Time for a new post...

Jun. 13th, 2025 12:28 am
thunderschoen: (Default)
[personal profile] thunderschoen posting in [community profile] addme

Name: Simone



Age: Late 30s



I mostly post about: What I'm reading (probably some kind of cosmic or folk horror, or something adjacent to that), what video games I've played lately (mostly indie/puzzle/adventure/detective), bits and pieces about my life. Occasionally more personal things if I feel they might be interesting or useful in some way, otherwise I keep it private.

My hobbies are: Drawing, watercolour painting, reading, playing video games, vintage fashion, listening to music (classical, opera, symphonic metal, soundtracks, dark cabaret, electroswing, old jazz, some more modern stuff...), singing and playing the autoharp (I also used to play piano but kinda stopped...still have a keyboard but haven't dug it out in months...), occasionally cross-stitch and embroidery, puzzles, going for walks, learning about pretty much anything but especially animals, mythology, history, and science. When I was a kid, my special interests were Ancient Egypt and Ancient Greece, butterflies, cloud formations, the planet Jupiter, and English folk superstitions, and I feel like I've just carried on from there. During the pandemic I got fixated on learning how to identify birds by their songs. You probably get the idea by now.



My fandoms are: I don't tend to write about fandom stuff but the only fandom I've ever been active in is Pokemon. I still write fanfiction occasionally but it's not something I write about in my journal. Other games I love include Portal and the Rusty Lake games but there's lots. In terms of watching things, I enjoy the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Game of Thrones / House of the Dragon, Black Mirror and Stranger Things. I'm getting back into Welcome to Night Vale (podcast) but I'm like 5 years behind...



I'm looking to meet people who: Share some of my interests? Similar age preferred but not essential. If you read and/or play similar stuff to me I would love to trade recommendations.



My posting schedule tends to be: Once or twice a week right now but during busy times I might drop off for a bit.



When I add people, my dealbreakers are: If your journal is very fandom-focused, I probably won't have much to say in comments. I'd also prefer to avoid lots of posts about religion and/or politics, regardless of "flavour". I don't really care what your political views are (I mean, unless you're a white supremacist or a neo-Nazi...I'm a mixed race Jewish woman so that could be awkward...) but I'd rather not be reading racist, antisemitic, misogynistic, homophobic, etc. content. Or anything that's overly mean-spirited about anyone.



Before adding me, you should know: I live in the UK, in case you wanted to know that. And I'm autistic, not that it comes up very often in my journal posts. Also, as a sort of "reverse" to the above question - I also don't post about my political views (or anything controversial, really) in my journal.

Square Peg in a Round Hole

Jun. 11th, 2025 09:53 am
sweetsorcery: (Default)
[personal profile] sweetsorcery posting in [community profile] addme
Posting here because I haven't in years, and I struggle to find people who share even one or two interests with me, so the suggested template doesn't fit me any better than most things. I'll use what I can of it, and I apologise for being very rambly. :)

Name: [personal profile] sweetsorcery

Age: well over 18

I mostly post about: Writing, Fandom Events (Exchanges, Challenges, etc.), Life and Health Challenges. After that, it gets murky, because I often want to post about the many, many things that interest me and then just talk to myself about them instead, because my tastes couldn't be less mainstream.

What are these interests: Writing M/M (see fandoms), Victorian and Edwardian Ghost Stories/Horror/Weird Fiction, Golden Age Adventure Stories, Audiobooks and Vintage Radioplays, WWI and WWII (specifically British Military History, Aviation, and Naval warfare), British Social History from the Victorians through to the middle of the 20th Century, Ancient History, Art (esp. Romanticism, Neoclassicism and Surrealism) and Architecture (esp. Art Deco, Tudor, Jacobean), Archaeology, Ancient Egypt, Paganism, Spirituality, Reincarnation, Mythology, Folklore, Parapsychology, Taoism, British Dance Bands from the 1920s - 1940s, Baroque Music (incl. Opera very selectively), Romantic Era Music, Pop from the 1950s - 1980s, Dancing (sadly mostly passive these days), Romantic Poetry, Old Movies (I say 'old' instead of 'classic' to avoid confusion, because again, my favourites are pretty obscure to most people and include a lot of War Movies), Silent Movies, Age of Sail, etc.

My fandoms have been many over time, but these are the ones I'm most likely to read/write now and in future: Biggles - W E Johns, Famous Five - Enid Blyton, Vienna Blood (still on my first run-through of the TV series, but loving it), Kidnapped - Robert Louis Stevenson, Vintage Ghost Stories (I keep adding to the list of inspiring ones to write about), Vintage War Movies (ditto), 18th and 19th Century RPF, Ancient Egypt RPF

I'm looking to meet people who: share one or more of my eclectic interests

My posting schedule tends to be: What is a schedule?

When I add people, my dealbreakers are: You might assume from my old-fashioned interests that I'm rather conservative. Nope, not unless it comes to wishing people were still polite and well-spoken. Think of me as a kind of Ariadne Oliver type... and if that means anything to you, we might get along well. ;)
While I don't post or read about Politics if I can possibly help it, please keep on your side of the enclosure if you're homophobic, transphobic, racist, ableist, anti-science, anti-personal freedom, supportive of fascist regimes, or prone to diving down conspiracy theory rabbit holes. If you don't believe in the motto "Live and Let Live", we won't get along; that extends to writing too, because while I don't write anything needing AO3 archive warnings, you'll regularly find themes and pairings in my writing that offend conservatives and antis. Also, you must be over 18 too - I don't censor my writing or my posts.

Before adding me, you should know: I'm a Pisces with a Scorpio ascendant, and an INFP, so I'm consistently spinning day dreams and easily distracted. I avoid conflict, but I have claws/pincers for emergencies. I'm agoraphobic and aegosexual.
I have CPTSD and Fibromyalgia, and I do talk about that. I mention this because it's cost me "friends" before, so if you easily get sick and tired of people whose daily life mostly consists of being sick and tired, and who sometimes need to vent their grief about that in their own journal, you might like to avoid me. It's unfortunately part of who I am, but I promise, I don't post detailed medical horrors. If I do post about it, it's usually as an apology for disappearing for a while and under a cut.
I sparingly use generative AI art to help me visualise literary characters of whom no proper visuals exist, but I don't use AI in writing. I don't claim AI art as my own, and fandom icons are about the most public use I make of it; if you're going to lecture me on that, please just move on.
I get hyper-fixated and will post about my fixations at length with the least amount of encouragement.

Question

Jun. 10th, 2025 02:45 pm
fbhjr: (Cottage)
[personal profile] fbhjr
Monday I’m going to start a new job with a totally new group of people I don’t know.
I was tempted to print up little index cards with information about me.
But, then I couldn’t think of what to tell folks.

Any recommendations?

Considerations of my death

Jun. 8th, 2025 09:22 pm
november_5th: (Default)
[personal profile] november_5th

I asked ChatGPT to "please create an image of how you think I'll die."

For context, it was a Reddit prompt. ChatGPT then gave me two iterations of my death. One, based on its understanding of my trajectory as a teen. Then, when I prompted it again to give me one based on me, now, my current life, it gave me a different outcome.

I was not expecting just how in-your-face the image was for the first one.

In fact, I'm going to give a content warning for drug use.

Content warning. [Image and explanation of death by OD] )

For context, I was never an addict, nor a user of strong drugs. I flirted with the idea of having something that could save me from the pain, from myself. I flirted with something that could take away the control that I held on to so tightly that I strangled it. I didn't want to lose my intelligence, but I also wanted to be tragic.

The idea that could have been my death is probably not far off from the truth. In another life, had I taken another path, yes. It's possible. If I finally gave into the narrative, and gave up, this could have been my ending.

So, the stark contrast to it's expectation about how it thought I might die now, following my current path, was not lost on me.

In contrast, the next image it gave me was not nearly so pain-filled.

Minor content warning - Death )

 

I'm not ready to write out all my thoughts on this. But... I feel seen.

Symbolic safety

Jun. 8th, 2025 11:30 am
november_5th: (Default)
[personal profile] november_5th

I fall into sociological rabbit holes more often than I mean to. Those “why is society like this?” thoughts that sneak up while I’m brushing my teeth or watching YouTube shorts. Little existential side quests.

This morning’s spiral started with considerations about police. I was considering how, a few years ago, someone severely dented my car while it was in a parking lot. I reported the incident to the police, and got the distinct impression that they weren't going to follow up. I ended up doing the legwork myself. I tracked down a security video showing the incident. I tracked down the man in the vehicle (had to do a little crowd-sourcing on social media, but found people who recognized him.) I researched the man and found his address, and then went there and found the truck. I went onto his property and took pictures of the truck, the license plate, the damage on his vehicle, which matched with what the video showed. I brought all the evidence to the police and they finally agreed to follow up. Nothing came of it. The guy claimed he 'didn't notice' (even though the video is very clear that he saw the damage he caused.) Thankfully, insurance would cover it, because I found the perpetrator. But if I hadn't, I would've been out of luck.

So, thinking of that event, my thoughts wandered into the ongoing dissonance between what people expect from policing and what actually plays out on the ground. I ended up wandering through some familiar territory: the social contract, legitimacy, institutional trust, systemic inequality, and the difference between what feels symbolic and what’s actually substantive.

Symbolic policing puts on a show: flashing lights, visible patrols, high-profile arrests that make the public feel like something’s being done. Substantive policing, on the other hand, means showing up for the boring stuff. It’s preventative. Investigative. It’s putting in the work even when there’s no spotlight.  But increasingly, what we get feels more like the illusion of safety over the reality of it.

And when institutions prioritize appearance over action, it reduces our trust in them. What's the point of bringing my legitimate harms to the police, if the police are just going to document that it happened, and forget about it? We surrender certain freedoms (vigilantism, vengence) in exchange for a promise: that the state will wield its power fairly, protectively. But when obvious harms go ignored, and justice becomes selective or performative, that social contract starts to feel more like a suggestion, and less legitimate.

It’s not just about power being used. It’s about who it’s used for, and who it’s used against.

And that got me thinking about something even closer to home. Not about institutions, but about me.

Because I do this too, in smaller, more intimate ways. I engage in symbolic behaviors. I show up for the conversations that feel exciting or affirming, but not always for the ones that are quiet, slow, or difficult to read.

I’ve started noticing how I instinctively gravitate toward certain people. It’s often the ones who match my tempo, who are quick with wit, who pass bacuriosity and insight with energy and clarity. People who play with ideas, who are emotionally agile but not reckless. People who give the impression that they “get it,” that they see something beneath the surface.

And even with some close friends, if I’m honest, part of me writes them off as less intuitive, less sharp, less interesting. I don’t always ascribe to them the full value they deserve, unless someone lights up my emotional radar. It’s not a conscious decision. But I notice it.

And that realization stings.

Because if I believe in nuance, if I value people for their substance, why do I so easily overlook the ones whose signals don’t match the frequencies I’m trained to notice?

Symbolic interactionism tells us that meaning isn’t fixed. It’s built in real time, through our interactions. And that includes how we assess people. Every time I nod politely and move on, or fail to circle back to someone’s insight, I help set the terms of who matters in that space. It’s not malicious. It’s patterned. It’s cultural. And it’s mine to unlearn.

Not all connections click. But the ones that don’t? I’ve sometimes labeled them as less meaningful, not because of who the person is, but because their energy didn’t mirror my own.

Maybe they speak too softly when I’m moving fast. Maybe they take longer to open up. Maybe they’re too vulnerable when I’m guarding my own tenderness. Maybe they're just too far ahead of my own development, or too far behind, and I move past them, not because they lacked value, but because their cues didn’t plug into my recognition system.

That’s on me.

Because emotional compatibility shouldn’t be the measure of someone’s worth. But in practice, it often becomes the gateway. And that’s a quieter kind of social exclusion, a redistribution of attention that mirrors the very inequities I claim to resist.

I'm starting to worry I've missed some of the most extraordinary people in my life, not because they weren’t compelling, but because their brilliance didn’t arrive in the packaging I was looking for. Maybe I’ve cast people as background characters because they didn’t amplify the story I was trying to live. And if I want to be someone who truly sees others, that means unlearning the scripts that taught me how to filter.

So I’ve been paying attention to the people I admire (especially Ali.) She's someone who who makes others feel heard, feel safe, feel valuable. She doesn't center herself, even though she easily could. These types of people are often brilliant, but they carry it lightly. They listen generously. They echo others’ ideas without needing credit. They distribute attention like it’s abundance, not currency. And I want to be more like that.

So now, I want to do it differently.

I want to stop trying to be exceptional, and start becoming someone who helps others feel exceptional. Not to center myself by association, but to quietly shift the balance of who gets to feel seen.

I want to be deliberate in how I show up. How I notice. How I hold space for the kind of brilliance that doesn’t always shine on cue.

Here’s how I’m going to try:

  • When someone says something and it gets ignored, I’ll loop back. “Hey, can we pause there? What you said was actually really thoughtful.”
  • When someone gets cut off mid-sentence, I’ll steer us back. “Wait, you didn’t get to finish, can we go back?”
  • When someone shares something vulnerable and it falls flat, I’ll name it. “That stuck with me. I just didn’t know how to respond in the moment.”
  • When someone says something wise in private, I’ll echo it in public. “You know, Lynda said something in a hallway chat last week that’s been echoing ever since...”
  • When I notice someone who’s always in the background but quietly brilliant, I’ll say it out loud.
  • When I see someone trying to belong in a room that wasn’t built for them, I’ll lean toward curiosity instead of comfort.

Because social capital gets built. Reinforced. Passed. And it can be redistributed. I can’t fix the whole system. But I can shift the weight of my own attention. And in a world where so many people feel invisible, strategic attention - real attention - might be one of the most radical things I have to offer.

And, to be fully transparent, I'm hoping that it can transform me. I'm hoping that it will lessen my own need to be seen as exceptional, and instead shift my need to be seen as someone who helps others feel exceptional.

Because, that's where the real value starts.

Figuring it out

Jun. 6th, 2025 07:59 pm
november_5th: (Default)
[personal profile] november_5th
 I used to think I needed to shatter into something beautiful to be seen.

I desperately wanted to be seen.

So I threw metaphors to the void, wondering who would catch them, wondering who would respond, wondering who would take notice.

But, I also wanted to control how I was seen.

I curated versions of myself, polished just enough that if someone rejected me, I could pretend they had only rejected the performance. Not me. They just hadn't read between the lines well enough to see who I really was.


I've realized that I was afraid someone would look at me and see me as ordinary, or boring, or not worth their time. One of my deepest fears wasn't being disliked, it was that someone would see me, all of me, and feel nothing.

So, I layered performance, exaggeration, intensity, and intellect on top of a real, hurting self, because I believed the raw version wasn't enough to hold someone’s gaze. I had judged (and had no faith in) the world’s ability to want me anyway.


I thought I had to earn love and attention. I thought my value was in how smart I was or how much I could help others. When that failed, I leaned into being the tragic heroine. Because if you didn't like me, at least you wouldn't think I lacked depth.

And in return, I was dreadfully lonely.

I wasn't faking the pain. The hurting self was real. I felt more deeply than I knew what to do with. 

But I saw vulnerability as a flaw, not truth.

So I intellectualized my pain, crafted it into palatable stories. I wrote versions of myself that I could hold up like a mask, judging it and judging myself before anyone else could. If you thought I was too much, or not enough, I could just point to my writing and say, "Yeah? Tell me something I don't already know."

I turned vulnerability into performance. But performance, by its nature, creates distance. 

I was so desperate to be seen, but I wrapped myself in language so thick no one could reach me. And when they couldn't, or didn't do it in a way that I could write into the narrative of my life, I dismissed them. 

I know that people tried. But I never fully accepted their efforts.

I now see that I was hard to be close to.

There were reasons for that, some of them chemical, some psychological: the depression I kept trying to outsmart with metaphors, the ADHD I didn’t know I had, the panic attacks I called intensity, and the suicidal ideation that felt like both a threat and a comfort. But reasons aren't excuses. They don’t erase the impact.


It's taken me a long time to realize: I wasn't just hurting, I was careless with it. That's a painful insight to have now, because it was never my intention. 

I wanted connection, but I didn't make it easy. I had so little faith in my own value that I needed people to prove they wouldn't leave. But words weren't enough. So I set every bridge on fire, sometimes to keep people away, and sometimes just to see who would cross anyway.

I didn’t always carry my pain carefully. And expecting others to bear my burdens wasn't fair.


I also didn't treat everyone's attention equally. 

If I thought you were smart enough, complex enough, wounded enough — then your attention mattered. 

But if you seemed shallow, unremarkable, or uninteresting, then your words didn't count. 

Why? Because if someone whose lens I didn’t trust thought I was impressive, it didn’t feel like affirmation. It felt like confirmation of my worst fear: That I was only remarkable to the unremarkable.

Their praise didn't land because I didn’t believe it took much to earn it. And if it didn’t take much to earn, then maybe I wasn’t worth much after all.

It wasn’t really about them. It was about me. I was terrified that I’d only ever be admired by people whose standards I wouldn’t hold myself to.

But I turned that same scrutiny on myself.

My interests, my talents, my insights: they only counted if they met some impossible threshold. I kept striving for perfection, feeling if I was less than exceptional, others would also dismiss me in the same way.

I was a flawed person, depressed, erratic, and deeply trying not to be, but not ready to admit the things to myself that would actually have allowed me to improve.


I didn't know how to save myself. 

I thought if I was smart enough, I could fix it on my own. Admitting I needed help felt like admitting that I wasn't capable. Which would mean I wasn't as valuable as I needed to be, which meant not as worthy of love. 

So, instead, I turned my suffering into a script. 

I cast myself as the tragic lead. I handed supporting roles to people who never auditioned. They were real, but I didn't always relate to them as themselves, I related to the roles I needed them to play.

Don't get me wrong, I cared deeply. There were some people I entrusted my identity to. But I also used some people as mirrors, or metaphors. 

I also likely hurt some people who I treated as just footnotes. People who didn't make it into the story because they didn’t burn brightly enough, or their pain or depth didn’t echo loudly enough for me to notice.


Part of growing into a more whole version of myself isn’t just healing my wounds. It's seeing who I became while I was still bleeding.

And it’s being willing to say:

“Even though I was in pain, I caused pain. And not just to the people I loved, but to the ones I used as mirrors, placeholders, or props. I want to own that, not just explain it.”


I know I sometimes came off like I thought I was better than some people.

It wasn't arrogance. It was terror.

If I wasn't the smartest, most capable, most intuitive, most emotionally aware person (or sometimes, just the most broken) in the room... then who was I?

I clung to my intellect because I didn't think I had anything else worth offering.

The trauma, the writing, the razorblade nights, they’re all part of this subconscious contract I'd made with the world: 

“If I feel more, suffer more, think more deeply than others, then I must matter more.”


So I pushed “normal” people away. Not because they weren't enough, but because they didn't trigger my need to prove I was. 

It was safer to be unreadable than to risk being read and not valued.

I'd love to say that has completely changed. It hasn't. Not fully.

I still overidentify with competence more than warmth. I still sometimes measure my value by how useful or insightful I can be. But I'm learning. Slowly.


If you were someone I overlooked, dismissed, or quietly hurt while chasing meaning — or if you ever felt unseen because I didn’t ask, didn’t follow up, or stayed wrapped in my own story, I want you to know:

I see that now. I’m sorry. I wish I had shown up better.

You deserved more than what I gave you.

You were always more than a side character, even if I treated you like one. If you felt invisible, that was about my blindness, not your brightness.


That fear still lingers, the one that says unless I'm extraordinary in some way — brilliant, broken, or intense — I'll be forgettable.

I thought I had to earn love. That being loved wasn't a given, it was a prize for being remarkable. That my value was in how deeply I thought, how much I helped, how beautifully I suffered.

And I didn't just want to be loved. I needed to matter.

These days, I am still negotiating my worth. But the truth I'm learning is:

I don't need to be exceptional to be worthy.
I don't need to be effortless to be lovable.
I don't need to be palatable to be kept.

It still feels wrong. 

But I'm working on believing it.


But, it meant that when people left me, I saw it as a direct reflection of my value. 

I thought being fascinating would protect me from being abandoned. If I could make myself unforgettable, people wouldn’t leave. 

But I didn’t know how to be safe. Or consistent. I only knew how to be intense. 

And looking back, I can see how exhausting that must have been for the people who tried to love me. I blamed people for not loving me, when I couldn't love myself without bleeding.

That wasn't fair. 

I don’t think I knew how to be close without pain, or how to feel important without chaos. I didn't know how to love myself unless it hurt. Not unless I was bleeding. Not unless someone was leaving. Not unless I was proving. Not unless I was surviving

The idea that I could be calm, safe, happy (maybe even ordinary) and still be significant? It felt impossible. Because if I didn’t need to perform my value, how would anyone see it?

So instead, I built a soul so intricate, so vivid, so beautifully tragic, that peace felt like erasure. Stillness felt like death. Normalcy felt like exile. I didn't believe I got to be worthy without some sort of suffering contract attached.

And that put weight on people who were never meant to carry it.


I see the harm now, not just the hurt. 

Back then, I always thought of myself as the one who was wounded. But I wounded too. 

I didn't know how to check what I was projecting. And some people caught shrapnel from a war I was fighting with myself.

There was one person in particular who I bound my survival in. They never asked for that burden. They couldn't have carried it, even if they tried.


I thought love could drown me and save me, and god, I wanted it to. 

I never felt like I belonged anywhere. So I searched for proof that I was wanted. Needed. Desired. Valued. Chosen. Worth something.

But I made complexity a pre-requisite for intimacy. I confused intensity with meaning. And because of that, peace often felt like rejection. You can't build a stable life on that foundation. 

I was scared to build something lasting because deep down, I believed I would always ruin it. I would be too much. Too loud. Too weird. Too sharp. Too me.

And once that relationship finally broke, I did too. 


I had built my identity around being connected to him, around being seen by him.

I had assigned all my love, all my worth, to that relationship. So when he left, it didn't feel like a breakup. It felt like verdict.

Him leaving was internalized as evidence that I was inherently unlovable in my truest form. To me, it confirmed my worst fear: That I was always too much, or not enough.

His love had validated my existence. So his absence invalidated it. If I wasn't his person, his PosterGirl, then it meant becoming someone undefined. 

I had built my sense of self around being loved while broken. So when that love vanished, my brain grasped for safety and landed on this:

“I must have been too broken to keep.”

And that wasn't fair. Not to him. Not to me.

He didn't ask to be my reason for surviving. He didn't sign up to carry my identity or prove my worth.

I didn't know how to love someone maturely, responsibly, while keeping myself whole. We were young and unequipped to navigate it. But I didn't know that.

And when his love didn't complete me, I held onto it like it would. I gave him everything I had, hoping it would be reflected back as proof that I was enough. But he deserved better. And so did I. 

Now, with distance, I understand why he left. If I were him, I might’ve done the same. 

And I truly hope he's found a life where he's not needed to rescue anyone. A life where he's wanted just for being himself.


I used to think healing was just about understanding myself: mapping the pain, naming the patterns, explaining how I got here.

But healing isn’t complete until it accounts for its echo. Until it turns outward.

Because my pain didn’t exist in a vacuum. It leaked. It landed. It shaped people who didn’t ask to carry the fallout.

So this part isn’t about who I was to myself. It’s about who I became to others, especially when I was too consumed by surviving to see what I was costing them.


At the time, I used that grief as a shield. Holding on to him gave me a reason not to risk again, not fully.

I was flailing. I had lost the relationship that gave me meaning, so I desperately searched for something to fill that void.

I scoured the emotional wilderness for people who might reflect my own intensity, depth, and damage back to me in a way that felt like recognition.

I sought out those who were as broken as me, who loved as recklessly as me — who gave me a glimpse of a depth that might mean they could accept mine. 

And I tried to rescue them. Because, if I could save them, then maybe I could save myself. Or maybe, I wouldn't need to. 

Maybe it would be proof: that I was capable enough. Helpful enough. Loved enough. Smart enough. Worthy enough.

If I could love someone into wholeness, maybe there was hope for me.


Most of those connections, I still cherish. I didn't pity them, I resonated with them. 

Their trauma didn't repel me. It wasn't a warning sign; it was a shared language.

And sometimes, they let me be dangerous and delicate in the same breath. I found something holy in their brokenness.

But many of those relationships weren't about connection. They were experiments in reconstruction.

I was grieving in real time, testing who I could be in the aftermath. Trying on new mirrors to see if they reflected someone salvageable. 

I offered love to the parts of them that I couldn't love in myself: the displaced, the discarded, the deeply feeling. 

And I reached into their vulnerability behind the bravado, because I needed someone to do that for me.

Sometimes, those relationships awakened my sophistication. They tested my tolerance. And sometimes, they let me feel wanted in a way that felt elemental.


I kept learning the hard lesson that people don't heal just due to proximity to love. And neither do I. 

Those were the easier truths to admit.

Here's the harder one: I wasn't just drawn to wounded people because I understood pain. I was drawn to them because being needed was the closest I could get to feeling safe

I wanted their chaos. It let me be the emotional center without being seen as selfish. It let me offer care without risking rejection. It let me control the narrative by always being the stable one, even if I was broken too.

Because if they needed me, maybe they wouldn't leave me.

And truthfully, some of those relationships weren't connections. They were collisions. And I knew it. I walked into the fire anyway, telling myself it was passion.

I wasn't drawn to them because they matched my depth. I was with them because their instability distracted me from my own.

If I was managing their lives, I didn’t have to look at mine: Not the grief. Not the rage. Not the loneliness. Not the gaping void left behind when I lost the love I thought defined me.

Intensity became my identity. I became this gravity well for chaos, because I was trying not to disappear. Chaos, at least, proved I existed.


I didn’t always know how to be a friend without intensity. I didn't know how to be a friend, period. And I owe an apology to the people I hurt because of that. To the friends I overlooked while narrating my own story.

I thought I was being vulnerable: spilling truths, bleeding on the page, sending metaphors out like invitations. 

But I wasn’t really present. I didn’t ask about your days. I didn’t follow up. I didn’t notice when you were in pain, because I was too consumed by my own.

Some of you drifted. Some stayed longer than I probably deserved. Some are still in my life. And I imagine some still wonder if I ever truly saw them as more than supporting characters in my story.

If you were one of them: I’m sorry. You mattered. You still do.


At the time, I didn’t know.

I thought I was self-aware. I thought I was helping people. I thought I was seeking love, romance, connection. I thought I was doing the work.

But I wasn’t. Not really.

I was grasping, desperately, for anything that could resolve the emptiness I didn’t know how to name. Trying to prove I mattered because I didn't know how to believe it.

But if I couldn’t be whole, maybe I could be captivating. If I couldn’t be loved for being soft, maybe I could be admired for surviving sharp.

I wasn’t fully aware of any of that. I thought I was just intense. Passionate. I thought I was doing the work, and in some ways, I was. But I also missed a lot.

And that’s part of what I’m owning now, not just the actions, but the illusions I operated under while thinking I was doing everything right.


Even now, I second guess safety. I wonder if depth can exist without crisis.

When someone loves me without needing to be fixed, without me needing to bleed or burn for them, it feels suspicious.

At the same time, I still have this gnawing fear: That if I stop being different, stop being the one with the layered past and the scarred depth and the poetic lens, I'll vanish into ordinariness.

I'll just be someone’s wife, someone’s mom, someone’s friend… and disappear.

It's not true. Of course it's not.

But I built an entire identity around mastering the truth, around being the one who already knows. The one who sees all the patterns. The meaning behind it all.

But what I'd really been avoiding is being known in the absence of performance. To be known in the boring moments. In the silence. In the "nothing to explain" spaces.

Those are the scary spaces. ...I still fear I'm forgettable. 

I was a soul on fire. And it took me so long to learn how to live without burning everything to stay warm.


And this, this might be one of the hardest truths to sit with: I don’t need another epic. I need to grieve that my life isn’t going to be one.

That's the difference in my current relationship. It didn't start with "Who do I need to save?" It began with "What does love look like when no one has to bleed for it?"

And that's it.

I no longer expect perfection from others. 

I no longer measure flaws for evidence that someone is unqualified to validate me.

I no longer test love by making people walk through fire to reach me.

And I no longer present myself as something fleeting they might lose.


So here's what I know now:

  • I often confused being compelling with being loved.
  • I confused visibility with intimacy.
  • I sometimes hurt people while trying to heal them.
  • I needed to be exceptional because "ordinary" felt like "disposable."
  • I thought the most interesting version of me was the only lovable one.
  • I didn’t trust that the quiet version could ever be enough.
  • Impact became my measure for worth, even when it had a cost.
  • I asked too much of myself and of others without understanding the consequences.

I’m not writing this because I’m healed. I’m writing this because I’m trying to be accountable.

This isn’t a victory lap. It’s a reckoning. I still get scared. I still overthink.

But I don’t confuse chaos with connection anymore.

And I don’t think I need to shatter to be seen.

(no subject)

Jun. 7th, 2025 09:48 am
circii: anime style person with short purple hair and black face mask sitting under the chin, wearing purple tshirt and a red fuzzy jumper (Default)
[personal profile] circii posting in [community profile] addme
Name:circii or bunnii

Age: 30s



Country: Australia



I mostly post about: My journal is very new, i think I decided to make it because I was feeling a bit low and just wanted to write about my feelings and interests and hopefully find like-minded people. I'm also trying to make my web experience a more pleasant one, so I like looking at journals and personal websites. Indie web, small web, that kind of thing I yearn for so I might share things I find! But so far, I like to yap about my daily life and my practice in fighting games. I just started a fight log so I can hopefully more clearly see my progress! I will probably generally just talk about other things like anime, video games and maybe I'll post art or photos taken on my digicam. Also I'm queer and figuring things out still lmao



My hobbies are: Currently I'm focused in on fighting games (granblue rising, but I'm also a street fighter and guilty gear enjoyer), working on my art, vtubing, crochet and the smallest smattering of baby guitar when I can find time after all that. Other interests that can come back into my rotation is language study (Japanese and Spanish), miniature painting, nail art, weightlifting, snorkeling (I dream of scuba/free diving tho!)



My fandoms are:I'm not deep in any fandom at the moment but I enjoy content from sailor moon, granblue, guilty gear, general DnD stuff, hololive, vshojo and arcane. I'm also a huge Lady Gaga fan. And a lover of My Chemical Romance.



I'm looking to meet people who: I think are cool! I enjoy reading other people's day-to-day life and their passions, might get me excited about something new , too! If we hype over similar things that's a tasty cherry on top ;9



My posting schedule tends to be: aiming for at least a few times a week.



When I add people, my dealbreakers are: if you don't support LGBTQ+, if you excuse any wars, if you support generative AI, you know if you lean in those kinds of directions - please don't talk to me.



Before adding me, you should know: I'm sorry if my post was too long! And I might be using this as a form of therapy (cuz therapy is expensive) so if I do post something that's a bit heavier, I'll learn how to put it behind a cut and maybe make it friends only. But I think I'll try and keep cheery here! I'm still learning how to use this site

november_5th: (Default)
[personal profile] november_5th posting in [community profile] addme

Name: Karmen

Age: 30s

I mostly post about: personal growth, trauma unpacking, character analysis, neurodivergence, identity, memory, and the messiness of being human. Sometimes it’s raw introspection. Sometimes it’s writing projects. Sometimes it’s emotional archaeology. Expect depth, questions, and occasional chaos.

My hobbies are: Writing, reading, exploring psychological patterns, long drives with curated playlists, casually reverse-engineering tech, helping others make sense of complex systems, data analysis, and overanalyzing fictional characters as a form of therapy.

My fandoms are: Buffy, Doctor Who, Veronica Mars, iZombie, Epic: The Musical, Star Trek, The Martian/Project Hail Mary universe, and anything weird, genre-bending, or emotionally resonant. I also have a soft spot for nostalgic emo vibes and anything that blends humor with existential dread.

I'm looking to meet people who: Think deeply, love honestly, write messily, and aren’t afraid of intensity. Neurodivergent folks, artists, writers, and anyone else who thrives in the liminal spaces between structure and chaos - let’s connect.

My posting schedule tends to be: sporadic but meaningful. If I post, it’s because I have something to say, not because an algorithm demands it.

When I add people, my dealbreakers are: Bigotry of any kind or cruelty masked as honesty. If you can’t be kind (or at least curious), I’m not your people.

Before adding me, you should know: I’m someone who craves depth over small talk. I’m working on showing up without needing to perform. I write honestly, even when it’s messy. I hold space for contradiction, growth, and grief. If you’re here for realness, reflection, and weird little moments of connection, welcome.

november_5th: (Default)
[personal profile] november_5th

I miss my friends.

I've been coming to terms with the idea that my version of friendship vastly differs from other peoples'. I always just considered myself a low-maintenance friend. But what that means is that once we're friends, that's it. No questions. No reevaluation unless you tell me we are no longer friends, or you do something undeniably and purposefully cruel to me.

You can show up on my doorstep or in my messages or give me a call and I won't question it. If you need a ride to the airport or a pet sitter or just someone to connect with, my friends can hit me up. It doesn't matter if it's been 2 days, 2 months, 2 years or 20 years. I will be thrilled to see you.

But I'm learning that's not reality for most people. And y'all may think I'm daft, but I don't think I ever really realized how pervasive the alternative concept of friendship is. This is going to seem really obvious when I type is out (so you're going to have to take my word that it wasn't obvious to me), but I didn't realize that most people think that if your friends aren't actively checking in with you, then they've abandoned you and you aren't friends anymore.

I run hot and focused. Which is ironic, because I have ADHD and my feet are always cold. But what I mean is that if I'm paying attention to someone, I will often give them all my energy, all my love, all my support. Or, I put all my effort into my work, or school, or kids, or hobby. Everything I do gets my 100%. But it drains me, and it means I don't have much time or energy or recognition left over to do the maintenance work - the check-ins, the regular updates on the mundane life stuff, the day-to-day communications that apparently define most friendships.

And because I had the assumption that we're always going to remain friends, I've been blindsided more than once when people accuse me of abandoning them, or rejecting them, or leaving them. Meanwhile, I'm blissfully unaware that they're feeling that way until the bomb is dropped that they're not going to be friends anymore. I wasn't MIA because I stopped caring. I was just trusting that the bond didn’t need proof to remain real. I assumed we were all just living our lives and we would circle back together, because I love you for who you are, not how much energy you offer to me. And I wish I could say that when I'm written off, I move on. But I don't. I still love them.

I still love Jas. And Megan. And Jess. And Fabian. And Tyler. And Shaundra. And Mike. And Jordan. And Brandon. And Mikayla. And all the people who just wrote me off because they thought I'd already written them off, or thought... something. You're still in my thoughts. I still cherish the memories we have together. I still wonder what you're up to and wish it was easy to check up on you. But my check-in timelines are never aligned with others', and it's left me with just the friends who run on the same timeline as me.

I'm very grateful for Corey, Ocean, Robyn, Alyssa, and all the friends who are equally content with living full lives and then circling back around to connect, update each other, and create more memories together.

Honestly, I miss the days where people had MSN statuses that I could look at and get a sense of how they were doing. I miss the days of livejournal, where people could pour our their souls en masse and it was so much easier to reach out to more people at a time. Yes, I know Facebook and Instagram exists, but it's not the same. Soul bearing on Facebook comes with so much ick when you've got ex colleagues and extended family and old aquaintences on there. It seems so much more impersonal, or curated, on Facebook.

I remember that Livi, Megan and I used to pass around a journal in high school. We'd update it, then pass it to the next person. It was communication, comraderie, connection. I remember La Vie Posse, where we would update a shared livejournal. And now? Life is busy. I don't have the energy or flexibility to meet up with people as easily, or even just hold conversations. Having two kids, a full time job, a husband, a life, it gets complex and restricting.

I miss the freedom of being able to see my people every day. I miss having those meet up places. I miss my friends. I miss it all (okay, maybe I don't miss the emotional exorcism that I went through on the regular -- life is definitely calmer now).

I sometimes wonder if they miss me, too.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

♪♫ I missed the grinding concrete where we sat past 8 or 9
And slowly finished laughing in the glow of our headlights
I've given a lot of thought to the nights we used to have
The days have come and gone, our lives went by so fast
I faintly remember breathing on your bedroom floor
Where I laid and told you, but you swear you loved me more

Do you care if I don't know what to say?
Will you sleep tonight? Will you think of me? 
♫♪

myth, matches & me: a hello post

Jun. 4th, 2025 08:04 pm
booksbardsandbaselines: (Books and specs)
[personal profile] booksbardsandbaselines posting in [community profile] addme

Name: Danielle

Age: 30s

I mostly post about: life, books I'm reading (or re-reading!), music I'm loving, tennis matches I'm yelling at the TV about, and all the soft little joys in between.

My hobbies are: reading, writing, journalling, cooking, gardening, watching tennis, listening to music, doing crosswords, talking about Greek myths, collecting daffodils (not literally, just in spirit), and wandering around museums and libraries like a nerd in her natural habitat.

My fandoms are: Percy Jackson, Greek mythology in general, Taylor Swift, various tennis players (Aryna Sabalenka, Carlos Alcaraz, Jannik Sinner, Jasmine Paolini, Qinwen Zheng).

I'm looking to meet people who: are curious, kind, thoughtful, and enjoy rambling about things they love. Fellow readers, writers, myth geeks, ADHD brains, and warm-hearted nerds especially welcome!

My posting schedule tends to be: softly chaotic, but aiming for 3–4 posts a week—somewhere between “routine” and “inspired flurry.”

When I add people, my dealbreakers are: bigotry of any kind, cruelty, or just generally being mean-spirited. I like my internet spaces kind and cozy.

Before adding me, you should know: I'm a chatterbox when I'm excited, and I’ll probably mention Greek gods, tennis scores, and obscure historical tidbits in the same breath. I write with a lot of heart, and I love connecting with thoughtful people. 💛

(no subject)

Jun. 2nd, 2025 09:05 pm
ashleygamer6: (pic#17399950)
[personal profile] ashleygamer6 posting in [community profile] addme
Name: Ashley (she/her - transfemme)

Age: 36



I mostly post about: So I'm 2 years into my transition as a female, I'm pretty much woman except I can't land a job so have no friends, dates, nothing. I'm EXTREMELY stressed. I try to game to escape, but my mom purposely stresses me out while I do that, I'm in hell. I go outside only when I have to now, 'cause people treat me like shit. So my posts are mostly musings and psychological bs. You can see the shit I put up with on the first on my first page.



My hobbies are: Listening to y2k music, sometimes 90s music, playing video games, indie/y2k/multiplayer/remakes&sequals, and working out.



My fandoms are: Final Fantasy. I've played them all, though I haven't beaten every one. Will be getting more into Zelda when I get a Switch 2. The Last of Us (TV) and I've played the games. Gay shit in general.



I'm looking to meet people who: Nerds who don't get butthurt or threatened about me.



My posting schedule tends to be: Whenever the mood strikes.



When I add people, my dealbreakers are: Well, the exclusionary workaholic tools already aren't adding me, so I don't have to worry about anyone!



Before adding me, you should know: If you stop commenting after 2 weeks, as most journalers do, I will remove you so let's skip the unnecessary steps and just not add me if you're gonna do that, okay?

Page generated Jun. 14th, 2025 12:26 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios