Bibliothecarious

If you wanted to theres an accessibility option in settings (on apple at least) where you can change the whole screen. It has grayscale, 3 types of color blind, and one where you can make the screen any color you want and any intensity you want. It doesn’t make things dark mode, but in case it helped somehow.

^ this worked

If you wanted to theres an accessibility option in settings (on apple at least) where you can change the whole screen. It has grayscale, 3 types of color blind, and one where you can make the screen any color you want and any intensity you want. It doesn’t make things dark mode, but in case it helped somehow.

^ this worked

I remember seeing videos of people claiming to be former prisoners of war. I took notes, though I knew better to know that’s not how I survived the first time. Nonetheless, I was convinced I had continued living wrong, because I had no longer known the pain I had once felt.

This is a physical pain. Not so much a mental one. Not one that is not derived from physical circumstance, anyway. Others say they felt filthy despite fleeing. I say I was untouchable before, and now I feel nothing on it at all. I like to think that if an oldworld therapist dug around my brain enough and plucked out all the parasites, I’d be better. But I will ever occasionally look at myself and realize that I do not want someones filthy fingers having any hand over my thought. Trading trust for pain is pointless. I know I should feel something, but I do not. It is a fact that I can sit with. Something I ingrained in my memory for so long only so others can forget. I can forget now. But I won’t. Because forgetting is the day I decide I am not real, and that I am not worthy of my own life.

Scars remain on the tips of my fingers where I clawed out through the loose dirt of an old shed. My hands were splintered by chips of wood from the wall, old, broken glass, thorns from the tree above, the serrated edge of a bottle cap, a rusty nail, over the course of days. It was hot, and I still feel shame for the days I didn’t claw and only laid there. Nothing more than an insect, captured and left to rot whenever I wasn’t entertaining. Wriggling around on my back, pulling at my limbs, biting until the day I was struck head first into the wall. I hadn’t cried until that point. When I was exhausted for days after the fact but had convinced myself that I would die if I slept on an unnursed concussion. I believe it was delerium that made me abandon my escape hole. I’d jumped between fearing sudden death to calling for it sooner enough that eventually I’d followed both.