INTRODUCTION

INTRODUCTION

Hello, internet. You can call me Carrion or Roadkill. If calling me either of those makes you uncomfortable, Oath is fine. I use he/they/it pronouns. I am 20 years old. I am a perisex trans man who was AFAB. I am pansexual and demiromantic. I am alterhuman.

I first made this blog for venting purposes, mostly, so I’m still going to talk about a lot of things that impact my life. Depression, anxiety, imposter syndrome, chronic pain, PTSD, SA, SH, abusive parents, gender dysphoria, species dysphoria, etc. And I’m going to swear. A lot. This blog is for talking without a filter. I might even mention my problems with being hypersexual. This isn’t an 18+ blog, but it isn’t not one, either.

I have been diagnosed with autism, social anxiety disorder, general anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, ADHD, and CPTSD. I am part of a median system (each part/alter will have their own intro below).

If you have a problem with any of this, please don’t harass me. Just block me and move on with your day.

I’m also going to post song lyrics that I like, reblog stuff I’m interested in, and maybe share some art that I make, now that I’ve decided to use this as my main blog.

This is a safe space for everyone. Systems of all origins, those with personality disorders, those who use pet or age regression (just be aware that I do swear quite a bit). This is also a safe place for paraphilias that are not harmful (so all except those that involve children, animals, and the dead). Any hate or harassment towards myself or anyone in my comment sections will not be tolerated and will result in you being blocked immediately.

DNI (fuck off, get help, etc.): racists, sexists, homophobes, transphobes, acephobes, anyone who hates intersex people for any reason, ableists, zionists and supporters, pedophiles and supporters, zoophiles and supporters, anti endo, TERFs, people (dumbasses) who think that those with NPD and/or ASPD and/or any other personality disorder are inherently abusive (this falls under ableism, but I had to say it again), etc.

Note: I don’t care if you’re a religious person. Just don’t try to convince me that being myself is inherently wrong. Same goes for political beliefs. I don’t care, just don’t harass me about it

PART/ALTER INTRODUCTIONS (We call ourselves the Fractured Mirror Collective, by the way. Unanimously agreed on it). Everyone in this system is an adult, but please don’t flirt with any of us, even jokingly (unless you know us irl)

Ilerei

Gender: female, uses she/her, but doesn’t mind being called they/them once in a while

Species: unsure, some kind of unique creature

Origin: host made an imaginary friend as a kid. That imaginary friend became real and basically the host’s sibling and voice of reason

General traits: caring, protective of the host, tries to keep everyone else in check

Moth

Gender: genderless, uses it/its

Species: winged demon-like being, possibly undead

Origin: unclear, literally just showed up out of nowhere, took control of the body and freaked out about the lack of wings and claws. That was 8/12/24, so Moth is very new here

General traits: angry most of the time, obsessed with wings and flying. Enjoys collecting feathers. Tends to say violent things

Haunt

Gender: unclear, but uses any pronouns

Species: Wenditcher (Hollywood’s bastardized version of the w*endigo)

Origin: not sure, possibly trauma-based

General traits: Quiet, mostly apathetic, hungry all the time. Enjoys collecting bones. Less angry than Moth, but talks a lot about how edible most living things are

That feeling when you forget everything you learned in martial arts and just fucking go at the punching bag until your hands nearly bleed. I think I also did something bad to my wrist because it hurts like hell. But the adrenaline rush of screaming song lyrics and swearing like there’s no tomorrow at the punching bag, saying all the things I won’t say to him. Worth the pain. So, so worth it.

Image of my hand below cut (not technically bleeding, but there is blood). I know I punch wrong, essentially swiping my fist across the bag, and that’s probably why I always get hurt (that or the fact I don’t wear gloves), but that’s okay. The pain doesn’t bother me

The one thing you can’t take from me is the fact that I don’t care about you anymore. I’ll dissociate my life away. I’m apathetic. I’ll say it over and over until it comes true.

I refuse to miss you. I refuse to feel bad about this. I refuse to want you back. I refuse to shed a single fucking tear for you. You make me want to die, but I won’t give you the satisfaction of making me spill a fucking drop of blood for you. I’ll live. Out of spite.

So what if I die alone? Everyone dies alone, if you really think about it. I’ve already accepted the fact that I’m inevitably going to die. I accepted that reality when I was just a kid. We all die alone. Maybe it’s better that way.

If you know the context behind this, fuck off. I’m done. Good luck finding someone who puts up with your bullshit. Treat me like shit when you’re off your meds, make me genuinely concerned for the safety of both of us. I can’t take this shit. Sure, I did everything wrong, too, but at least I don’t take it out on other people.

Stuff I wanna do before I die (I will update this)

- ride a motorcycle

- publish my novella

- have a good day

- know what it’s like to not be in pain

- transition

Torn between wanting to die and not giving a shit about anything. Like, there’s so much going on right now. Why don’t I care? Whatever, I guess.

For context, I’m not even sure if I’m with him anymore. Pretty sure he blocked my number after getting pissed off with me for… posting about being tired of being ignored. But he doesn’t know that this account exists, and I’m going to keep it that way. I blocked his number, too. Blocked his tumblr on my main.

I should care. I should be angry. Or sad. Or maybe I should feel relieved. But I don’t. Feel. Anything.

I know I’m falling into unhealthy habits again. Obsessively thinking about death. Wondering if anyone would actually miss me if I disappeared. I know I’d be missed by a few people. My mom, mostly. But she doesn’t really seem to notice me when I’m here or when I need help. My partner, but he’s been getting more and more distant lately. Feels like he’s trying to let me down slowly, if I’m being honest. And I get it. I’m not exactly a good person (I’m not even a person at all, actually). But the way he won’t even look me in the eye. His shortened responses when we text. I know I fell for him too fast and too hard. I always do. I know it’s probably my fault. It always is.

I just hate lying to him. Acting like I don’t know what’s going on. The other day, he asked me how work was (because I asked how his day was; he never texts first). I told him I was “a bit anxious, but I don’t know why. Probably burnout from work.” Bullshit. I had a fucking anxiety attack at work because I’m realizing just how little he cares about me. Just thinking about it now makes me nauseous.

My physical health is getting worse, too. I’ve always had chronic pain all over my body (not sure why; doctors are hard to find when you’re broke as fuck). Not to mention chronic fatigue (laziness, as far as everyone else is concerned).

And the world isn’t much better. Living in the U.S. is terrifying right now. Considering the number of people who want me dead or in prison for existing. The other day, I saw a post from a fellow trans person (who I will not mention the name of) saying that if trump wins, that person will off themselves. To be honest, that’s not a bad idea. If my right to exist is taken, I’ll die. It’s that simple. Live free or die, right?

I can feel myself slipping. Dissociating as a survival tactic. Becoming apathetic towards everything. It’s how I made it through the SA in my childhood. The blatant racism and sexism that my dad expressed. The neglect and abuse from both my parents and the medical industry. I’ve created a whole universe here in my mind. A world that isn’t safe or peaceful, but it’s mine to live in. A place where I can be me. I retreat there for most of my waking hours. I don’t know when I first created it, just that it’s pretty much always been there, and that it’s a part of me. The stories of each of my “characters” (pieces of myself) woven together into a chaotic, nightmarish, lawless world that only makes sense to my broken mind. But when I’m there, I’m safe. Nothing can hurt me there.

I’m not afraid to die. I’ve died before. Two past lives. That’s why my name is Roadkill, after all. My only fear is that I never get to live. That I’ll be forgotten. I don’t want to fade away. Is that too much to ask?