[Risa's Scrapbook] Tales of the Infirm

by **Risa Moontide** on September 15th, 2011, 4:47 pm

The Robot and The Rose
A story I wrote with my BF when he got home from New Mexico

Shifting, creaking, cracking. The dark silhouette shifted, its frozen pose unmoved for so long. There were no witnesses to this movement, none spare the grass and the lone spot of red. The grass wedged its way through the cracked checkerboard that covered the floor, pushing apart each tile as it struggled to reach the light so far away.

Another screech of metal. Louder this time, the sound of rusted metal sliding free of a long held prison. The sound vibrated through the tiny room, threatening to shake free the creaking walls. The walls were already bulging outward through the years, one was collapsed nearly in half but held aloft by the remaining three and by the remains of a shattered desk that lay in pieces beneath the giant chunks of concrete.

All this was revealed by the long streams of light that floods in patches from the gaps in the ceiling. The light became the palest colors of yellow as it floated to the struggling grass. A blue sky above would have looked marvelous if any were around to see it. If.

Finally the shadow flashed with its own light, a waves of red covering the room. Revealing the figure further, the smooth silver metal long bronzed with rust. From the ground metal bolts, thick and tired, creaked and groaned angry at the weight they've been supporting for so long. The red light beamed down from the top, next to two deep sockets, two scanning the available light. Two tunnels of eyes to absorb what was left of the broken atmosphere. The red light rotated down, glowing the rusted form with a malicious red, scanning for damage.

The right arm was in a bit of sunlight, and was far more damaged than the rest of the metal form. Water damage from a hole above had been cruel, dripping onto only part of the cold sentry and eating away at the remains of his grasping metal appendage. With calculated and controlled movements another sound began to fill the room. A slow hiss of pneumatic gases leaked from teh joint where the arm met the body. A rotating slip of metal groaned and shrieked painfully as it attempted to turn, moving only centimeters at a time as it struggled to open fully.

At last came a loud crack, like the snapping of coil or wire, and the arm came free. The large rusted arm fell swiftly, crashing against the remains of a tile on the ground. The title itself shattered, revealing a few mushrooms beneath it that were sheltered from the dry air. Again the red light scanned, going over the arm joint to assess the extent of the damage. But the red light froze.

A glint caught the red light as it peered down at its shoulder. A glorious and deep red color, something it had never seen. The eyes whirred, focusing themselves, and the red spray or light solidified into a single red beam. The red beam panned the room quickly, finally finding the red color again. The beautiful form below the metal figure, pulling itself from the grass on a single green string to smile brightly from below.

The machine was perfectly still save for the gradual shifts of the red beam focusing over the red petals again and again. Scanning it. Never before had the machine seen something so... awe-inspiring. The colors were so unique, unlike anything the machine had ever witnessed before. It longed to keep recording the beauty, to catalog what it saw, to lay witness to the beauty before it.

So the robot watched. It watched the flower until the sun no longer lit holes through the room, until the petals were covered in moonlight, until the sun began to rise again. For days the robot was frozen, enraptured. And it would have stayed that way forever if it could. But fate had far crueler plans in store for the pair. For as days and nights and days passed, the subtle changes would tear the two apart.

Now the rusted metal appendage, rotted and worn, had indeed popped a wire as it came free. The arm had become a snake, allowing its venom to flow free. The twisted broken thing let loose black fluid, trickling from the bottom out of sight of the red beam from above. In glints of light the black spill would light up with color before seeping into the ground below. Bleeding out to the earth.

As time went on, the grass began to brown. Each morning the color was less green, more tainted. The machine didn't notice. It didn't know what was happening as the brown began to seep into its lovely flower. As the petals soured and turned inward, as the green stalk lost its vitality. The flower drooped, losing its very life force. And the robot only watched.

Now as the weeks went by the robot played a million scenarios through, trying to find a solution to the problem before it. The beautiful thing was tired and shriveled, and the robot could do nothing to save it. The stoic metal form had never had a situation like this, had no reference to figure out what was next. It was far too late by the time the robot saw the black spill, pieced together the change. Far too late.

The robot decided to act. It would grab the flower, move it away from the oil. Save it. The free arm of the robot shifted, giving another loud creak at metal shifted against itself. Rust particles fell like snow as the other arm finally moved from its long-held position, finally freed itself after an eternity of captured motion. The robot rotated its form forward as well, reaching down with the arm. Reaching to free the petal. But the bolts, still tired and worn, decided they'd had enough.

The bolts snapped and cracked free with thunderous pops. Now free from the ground the robot saw its body move in ways it had never before, shifting forward through no mechanical impulse. As the machine fell, it flashed over images of the flower, pulling recordings of the red glow, the beautiful color filling its eyes. It could do nothing else but wait as it crashed into the ground.

Now right before the robot's red light lay the remains of the flower. The robot could only stare at the corpse, watch the remains as its emergency battery failed. The last image it saw was of its friend, stricken. A friend lost.

Do not lose the people you care about. Do not sit by idly while your actions eat them away. Love like the robot loves the rose, and be there forever.

by **Risa Moontide** on September 17th, 2011, 6:22 pm

Who am I?

This question has plagued me since I was a kid. It's been the one constant of my life. Who am I?

First off, a few paragraphs on the nature of labels. I have a love/hate relationship with labels.

I hate labels. Labels are restricting. Labeling something does not make it so. A title is nothing more an someone's idea, forced upon other people. They represent the cliched aspect of American (because I don't know any other) life that I am surrounded with: the stupid kids who think they have to put out to be someone, the jerkass men who think their love of sports defines them as the kind of guy who can act like a pig, the patriots or zealots who are so illusioned with their beliefs that they let their own lives bleed away or they turn their beliefs into hatred and disrespect. These people let labels control them, warp who they are. They get this idea of themselves, of who they should be, and they act on that idea. It's fake. Just a mask we were to ward off insecurity.

Now the other side of the coin. I love labels. Labels are descriptive and allow people to group together. Just because you're labeled as something doesn't mean you're not unique. the label becomes a unique descriptive word for yourself. I LOVE to be labeled, for some weird reason. Even if it's used as an insult, I'm fascinated that my actions beget descriptive words to capture them. For example, I've been called a snob (PG13'd... not sure why I did, though) for most of my life. I don't know what my daily actions do to make people think of me as snobbish or presiding over other people. But it's been a common insult my entire life, a label that I know people give me. I know I've reacted to labels, tried to either get away from them or changed to fit them. I couldn't help it, the allure of being known or not known as something was greater than my will to be a true person. I don't think I'm as bad at this as other people, but that's probably a part of the snobbish ideology people give to me.

Any label is good and bad. I feel good when I'm described. I love to analyzed and have some verdict be put out on my ideas and thought process. It makes me so giddy, it's probably one of the truest sources of happiness I have. That's sad to say, now that I think about it. But it's true. The one thing I'm worried about is that I'm not being real because of the idea of labels.

Back in high school I was depressed. There were days when I'd not leave bed and tell people I was sick because I felt so low, I felt so worthless that getting out of bed didn't even seem like a worthy venture. I starved myself because I just didn't feel like food was worth the cost of eating, kind of thing. It's not really a body image thing, at least not completely. It's more that sometimes I figure that I'm not worth the food. I wish I could explain it better, but I still sometimes will skip meals because the amount of energy and money spent in regards to food haunts my depressive attitude and convinces me that it's not a worthwhile investment. My brain is weird sometimes.

Back to the point I was getting at, my depression is strangely logical. So when my mom finally decided I needed counseling for my sadness, I researched depression and psychology for weeks before the first appointment. I wanted to be ready. The question I didn't think to ask myself was 'Ready for what?' I was ready to labeled, picked apart, but under my terms. And that's what has always bugged me, because I probably do this same thing all the time without realizing how manipulative I'm being. Because what I did to teh therapist was make sure my answers stepped in line with the label I wanted to acquire. I was... scared the psychologist would see me as crazy, so I gave her answers i wanted her to have. I figured each question into my pathology and popped out an answer that would give her an impression of a girl mildly depressed and a non-danger to herself or others. That way I would just get the pills and the therapist wouldn't know the real me.

It worked. I was diagnosed exactly how I expected to be. I gave her all teh answers she was looking for, without being able to actually tell her what was going on with me. I manipulated events, I got the label. But doesn't that depreciate the very idea of labels, take away what they really mean? I lied to that psychologist and didn't get a true idea of who I was. The label was false, as false as the ones I hate above. I let the label control me instead of my actions control the labels given. And I've always regretted it.

Now that I'm a grown-up I desperately want to go back to a therapist and try again. Try being honest, see what answer I'd be given. But I think I know I couldn't do it. I'd lie again, I'd give wrong answers. It scares me to think that I can't be honest, with anyone. Can I even be honest with myself? Who am I?

by **Risa Moontide** on September 24th, 2011, 12:59 am

Another Terrible Rant

I think I post in this scrapbook to feel sorry for myself. I post so I can say 'Oh look, you really do have thoughts in that messed up brain of yours.' I want to say that I just want to get these ideas out, but I don't think that's true. I want you to read them and to feel sorry for me and to make me feel better. It's so selfish. But I can't stop typing. I'm going to put down a bunch of feelings with a little bit of story behind it, or a lot of story with a little bit of feelings behind it. I'm going to write until I don't want to write, and then I'll write some more. Hopefully when I'm finished writing I'll go post in my open threads. Maybe I'll feel better.

I was so happy yesterday. I was going to write a scrapbook post about how things were great and how everything is peachy. How I was SO HAPPY to have my friends back in chat and to be able to see people and get my posting active and have my life back in order. It's funny, when I think of my life in order I think of my posts being done and in Mizahar chat. This place is synonymous with my very life, it seems. Is it funny? Or is it sad? Is this a reflection of my depression or slipping madness? A sign that all is not well, that I'm less than a real person?

Something's wrong with me. The last year I can't watch sad movies anymore. I can't even watch sad shows. Something about the concept of someone losing a family member is so tear-inducing that I can't take it. I don't even know why. I haven't lost anyone recently, in terms of them dying or anything. My family is just... splintered. That's all. Why is it affecting me this way?

To clarify: My parents got a divorce this January. I didn't think it affected me, I'm a grown-up. Well, I didn't feel anything emotionally. I was upset, even angry, because I was renting part of a duplex with them and the divorce was causing them both to move out. I definitely couldn't handle $1400 on my own so I had to move too. Still, I felt nothing. We all knew it was coming.

I haven't seen my dad in 10 months.

I don't feel upset. We were never close, not like most people I know. He was in the military and when he wasn't overseas he was yelling and screaming. My mom likes to say he was emotionally abusive, but... but I don't think he was. he just had a short temper. There were times when he was nice and we were all happy. Every so often. We never saw eye to eye, I was much too liberal for his taste. The only times we both agreed on stuff and had fun together was while playing tabletop games. We were so different otherwise. It sucked.

... I don't know why I said it sucked. I never really cared before. I guess I still don't care, or at least I don't feel like I care. I don't feel empty or lonely or sad about it. I don't feel anything.

It hurts to breathe, but I get this feeling in every fight.

My boyfriend is a lot meaner than I am and he's a lot better at the silent treatment. If we're fighting I'm always in a hurry to stop the fight, I rush to try to get the fight over by working out our problems. I believe it helps us strengthen. Each problem is one that's easier to deal with in the future if we work it out today. I hate insulting people, but I find myself doing it pretty easy when I'm mad. And I feel awful about it. I really do. I always try to say something like, "You're being an asshole' rather than 'You're an asshole.' But one word doesn't mean anything in the end, does it? I'm trying to say 'Your actions are wrong but not your personality' with that one word. One word means nothing.

Now when I try to use the silent treatment, I'm hoping it'll make him come back and talk, try to open any lines of communication I'm pretending to close down. But the bluff has never worked. If he's mad enough he'll mutter insults under his breath. Well, not true insults but things like 'Of course you're on the laptop again, where else would you be' or 'I hope you're happy' or 'way to handle your responsibilities.' So I guess insulting my actions. Which makes me feel a little better, but they still hurt.

It's like he wants me to get angry. But when I'm mad I make less sense. Well, when I talk I make less sense. My mind is horrible at concentrating an argument and talking at the same time. So my arguments are riddled with holes and my insults become more and more crazy and less focused on anything. I wish he would just send me a text and I could text back and I could try to explain. I make so much more sense when I'm texting than when I'm talking. That's sad too.

One thing I'm really tired of is the threats. I HATE it when he mentions breaking up or hands me his engagement ring or leaves. It just hurts me, makes me paranoid that he was just waiting for a reason to leave me. I don't know why he does it. I've tried this trick two times, but I'm too self-loathing to be hateful. I wallow in grief and pretend to act happy, but he always sees through me. I am an open book.

Part of this problem I have is the Vex of our relationship. But I don't know if I'm ready to tell you guys that. Perhaps another scrap.

Still, I just want to stop fighting and hurting and being mad and screaming and cursing and insulting. I want this all to be over and we can smile and have a burrito or something. I want burritos and happiness. But apparently that's a lot to ask.

by **Risa Moontide** on September 27th, 2011, 2:16 am

I Use This Place Wrong
Another Depressing Scrapbook post by a maddening and unstable Risa

As the title suggests, I definitely use this place wrong.

The player scrapbooks forum is literally a place for writers to warm-up, brainstorm, keep little scraps of notes, or just post things to encourage themselves and each other. Each player can feel free to create their own thread - one per account - and use them accordingly.

That's what scrapbooks are supposed to be used for. I use it more like a blog. A point of contact for my ideas to jump ship and struggle to swim to the harbor of other minds. I wish I could use this correctly. Hell, I can. I just wish I could will myself to do it correctly rather than just keep posting here. Oh well.

First off, being a mod is Fun Times. It's a lot to take in at first, but I love grading threads so far and I wish I had more to do. I'm working on developing areas, which is... REALLY cool, but I wish I had more structured framework. Like tasks with which to complete and more organization to figure out what needs to be done. It's probably for the best that there isn't everything in little boxes. It makes me work for it, forces me to go beyond what I would otherwise do. So far I've been ignoring the fear of doing poorly. I've put those ideas out of my mind, stopped myself from stressing out by it. I should be able to keep this confidence level if all goes well. I don't even know if the fear exists yet, just that whenever I've had responsibility in the past its crept up. But if I can DM for years and years with that same gnawing fear I can certainly be a storyteller here. Look, I even sound confidant!

I hate having roommates. I truly hate being around other people all the time. I hate the little things that people fight about, I hate having to deal with their personalities all the time. Everything I say needs a cautious tongue, my very thoughts feel watched over. They're friggin' harpies. Basically I asked someone if they'd not yell at the TV for football. I found the request completely reasonable. I was in the room and every so often my thoughts would be jarred by a whooping or shouting or cursing at an event that doesn't matter. If it was a group of people I would have left, but it was just me and him. So I figured I'd ask.

But Nooo. The moron decides to take it personal. He gets mad at me for asking, telling me that it's more his house than mine. He's a teenager of the family I'm living with. I call them roommates, but that's inaccurate. They're helping me though hard times. Still, the kid didn't have the respect, and it irritated me. But I tried to be polite, I explained that it annoyed me. That because he continued after I asked him to stop he was being disrespectful. Finally I left, I fled to my room, defeated. But I was so mad at the kid, I called him a stupid child. Sure, that was wrong of me. I'm the adult, right? But I was mad and not in control.

His mother was not happy. She came in yelling and telling me to grow up and all sorts of other things. I tried to tell her my side of the story, but she clearly wasn't interested. She literally didn't care what had been said beyond the insult. So she ironically scolded me like a child myself and stormed off, leaving me here to write up this post. Ugh.

I'm upset and feel like crying. I was wrong. I admitted that to her. I let myself get steamrolled and let her treat me like a kid. I sat there and agreed with her and wouldn't look her in the yes and wished she would just go away. Gods, I'm stupid. I never fight for myself, I don't stand up for my side. I let people get mad at me and then I internalize it and use those same words to tear apart my self-esteem later. I wish I could've stopped her, or said a number of other things, or that she would have listened. I'm a child. And I'm chiding myself on both fronts.

Part of me thinks i did the right thing and was acting on self-preservation. I live here under their care and I will follow their rules. Arguing will just stir up more trouble, I did the right thing. Thinking that I never fight for my point and that I should've done more is so arrogant and stupid. I'm so weak. I wanna stop telling myself that every action is the wrong one. I have no right actions left.

Ok, technically that story was only slightly embellished. My BF was there with me, sitting on the couch next to me. We were talking to each other and he mentioned that the kid was annoying him. It was annoying me too, but less so. I could have probably ignored him if my BF didn't bring it up three times. I should have told him to say something, but he's shy around them. So I took it upon myself to become a martyr for my BF's emotions. And now he's mad at me because I was upset and snippy with him about the whole situation.

Arg, I hate being emotional. If it wasn't for anger I wouldn't insult anyone, I wouldn't get into any fights, I wouldn't have any problems. I could fix things with perfect logic and never worry about these iffy situations. People already think I'm a cold-hearted witch, might as well prove it, right?

;_; I hurt and I'm alone. Just for right now, but still.

by **Risa Moontide** on October 11th, 2011, 7:15 pm

First off, another disclaimer. This scrapbook is going to be whiny and sad and depressed and reveal more of my madness. You probably don't want to read it. But, since I want more feedback in my scrap, right after I post this I'm going to post something much more lighthearted. Perhaps involving kittens. Deal?

I don't know why I'm writing in this scrapbook. I always write TO someone, I write so other people will read it. It's selfish. I want pity or cheering up or advice on how to keep going. I have to dissuade myself from writing these most of the time, because I have so much more constructive uses for my time that being a needy nobody.

I hate my brain. As I was typing the above paragraph it said, 'You can't type that you don't know why you're writing and then type about why you're writing. That doesn't make sense.' It's going to give me advice like that throughout everything I write here, and I'll take most of it. It reminds me of Hot Fuzz sometimes. I just can't turn off. I love that movie.

HOT FUZZ! :

Walking in sandals suck. My legs hurt and there was this little rock I couldn't get out most of the trip. I should have never put on sandals in the first place. It's cold and wet outside, I was wearing a jacket and a long-sleeve shirt. Sandals were a ridiculous choice.

Have you ever felt like screaming and crying and hitting something all at the same time? That's how I feel. When my bf decides we're fighting about something he really digs the claws in. He knows all the right buttons to press to hurt me and he doesn't stop. Not until I give up and he wins. I'm submissive though, so I normally give up pretty quick. Another product of my father, who couldn't stand it when my siblings or I stood up to him. He found it disrespectful or something. Gah. My mom was always submissive too. I am a product of my past.

That makes him (my bf) sound so awful. He's not though, he's really usually a great person. He's just... strong-willed? He doesn't hurt me physically or insult me or anything. I just wish his arguments were more solid. When he fights he has the propensity to bring up a million points into it about a bunch of different actions and weave it together into a net of confusion and bad logic. My only defense is to try and point out the holes left behind, but then he thinks I'm attacking him or something. It's fighting a raging bull.

I'm to blame. For all the fighting we go through, every tense argument or bitter word, I can trace myself as the source. My obsessions. I'll get... wrapped up in things. Like Mizahar or a few other forums or some text-based RPG's or a video game for a little while. Mizahar has been the best thing I've ever found. But the obsession is still the same. I forget to eat, I don't do anything but sit in one place for hours and hours. It lasts for weeks.

I know it hurts him. He feels like I don't make him a priority, that he's second best to some game or system. And in a lot of ways he's right. I don't mean to. It's just... whatever I'm doing is satisfying. It makes me happy in ways that nothing else can. I feel productive and smart and able to do something. I make awesome friends like Miro and Lisa and everybody. I matter.

Possible Adult Information Within :

To paraphrase everything within the spoiler as well as introduce where I was going with it all: I'm not invested in my bf the way other couples can be. And I think he knows it. I feel awful about it. I really do care about him, but it's just... different.

I hate going outside. It's dirty and cold and tiring. You have to put on a face to a wall of strangers. Running errands seems laborious to near Herculean measures. Driving places is dangerous, walking places is uncomfortable and boring. So I'm much much happier to sit on my own in front of my computer or TV and let everyone else have the world.

My bf doesn't feel this way. To him, going to like the bank or grocery store with me is 'spending time together.' He can't stay cooped up in a house all the time. So I try to understand how he feels. I tell him to go out places, to go hang out with friends and to enjoy his days. He rarely does, because I think he's become more solitary over the years we've been together. But still, that's not the point to him. He wants me to go with him. I don't know why. Maybe he thinks because he wants to leave the house I must too? Maybe he misses me.

One more thing regarding my bf: He doesn't have any hobbies. It's something I never really understood. How can you like nothing? He'll watch a little TV, but as I said he gets tired being cooped up. He says he has no inspiration or creativity to draw or write or anything. He dabbles in reading, but when I started buying him books he told me he doesn't read much. It's like... He has nothing we can do together except errands and a little TV.

I read a blog recently regarding loners. It wasn't on Mizahar. Basically it was talking about someone's idea of a perfect weekend involving being alone. How being alone wasn't a bad thing and that it's good to spend time in your own company. But it warned that too much alone time could lead to an inflated ego and a trouble connecting with the masses. It said that you needed a healthy self-esteem to simply enjoy your own company.

I have to disagree with that. My self-esteem is awful.

I just spent my weekend (Sunday and Monday, because of weird days off) on Mizahar. I was relatively alone, and I was very happy enjoying the quiet time. I love spending a day online in front of this screen. It's so relaxing. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do, but in a good way. There's no stress to distract me. I can finally relax.

Geez, this is getting a long one. And I haven't even tied together all my points.

So what I'm getting at is I don't know how to be a better girlfriend. Things that make me miserable are things that make him happy. Things that make me happy he can only put up with for so long. We both have a bad habit of taking our stresses out on the other, though I'm worse at this than him. He feels like I don't appreciate him because I often end up not even thinking about him. He's really important to me, though, so why do I do this? What's wrong with me?

Lastly, if I've mentioned any and all of these concepts and ideas in previous scraps, I apologize for any repetition. Just thoughts to get out.

by **Risa Moontide** on October 11th, 2011, 7:22 pm

And, as promised, a cute picture of a kitteh for my scrapbook!

And look! It's even zombie-themed. Adorable.

by **Taln** on October 11th, 2011, 7:30 pm

*big hugs*
Your scraps are as honest and genuine as you. I don't have any magic words of wisdom for you, though I wish I did. It's great that you're sharing how you feel and letting it out. That at least helps a little. Oh! I just thought of something. What about you trying a couple things:
*Write in a private journal or diary about your 'more adult topics' and feelings exclusively. Really think about it and ask yourself questions that you'll work to answer.
*Try taking up a new interest -with- your bf so you two can make new memories together. Something that gets you both out of the house even if it's just once a week.

Don't apologize for repeating a theme in your scrap--it's YOUR scrap!! I whine every other page in my scrap about my sciatica or my aging self failing me-coz it's a scrapping prerogative.

*pushes shoulder* Now go out and either get something yummy like grapes to munch on or bake some fresh cookies so the whole house will smell great. Then put on some music, think, smile, and be yourself.

*goes off to find cute pic for her*

by **Taln** on October 11th, 2011, 7:35 pm

big big pic for you!

Secret :

by **Risa Moontide** on October 11th, 2011, 7:42 pm

Gah, Lisa, that picture is adorable. I want to pet that dog so much. I'm sure he'd be so fluffy.

You're right, I should bake some cookies. That would be both yummy and distracting. That's what I'll do.

Thanks for the kind words, as well. You rock so much Lisa. Not to mention Taln already has more posts and words written than Risa? You're unstoppable!

*big hugs back*

by **Gossamer** on October 11th, 2011, 8:24 pm

I really enjoy your scrapbook too Risa. You don't come across as being anything but human. Life gets better. Things get less confusing. Sometimes all it takes is accepting that you need to acknowledge things within your own life and if you don't like what your doing... do something else. And then keep trying new things until you find the perfect thing that fits your life and your situation. By thing I mean career, hobby, art, faith.. etc. All we have to do is enjoy the ride.