Dpdr - Blog Posts
Having a PMDD-esque period in sync with the depersonalisation and derealisation episode is really milking my bpd this week and it's only my first day.
More horrors to come tomorrow!
DPDR Adjacent!
[plain text: DPDR Adjacent! /end plain text.]
DPDR (depersonalization derealization disorder) adjacent flag! This is left vague so anyone who has, is questioning, or displays traits of the disorder may use it! This was made with people who have trouble pinpointing neurodivergencies and is NOT for transid supporters.
[ID: Two images;
The first image is a rectangular flag with ten equal horizontal stripes. In descending order, the stripes are off white, pale lime, mint green, blue green, blue grey, dark blue grey, dark plum purple, plum purple, dusty magenta, and dusty light pink. End first ID;
The second image is a flag much like the first, but a desaturated brown filter has been applied over it, fading the colors and very slightly shifting them brown. End second ID.]
[ID: A divider that consists of a thin white line with three stars on each side. End ID.]
Flag by me, using sampled colors. Tagging @radiomogai.
Another silly story for another day of being loosely tethered to this word
Ghost stares in the mirror and wonders if it should shave its hair down to the roots. Wonders if the sheen would shock the living or make it that much more invisible, stripped down to a bedsheet with hollow black circles to stare from. It puts down the razor.
Ghost watches with eyes at the back of its skull. It drifts into town, lingers on the bridge above the train station. Feels haunted by visions of laying on the tracks, staring up at the stars and the pale gulls circling above. Warm summer nights. Fog hangs heavy over the town; a train thunders through into the void.
A man in a striped scarf smiles a greeting through his thick beard. As he passes his hand catches a flaring corner of the bedsheet, rips it away. Ghost is left bare in the wake of his footsteps, watching the sheet descend like a parachute into the fog. Exposed now, wearing wounds like windows, Ghost continues into town. Smiles waveringly in greeting to each person it passes.
The room is vividly flat this morning - It has been for a month now. The colours jump, the shapes merge. Plastic-partner shifts beside me, her chest rising and falling with each breath. My hand moves against her cheek; the soft mask gives under my fingers, strands of hair curling around my thumb. She opens her eyes, eyelids fighting against the heaviness of sleep and the edges of her mouth curling up at the corners in a drowsy smile.
I think I’m a ghost, I say.
Her thoughts churn groggily behind her eyes.
Ghosted, what? Baby, don’t worry, she replies. Don’t worry.
Her words trail off at the end and she lifts her hand to hold mine, plastic-palm meeting translucent skin, clasped together. Warmth. Her eyes shutter close again, breath deepens.
I’m a ghost, and you’re not real.
Out of her gaze I dissipate into the room, unmoving with the walls and the sloping light; the potted fern withering in the corner.
It is some time later and a blank page is sitting expectantly in front of me, the blinking cursor counting down the seconds. Demands of the living bind me. Deadlines and self-care and chores, like unfinished business to tie the soul. Let me wander, let me haunt. Plastic-partner slides a cup of coffee to me with a sympathetic slant to her eyes.
Thought you might need this, she says. You can do it.
It’s too hot when I drink it, just seconds past scalding. It burns down my throat and the warmth spreads from my chest. My feet slip through the chair legs they were resting on, tilting me forwards, untethered. Looking down at the page, my hands move to write. They write:
To the living concerned: My acquaintances, my friends, my family. I am a ghost now. Please don’t expect too much of the remaining.