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juushikaI have all of these ideas for posts sitting in the back of my head, waiting for me to pull them forward, give them more thought, commit them to text, and share them with the world. Thoughtful posts, important posts, formative who-I-am posts, posts about mental health and therianthropy and the creative process and media. But I've not been all together and I've a surfeit of things to think and do and write; by the time I'm ready to pull a waiting topic forward I've run out of energy, or my wrists need a break, or I've pushed my back too far. So the thoughts sit, waiting, fetal, mostly quiet. These are some of them.
Most representations of cats in popular media, knowledge, and lore are caricatures which are are overblown, inaccurate, and/or reply on trite and often unfounded images of cats as superior, or magical, or fiercely independent. They boggle and bore me, and can easily rouse my anger or, at least, disinterest in a piece of media. Yet for all of that, Cats tugs deep down at my heart of hearts. It is still a caricature, but it is the best sort: by simplifying and exaggerating certain traits, by glossing over others, it distills a comprehensible, vivid, yet accurate version of its subject—one which is, for the fact that it's easier to see and understand, almost a truer representation of self.
I'm becoming more aware of how distinct the cat that I should be actually is—which is to say, I still believe that my guesses as to appearance are mostly wishful thinking, but the specific cat that I am seems surprisingly well defined: not any domestic cat or the archetype of a domestic cat, but a particular domestic cat with its own quirks and nature—and more unusually, one with a particular life: indoors only, neutered, spoiled, probably a single cat in a small household, etc. I rarely care or wonder about the origin of my therianthropy, but the specifics, the idea that I was supposed to be a certain cat, make me wonder about those origins. Have my views of therianthropy and domesticity been influenced by what I've been exposed to as a human, and if so how so? I grew up with outdoor cats—do I contrast myself against them? I grew up listening to Cats—did that influence my concept and and identification with cats? Simply: what explains the impression that I should have been a specific cat, and those specifics? Right now these are all questions; I don't yet have any answers.
I've made the link between my depression and back issues many times, but I've yet to fully appreciate or throughly discuss it. Relatedly, I tend to underestimate the continuing impact of my mental health issues—I forget that, even though I've carved out a safe space for myself, my mental health issues persist and can still impact me. As a result of both, I can go for days before I realize that my general moodiness is in fact indicative of a persistent problem, one that I haven't recognized and so haven't been treating. But that realization comes tied with a bit of dread and melancholy all its own, because it's a reminder that these big, unsolvable problems—chronic pain, chronic depression—do persist.
There is a distinct and sometimes troubling gap between my personal mental health issues (and their effects) which I am willing to discuss, and those that I will admit to almost no one; between my certainty in and comfort with my lifestyle, and my lingering guilt in owning or discussing that lifestyle. The reason that I've yet to address this all is, of course, because it's something which I'm reluctant to address—but it make me worry that I have plateaued: I have a comfort zone regarding my mental health issues, and that which falls outside it goes unaddressed and therefore unattended. I'm content not to solve all my problems (thus my lifestyle), and need be accountable to no one but myself, but I still think I need to be thinking, and talking, a bit more. But fear of potential backlash, both external and internal, makes me doubt that I ever will look deeper at these things.
Emo is an aesthetic. Emo is a horrible word for what I mean, but it brings with it so many of the right connotations and so I'll use it anyway. When I write Ghost and Aaron I sometimes end up in, or feel like I should be in, a depressed mental state: in order to write about their personal and emotional troubles, I make myself personally and emotionally troubled. And to state the obvious, that's not a good thing. But as I've recently gone back to them, I've managed to embrace emo as an aesthetic rather than purely a mental state—I can dig into their lives and mindsets, and create and indulge in that awful, sympathetic, delight in suffering, without internalizing their struggles. In a way that's sad—it gives me just a touch of distance, and I don't want to be distant from them—but on the whole it's refreshing to play and write them without such a personal investment and struggle.
Five makes for a healthy list, I'd think. I may never come back to these, or at least not any time soon, but better to have notes and blurbs than nothing at all.
Most representations of cats in popular media, knowledge, and lore are caricatures which are are overblown, inaccurate, and/or reply on trite and often unfounded images of cats as superior, or magical, or fiercely independent. They boggle and bore me, and can easily rouse my anger or, at least, disinterest in a piece of media. Yet for all of that, Cats tugs deep down at my heart of hearts. It is still a caricature, but it is the best sort: by simplifying and exaggerating certain traits, by glossing over others, it distills a comprehensible, vivid, yet accurate version of its subject—one which is, for the fact that it's easier to see and understand, almost a truer representation of self.
I'm becoming more aware of how distinct the cat that I should be actually is—which is to say, I still believe that my guesses as to appearance are mostly wishful thinking, but the specific cat that I am seems surprisingly well defined: not any domestic cat or the archetype of a domestic cat, but a particular domestic cat with its own quirks and nature—and more unusually, one with a particular life: indoors only, neutered, spoiled, probably a single cat in a small household, etc. I rarely care or wonder about the origin of my therianthropy, but the specifics, the idea that I was supposed to be a certain cat, make me wonder about those origins. Have my views of therianthropy and domesticity been influenced by what I've been exposed to as a human, and if so how so? I grew up with outdoor cats—do I contrast myself against them? I grew up listening to Cats—did that influence my concept and and identification with cats? Simply: what explains the impression that I should have been a specific cat, and those specifics? Right now these are all questions; I don't yet have any answers.
I've made the link between my depression and back issues many times, but I've yet to fully appreciate or throughly discuss it. Relatedly, I tend to underestimate the continuing impact of my mental health issues—I forget that, even though I've carved out a safe space for myself, my mental health issues persist and can still impact me. As a result of both, I can go for days before I realize that my general moodiness is in fact indicative of a persistent problem, one that I haven't recognized and so haven't been treating. But that realization comes tied with a bit of dread and melancholy all its own, because it's a reminder that these big, unsolvable problems—chronic pain, chronic depression—do persist.
There is a distinct and sometimes troubling gap between my personal mental health issues (and their effects) which I am willing to discuss, and those that I will admit to almost no one; between my certainty in and comfort with my lifestyle, and my lingering guilt in owning or discussing that lifestyle. The reason that I've yet to address this all is, of course, because it's something which I'm reluctant to address—but it make me worry that I have plateaued: I have a comfort zone regarding my mental health issues, and that which falls outside it goes unaddressed and therefore unattended. I'm content not to solve all my problems (thus my lifestyle), and need be accountable to no one but myself, but I still think I need to be thinking, and talking, a bit more. But fear of potential backlash, both external and internal, makes me doubt that I ever will look deeper at these things.
Emo is an aesthetic. Emo is a horrible word for what I mean, but it brings with it so many of the right connotations and so I'll use it anyway. When I write Ghost and Aaron I sometimes end up in, or feel like I should be in, a depressed mental state: in order to write about their personal and emotional troubles, I make myself personally and emotionally troubled. And to state the obvious, that's not a good thing. But as I've recently gone back to them, I've managed to embrace emo as an aesthetic rather than purely a mental state—I can dig into their lives and mindsets, and create and indulge in that awful, sympathetic, delight in suffering, without internalizing their struggles. In a way that's sad—it gives me just a touch of distance, and I don't want to be distant from them—but on the whole it's refreshing to play and write them without such a personal investment and struggle.
Five makes for a healthy list, I'd think. I may never come back to these, or at least not any time soon, but better to have notes and blurbs than nothing at all.
