books. that’s just too ingrained in me. but I’m slowly highlighting in this beat-up copy of Tuck Everlasting— it’s got “E. Tompkins” written boldly on the inside cover, and across the bottom of the pages— and one day when I’m gone someone else will read it. maybe my children, maybe a stranger. and I hope maybe these few lines resonate with someone else the way they do with me.

[giratinazero]

there’s no real rhyme or reason behind the way things are arranged on my bookshelf

of course i keep series together, and my single Hardy Boys shelf is stuffed to the brim, but other than that. i don’t keep them together by genre, or alphabetically by title or author’s name, or even in order of what i like best. there’s no distinction between what i have and haven’t read yet. a lot of books are layin sideways in front of other books bc i want them on the shelf but literally don’t have the space for it. there’s papers all over, all my regular bookmarks are layin across the shelves, and i use receipts instead. there’s books stacked ten-tall on the floor in front of my shelf. even with the rearranging i did today, there’s still dozens of books in the floor by my bed too. i have large copies of fairytale collections and alice in wonderland that are too large to go on the shelf at all, so they’re all piled together and buried under more notes and trinkets. things ozzie made for me are propped up on the top shelf where i wont knock them into the storm on lower shelves. a cracked mug i cant drink out of anymore is acting as a bookend and taking up space i could use for more volumes, but i don’t want to get rid of it.

i know when i have a place of my own, ill have a room for my books. maybe it’ll be an office i work in, maybe it’ll be a straight library. either way,,,,,,, it’ll still be a mess. the mess is comfortable. why have all these books if they’ll only sit around to be pretty? i want them to be in the floor where ill trip, or stacked precariously on any surface where they’ll fall as i walk past, or spilling off overly-filled shelves while i try to stuff my new ones into occupied space. i have so many i haven’t read yet and i just keep buying and buying. i have a copy of tom sawyer that someone wrote and highlighted in. i have someone’s gradebook + class directory from 1924. i have two copies of tuck everlasting, and they both vanish whenever i look away from one of them. multiple copies of peter pan in radically different bindings. i have a book from the 1800s with a handwritten note penciled into the beginning, a gift from a teacher to one of his students as thanks for making it to school through a difficult winter. i have about half of the original nancy drew printings that my grandmother got while they were brand new. i have a british edition of the first book in a series i read as a kid, even though that same book received two different american printings, meaning that this book belonged to someone who brought it here and was left somewhere i could buy it. i want to read every book on my shelf and every book in the floor and every book i havent owned yet and every story that exists