— No, I do not have an art account I can redirect you to, and I am not interested in having an online presence as an artist. I hate making art, actually. I don't draw shit for IRL purposes. My majors are solely english and economics for a reason.

— I'm a fictive that deals with a lot of vivid faux memories, ones that frequently have very little in common with my source, as they take place under more "mundane" circumstances. If any of the art I post ever felt out of left field to you, that's -- probably why. ——> On that note, I am prone to heavy, heavy bias when discussing my source, which I try to account for, but slip-ups are inevitable, so take opinions with a grain of salt. For the same reason I try my best to avoid talking about David, but -- with varying success. Turns out it's a little difficult to talk about DRDT without talking about the elephant in the room.

— Feel free to talk to me even if I don't follow you! No, seriously: I follow like five blogs at best, because I keep forgetting that it's a function that exists, as I just sit inside tags instead of the dashboard anyhow. ——> That said, please contact me either through asks or comments, as I despise Tumblr's buggy "direct messages" function. If you're looking for a more lengthy interaction, I'll gladly give you my discord tag.

— As far as text posts are concerned, I don't tag any triggers. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's just not going to happen. I'll also not be tagging any "ships" for the artworks I post, as already the mere idea of it feels insulting to me. You're free to tag my posts with whatever you like within your reblogs; I couldn't possibly care less. I'm just not going to tag them as such myself on my own blog. ——> I'm sure this is very upsetting for anyone who is looking to filter out certain content, but quite frankly I suggest you make use of the block button. Alternatively, if you do want to see my illustrations but don't want to deal with the venting -- just unfollow me and keep an eye out on the public DRDT tags; almost all of my artworks can be found there, with few exceptions where I didn't feel like it'd be appropriate.

— Speaking of art. Do whatever you want with my drawings. I genuinely couldn't care less. No, I Do Not Care about credit, either. You can save them, use them, edit them, sell them, burn them — who cares. I don't.

— On the note of "I Don't Care"; this blog has no DNI. That's final. Don't try to make me care about declaring X or Y, for I already do enough performative shit IRL and I quite frankly am not interested in doing that on a vent blog, too. I may hate myself, but not enough to invest energy in something so very pointless.

— Furthermore on "I Don't Care"; yes, this extends to whatever Fandom No-Go's you can think of. I'm not paid enough (/at all) to care about whatever the fuck other people draw or write. Jturo didn't kill your grandma; get over it.

Over the years, I've relived its experiences within numerous settings, I've cried and fought over its details, I've babbled on infront of psychologists and support groups alike, I've created stories, poems, theatre scripts, and an insane amount of art - all as means to "process" and express myself, and I've had the years pass me by.

I've come to a point where I've near to no connection to these memories anymore. There isn't any weight on me when recollecting the details on it for the xth person asking me, and I've realized that at this rate, when I try to talk to someone about how I've felt, I'm relying on my old responses instead of the original memory, for that's, to me, already long lost to time. I've turned over this stone excessively enough it's corroded to nothing but a small pebble; I've to stop myself from laughing when others expect there to be a sore spot they could take advantage of. For all intents and purposes, it's not just a finished chapter to me, but an entirely previous book within the volume that's already been collecting dust in some shelf.

Yet, despite this corrosion, when I bring up my persisting dissatisfaction, I'm yet again told that I've to "process my trauma" if I'm to hope for any sort of improvement. My claim, that I've already done all that can be done, simply fall on deaf ears; supposedly, it's a textbook example of repression, or rationalisation, or anything of the sort -- and that I've surely not processed anything at all in truth, living in denial & refusing to look my suffering dead in its eyes. My response, that I'm long over it, that I've no longer any weight I'm carrying from what's by now a good decade ago -- it's returned with pity, from all things. They see nothing but a poor soul that must be lying to themselves by putting up a tough act, who's dissociated themselves from the past so severely that they've lost any touch to what's still troubling them.

It frustrates me. Not only because it dismisses all of my efforts thus far for naught, but because it makes the idea, to "process one's trauma", a genuinely unattainable goal. To be emotional is to be burdened, to be indifferent is to be in denial. There's no scenario where they'd agree with me that I have processed it, that I'm finished with it, for they'd only believe me if I were not to be dissatisfied with my life anymore, as my dissatisfaction is treated as indisputable evidence that I'm still stuck in the past. The possibility that I, perchance, am unhappy for a reason entirely disconnected to what's happened to me roughly ten years ago, isn't even up to consideration.