In Corvallis for a few days, STILL SICK, and I watched and loved Heavenly Creatures.

Do you remember back at the beginning of the year when I got sick for the second time and was like "wow, this is unusual, how about it NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN?"

Man am I having the worst sort of déjà vu.

So I sort of feel like death on a stick; whatever. Last night I watched Heavenly Creatures (based on the Parker-Hulme murder), and it amazes me that it took me so long to discover the film: the style is comically overblown but the acting strong, which more or less evens out; the content is so perfectly to my taste that it's almost disturbing. It's the very definition of an unusually intimate relationship, with consequences that are at once understandable and incredible, sympathetic and adolescent and terrifying. The film itself is fantastic, if you're me, but now what I really want is the story behind it—or, to be precise, I want to read Pauline Parker's diaries. I'm not particularly interested in the true crime, court case elements of what happened. I want the personal, private, subjective story—I want that sort of true. The diaries haven't been published in full, however—and only a fraction of them remains, after the originals were destroyed post-trial. There's excerpts and plentiful commentary, and I may poke at that when back in Portland* and can read comfortably on my laptop (and breathe through my nose at all, and sleep through the night, and do other things that make reading easier), but what I really want is that whole story, that personal retelling, and it disappoints me that it's not available.

For now, while I recover, I think I should find another movie. I hope it's half as compelling to watch.

* Oh, hey, I'm in Corvallis for a few days, for a belated Father's Day visit home and because Devon won't be coming up next weekend so we thought we'd spend a few extra days together here. If there's a plus side to this cold thing, it's that this house smells perfectly fine when you can't smell anything at all!

Juu discovers The Icarus Project, or: a brief rant on mental health issues.

Don't mind me—I just discovered The Icarus Project so I'll be over here, repeatedly banging my head against the wall.

(And for the record: Yes, my various mental health issues over the years would have been dramatically different if they hadn't been considered diseases and defects that needed to be changed for the good of society, and so that I could be reintegrated into it. At this point I've given up trying to "cure" myself, and am fully content to recognize that my mental health conditions define who I am, and fuck a culture or society that denies that, or denies me as a result. But it's a far leap between self-acceptance and ownership, and celebrating the disease. Because here's the thing, my friends: even if the world around me had been ideal, forgiving, understanding, supportive, and elsewise perfect when I fell sick, I still would have been sick. Half the pain of mental illness is all the social suffering and baggage that comes with, which is why I'm so upfront about this shit now. The rest of the pain? IS THE ILLNESS. That shit doesn't go away, no matter how you relabel and reclaim. Trying to pretend it does does nothing at all to help combat it. It can only hurt.

And yes, this is 110% subjective, and my experiences and mental health issues are not indicative of anyone else's. But caveats aside: go fuck yourself, man, and get off my flist.

And now this magical fucking madman is gonna go make the bed.)