#ghostee

👕Today's Miku figure is:👕

Trick or treat!!

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry you thought ghosting was easier than saying no.

I hope you are doing okay.

And I hope you never experience this.

New ref for my sonas! (Plus prims cat)

Apologies, I will finish the rest of the last story at some other point. However, I need to take a bit of a break from that to talk about something else for a bit. Mostly, because I’m just sitting here thinking about it. 

The Holiday season is always difficult. Not sure 100% why, but I have my speculations. I am over 1,000 miles away from the family I grew up with so I don’t really celebrate holiday’s. I see my dad for the holiday’s sometimes. I can’t quite remember if I’ve explained that before I moved away from my shitty hometown 4 years ago, I only had met my dad a handful of times. I don’t really remember meeting my dad until I was five years old. The other points I had met him was when I was about one or two, and I have no recollection of those meetings with my dad. 

I remember the first time I met him very well, I remember feeling so overjoyed. Although, I really didn’t notice I didn’t have a dad until some kid in the first grade asked me what he did for a living. Not really thinking about it, I told him he was dead and shrugged it off. And the other first grader seemed really freaked out. I was pretty indifferent to the concept at first. 

Since then I had started asking a lot of questions about my dad. I would ask my great grandma every night a variety of questions. Ranging from what he looked like, to what he did. To where he was. Who he was. And all of a sudden, I felt really weird not knowing these things.

I’m not sure if my great grandma started relaying all of my endless questions to my Pop-pop (that’s what I always called my grandpa growing up), or if maybe it was the fact that he was only given a year left to live that made him seek out my father. But shortly after, my mom got in contact with my father. I met him at a Denny’s on the edge of my hometown. 

I remember when I met my dad. He smelt very clean, and he was very clean cut. My Dad was a fairly attractive younger man, in his early 20′s. Brown eyes, brown hair, and tan. Very opposite of me, who was blue eyed, blonde, pale, and freckled. But we were both very lanky and slender in build. 

He handed me a book by the name of ‘The Giving Tree’, it was a children’s book by Shel Silverstein. He told me it was his favorite book when he was younger. I immediately loved it because it was my favorite color. 

He asked me what I wanted to do for the day, and I was dead set on going to Legoland. I remember him saying we could do whatever I wanted, but somehow that was not the case and Sea World was predetermined. 

For some reason Sea World didn’t pan out, and we ended up going to an amusement park practically right across the street it seemed. 

Tonight I find myself in the apartment alone. Nights like these are always weird. As I explained previously, I grew up in a large family. Outside of the fact my Grandparents from my Mother’s side had seven children, my parents did not give me a short supply of siblings either.

My father and mother never had more children together. I was the only spawn from the two of them. However my Mom had four other children, and my father two. 

I never knew what it was like to have an entire space to myself overnight until recent years. Even at that, that was a rare exception. For the most part there’s always someone around. It’s very rare to get nights like these, and not that I’m complaining. Simply put, they just feel weird. 

So I find myself alone in this empty apartment wondering what to even do with myself. 

Outside of all of this, I’ve been caught up in other earlier trauma’s. 

I anticipated that this blog would make it easier talking about the things that really spiraled my PTSD into motion. The first series of events particularly, as that is the hardest experience of my life to put into words. 

I thought that maybe typing would be the loophole on discussing these things, thinking that the verbalization of such events was the struggle point. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

Instead, undoing all the sticky entanglement of trauma no matter the method, is still difficult. 

It feels (metaphorically speaking) like pulling glass shards out of my brain with tweezers. A very sensitive and precise procedure. If I pull the wrong shard at the wrong time, I feel I could leave myself just as damaged or more so, than if I just left the glass to begin with. 

I’ve been trying to start small, but I almost feel like I’m dancing around and avoiding the bigger, heavier subjects. The ones that make my voice feel small, and my throat close up. The parts that leave my tongue heavy and paralyzed in my mouth. 

These are words I haven’t even been able to say to Liebe, there are experiences that I keep trapped in myself because letting them out feels like opening up Pandora’s box for the world to see. 

These very specific occurrences make me feel embarrassed, ashamed, disgusted with myself, and broken. But the hardest part, is that I don’t know where to start. 

RELEASE: GHOSTEE - HARD FOR ME [HOUSE NOT HOUSE RECORDS]

https://soundcloud.com/housenothouseuk/