jamie xx sex dream: filed underĀ āfun song nameā, āgreat band nameā,Ā āeven better album nameā, andĀ ādonāt want to talk about it but canāt stop thinking about it at the same time?ā
This year, I have been trying -- forcing myself -- to learn how to deal with my bouts of depressive anxiety. I donāt say that to elicit sympathy or pity or anything. I say that because itās something I need to say, for myself.Ā
I wasnāt even aware I had anxiety until it literally took a physical toll on me a few months ago and I decided to seek out help for it. I went to therapy for the first time. I was very scared. I was embarrassed. I felt weak. My entire life, my family had never placed stock in the idea of mental illnesses like depression or anxiety. If I had a problem? āGet over it,ā they would tell me. I was always too sensitive. I always needed to get over it. To this day, I donāt know how right or wrong this mantra was -- the line blurs in places -- but I do know that I fully believed it. I do know that I believed that whenever I felt bad, it was my fault for not being strong enough to get over it, and I learned to hate myself for that.
Growing up, I believed that depression was an exaggeration. Anxiety was an excuse. Therapy was unnecessary, a luxury, a waste of everyoneās time and money. For twenty years, when I was scared, when I cried without knowing why, when something drove me to the point of feeling isolated and suffocated and paralyzed, I would try to forget about it. Today, I recognize this as repressing the hell out of that shit. But for the longest time, it had never been that nuanced or complex to me. It was a black or white, yes or no thing. If I had a problem I would, as my mother would say -- this didnāt even merit a response from my father; it was that abstract a concept to him -- āGet over it.ā Mental health was a conversation I never had. It was a conversation I was thoroughly convinced I was not a part of. Quite frankly, it was a conversation that I believed was not even worth having.
But then I had my first panic attack. When I was sprawled on the floor of my dimly lit dorm room, my chest throbbing from the thunk-thunk-thunking of my heart against my ribcage; my lungs hyperventilating air up and out to keep my throat from sealing itself up entirely; my head spinning and my body shaking, trembling, confused about whether it should be fighting or flighting; my mind not being able to process anything other than sheer terror and the warm, salty tears that just wouldnāt stop coming -- it was then that I admitted to myself that I needed help. I needed to do something, because something was obviously wrong. Something was wrong, and for the first time in my life, I couldnāt just get over it.
When my therapist, Kary (shout out to Kary; seriously, Kary, I donāt know what I would do without you), sat me down and told me in no uncertain terms that I was stuck in a alternating cycle of anxiety, depression and self-hate that feeds and grows off of itself (and that ultimately culminated in those very real, very physical and very terrifying panic attacks), everything suddenly made sense. Since I can remember, Iād always found things to dislike about myself -- my body, my voice, my language, my name, my humor, my interests, my brain, my reputation -- that I justified as constructive criticism. Iād always been prone to the occasional bout of paralyzing sadness that I easily dismissed as mopey. Iād always been a paranoid kid, worry, worry, worrying about everything but what was going on inside of my head. Iād just thought it was normal. Iād just get over it.Ā
Kary, looking at me with equal parts empathy and resolve, told me that twenty years of āgetting over itā drove my body to have tell me what my mind had always refused to admit: I need to get this gunk out. And if I was ever going to get better, I needed to allowed to feel what I was feeling. She was absolutely right. All of this emotional residue needs to get cleaned out of my head, and I canāt get that done by ignoring the fact that it exists or by hating myself whenever I get close to it. I need to address it. I need to let myself be vulnerable. Yes, itās messy. Yes, it stinks. Yes, different issues need to be disposed of differently and yes, that is going to take forever. But this year -- slowly -- Iāve been tackling these things little by little, one by one.Ā
I have never been particularly proud or happy with myself. I know now that itās because I have always run away from things that hurt me, from unpleasant or negative thoughts, because I never believed that addressing them was particularly important. But theyāve always been there -- every insecurity, every fear, every doubt Iāve ever had, just festering and mutating and growing upon itself until I broke from the weight of so much warped negativity.Ā
In 2015, I began to take steps to stop the cycle. I began to build the sound self-confidence Iāve never had. Iāve finally started to understand what it feels like to accept myself -- itās fleeting, but itās there, and I have no words for how affirming an experience that has been. I could not have asked for anything more out of the last year. I have never been so optimistic for the next 365 days to come.
So Iāve moved on. Life happened and time passed and hundreds of thousands of miles got in the way of seeing each other and, simple as that, I moved on. So did he.Ā
But I still cried yesterday when I found out he found someone else. It is illogical, as I have also found someone else. But I cried so hard. And I cried again today when I found out that the someone else is a person I consider to be one of my closest friends. It could have been anyone, and it had to be her. Itās something I canāt even picture at this point because of how shocked I am.
She told me out of guilt. She told me so that I could make her feel better, to clear her conscience. But all I feel is anger, and sadness, and regret, and I havenāt had room for her feelings yet. She looked trapped as she waited for my strangled voice to give her my blessing:Ā āIām glad youāre happy.ā Neither of us believed it, but I couldnāt look her in the eye to tell her the truth:Ā āIām hurt, and how could you be so callous?ā I left our lunch quickly, too quickly to make future plans. I donāt know when I will see her again.
Iām so tired from these past 72 hours. Iām so tired from crying.
jesus i canāt even begin to imagine how many babies have been made to marvin gayeās discography. shiiiiit, even to just āletās get it onā alone--the numbers must be insaaaaane
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