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Coming to terms with the fact that I have never been very important. Trying to be content with my long, shallow footprint. Was i there? Can you even tell? It's okay to go. It's no different than being physically ill. Some people aren't made to last, and that's just nature. That's the truth. For all my strong emotions, none of them were strong enough to tether me here. There can be beauty in giving up, too.

i wouldn't have to fear anything anymore. i wouldn't be afraid of being alone, afraid of existing, of being awkward or bored. i wouldn't have to struggle to get out of bed and talk to people and work and put food on the table.

"you'll do it with or without the medication," she said, "you've been doing it." but that is the problem, that i've been doing it and doing it and doing it. it's painful to think that life is so precious and that people are precious, i don't want to do it anymore. what is "it"? what is this? it's like one really long, weird dream. a punched a hole in it a long, long time ago.

I can't channel my big feelings into art or into something worth reading or hearing, i can't relay them in a way that can be felt. but i don't have to worry about that anymore.

there were some good things. i'm not going to stick around for all the other shit but at least i experienced some good things.

#i can't write the perfect love letter #or the perfect suicide note apparently #LMAO

I want to talk to you so bad and I hate that. I miss you so much. I really loved you so much. I dont understand why you did this to me. Every time it feels like I am healing, I get knee-capped. It's not my fault that I'm mentally ill. I know i wasn't ever in the wrong. But I'll still never belong anywhere... and I wanted to belong so badly. I wanted to be safe. You showed me that, and then you took it away. And I've never hated or loved anyone as much as I hate and love you.

i want to call someone but there's no one to call

I really am too much, girl get a fucking grip

the romance in kicking a chair

I feel like I learned awhile back that being suicidal will never get you want you want. You won't get warm embraces or the people you want to see so badly gathered around your hospital bed telling you that you're loved and wanted and they're not going to leave you, you're not going to be alone. I feel like you only get those things by not being broken.

So, be sure. Be quick. Be decisive. Don't make any missteps. Don't leave any margin for living. Get it done. If you know you want out of there, get out of there.

I should have learned something more optimistic, probably. When I stood in front of the judge at the Pavilion, I pretended like I'd gained perspective and yes sir, now that I've been inside these bland white walls isolated from the public, now that I've stripped in front of the nurses, had my shoelaces taken, watched reality TV on repeat and drawn in used crossword books from a bin of broken crayons, I can really see that life is worth living. You won't catch me back in here and you sure won't catch me dead!

But I really thought, next time, I need to follow through. I won't get "caught". I've always repeated this fucked up little mantra: "Resolve, gritted teeth, and a firm grip." That's all I need. It sounds even better now that I don't believe I'll go to hell. To create a vacuum with the end of my existence that will be flooded with peace. The molecules caving in where I was with some kind of relief. All my comings and goings wiped away, my feeble struggle pancaked under the decay and degeneration with the weight of 8, 9 concrete floors collapsing when I take it into my own hands, when I snuff out my misery, early, ahead of schedule. A weird beauty in it.

When I bought the boating rope from Walmart in 2018 I watched a tutorial on Youtube on how to tie a noose. When I read the comments under the video I felt a warm camaraderie. I felt understood. The lost and the broken washed up into this corner of the internet, who were here, who would come here, or who went before me on this worn, hallowed path. And there was meaning in your suffering, the omnipresent acknowledgment of your pain, the messages to past and future comforting the ones of us who had to travel so far to be here. And it was almost over. Truly, this too shall pass.

But it was Christmas. I had to think about my family. And dying is painful. And dying is hard. And I passed out drunk with it in my hand and woke up to the sound of police banging on my door. It probably wouldn't have worked, anyways. But if I ever get another chance, I'll do better. I'll be better. I'll do my research. And I won't even give my body time to fight me back, that silly, knee-jerk primitive instinct that shies from pain, that gasps for air, that clings to the scientific definition of life. I'll get out of here.

I have my son. I'm not an asshole. Even though the unbelievable continuation of time makes me feel like I'm being dragged over broken glass - I'm not a selfish dick. So I'll do the therapy and the medications and the nature walks and whatever the shit. I'll beg the universe to have pity on me and I'll tout myself as charity case to every person I can find with compassion, I'll jump from connection to connection like stepping stones just to stay above the water, I'll play the stupid little game. But I'm not having fun. I'll never like being here.

2018

I feel like a creature that rolls around in its own filth. Like a moth tapping a lamp shade. It isn't... my fault? But it won't get better. Somehow I've slipped through the cracks of natural selection, and I just have to... while out the rest of my days in abject stupidity. While the urge to slit my wrists lifts, I still have trouble finding anything interesting. I'm desperate to be happy again. For just a part of me to be happy. When I told my therapist I was happy, I admitted it was just the part of me with D__d. It didn't fix any of my mental problems, but it made it better by far... to bear it. I just want that part of me to be happy again. I drank a can of Joose even though I know it makes me really drunk, and nothing good ever comes of me being intoxicated. I'll probably do it again. It makes me feel interesting. I made D__d cup his hand and I poured some in it. Then I sucked it out. When he stepped out to smoke, I called C___y and cried. I was sitting on the bathroom floor when he came back in, but he didn't say anything about it. We watched the last episode of iZombie, New Girl, and Bridge to Terabithia. He took me to Pak-a-Sak and bought me a huge bottle of water. I forgot why we went. Then I said I wanted to run through the sprinklers, and he parked by John Stiff park. And I ran in bursts, squealing when the water hit me. D__d didn't join me. The water looked like magic against the baseball stadium lights. I told him so. I was soaking wet. And dimly in my alcohol addled brain, I know we kissed. I must have initiated it, but he kissed me back. So there's that.

#some of the best times in my life times

asmr sounds (2018)

it's been four days since anyone has looked at my blog. C___y didn't even read the whole thing. so i emptied it. it felt good when i wrote about my life and knew somebody was going to read it. but now i'm not getting the attention anymore. and i needed the attention. i needed the attention. i needed to feel good about myself. i needed the attention. swiping through heterosexual tinder, i'm not attracted to anyone i see. not even in a disinterested way. they all look weird and gross. i think that I'm in love with D__d. If, indeed, a creature such as I can still love. And it's really shitty. Just when you think you've ditched unrequited love forever. Because I can't let myself hope that he'll fall in love with me, or misread anything he does as indication that there is something more there. How did I let this happen? Sometimes I wonder if that's why I got over C___y so fast. So fast. But I think it would have been better to still be hung up on C___y than to suffer loving D__d. Maybe in another universe I could have been happy. Maybe in an alternate dimension it all worked out. It doesn't matter here. None of it is real, anyways. So grieving is pointless. Being... so extremely devastated... is pointless. I shouldn't let myself go there. Once you get over someone, you can't snap the feelings back into place, like switching a cartridge. When I hugged C___y, he felt warm and familiar in my arms. But there was something congenial about it.

numbing spray (2018)

"my head feels weird," i said, when I was laying in bed with D__d. he put both his hands on my head, vetting it. "Feels fine to me." "My brain is empty," I said. He said nothing after that, and kissed me. After awhile, he rolled me back on top of him again. I texted and told C__y that I liked D__d. "I assumed it would happen," he said. I read too much into his thirty minute silences. While I hung drapes, a voice in my head calmed me: don't panic. I will handle this. Do you think I'd let you live like this? Just pretend for a little while longer. I was going to buy a numbing cream for my arms, and sit in the bathtub and slit my wrists. But C__y said if someting happened between D__d and I, he doubted it'd screw up our friendship. I went drinking with M__y and L____y. Seeing L____y's unblended eyeshadow and cracked liquid lipstick made me feel at ease. It reminded me of L____. After a few drinks, we talked about my love life. I felt the relief of being able to release what I'd had pent up... now that there were willing ears. I probably shared too many details. "I'm glad we did this," said L____y, when we were leaving. "I like your pickle Rick shirt," I said, though it was not so much that I liked it than that I wanted to relate in some way. D__d and I hung out at my place again. When we went to buy beer at United, an older guy in line let us cut him and talked to us about alcohol. "- You and your girl -" he said to D__d, and I felt an odd sensation. "You don't have much either," the man said, glancing back at the guy behind him. "You can't let everyone cut you," said the guy. D__d and I watched American Vandal and I almost fell asleep in his lap.

pink lemonade (date unknown... 2018 prob?)

I saw D__d with short, freshly cut hair. I thought to myself, damn. I thought to myself, this is the person I want to marry. You can't say that about a person you've been hanging out with for three months. You can't say that about a person who broke your already broken heart and went back on the things they said to you. You can't say that about a person who (understandably) chose somebody else's happiness over yours. You just can't do that. You just can't be that stupid. But I am. These are the only feelings I have that are anything close to passionate. Fleeting, bright spots of happiness. I really regret that I couldn't hold on to that. When I think about it, I mourn. I really wanted to stay in that place. I wanted to keep feeling wanted. I wanted to keep feeling safe. I screw my face together and then I fly outside myself. I am twisted tight over this. It's as though any progress I've made has been wrung from me like so much tepid water. I usually don't think about it. Something (my medication, maybe?) keeps it melted and blurred together. I usually can't... even access it. Still, sometimes it slips through. Sometimes it comes into focus. Bright spots of misery. Am I going to have to accept being alone? Enough so that I stop desperately reaching out... for affirmation and attention. Enough to bunker down and weather through it. Usually it's easy to go backwards. Writing is hard. Writing opens up something that I've been pushing away... that I've been keeping sealed. I dont' know what it is or why or how I do it. I don't know anything. But the numbness peels away and I can feel the full force of my own hurt. I can't operate like this. But I can't keep being a robot, either. I can't do any of it.

may 2018 probably

Words are bouncing off the tin walls of my brain, throwing into relief the large emptiness therein. Like a gasping echo, they are sucked away as soon as they reverberate. I can't trust myself anymore. I can't trust what I feel. I know that this encompassing nothingness isn't real. It feels like I'm being wiped clean like a dry erase board, but that can't be... true. Stories and people fail to hold my attention. Everything in my life... anything I can possibly think of doing... sounds as palatable as concrete to me. But worse than that. More nothing than that. More _____ than that. It's frequently uncomfortable for me to breathe. My doctor ordered blood tests and a chest x-ray and wants me to see a cardiologist. Picking one out seems tedious and I don't want to do it. D__d and I still hang out, and we watch iZombie on netflix. At first, when I was still angry and upset, I thought it would be too painful to continue. But he lets me cuddle up to him and hold his hand, and he strokes my hair and rubs my legs, and it's almost as good and as comforting as before. I don't have the luxury to let go of anything that makes me remotely happy. If I do that, everything will really be nothing. If I did that, everything would really be nothing. It's weird to say that I feel nothing, and then feel sad about feeling nothing. Feel scared about feeling nothing. My insides are like a scraped bowl. I told D__d I wished I had a good excuse for being the way I was, and he said I did. He said taking a mind-altering drug (anti-depressants) and being depressed were good excuses.

emotional rollercoaster (late 2018 probably)

uh H___ messaged me on facebook messanger and told me that he had the "biggest crush" on me when he worked at bed bath and beyond and asked me out to dinner. He's going to be in amarillo some weekend.. and I said okay. It made me feel emotionally exhausted. I squealed silently at my phone but at the end of it I just felt tired. If i'm honest, I'd rather.................. ...................................................date D__d. Who isn't asking me out any time soon. Or,. ever. Or ever. speak "FUCK" good boy. let's dance and pretend that life is coming together like a handful of unlikely puzzle pieces there's a tree I see on the way to work during the dark morning hours. it has starry looking lights strung across it. i like to stare. D__d and I haven't had sex for a week. My alarms are going off... like that means he doesn't like me anymore or something. Or like he's disillusioned and wants to end our FWB thing. He still kisses me goodbye when I leave. He still embraces me for a long time and moves his fingers across my skin. Don't cry! Bitch sticks. What a conundrum. I knew it'd become more painful (or the same amount of painful, just no opportunity to fade or heal) and I still hung onto it... with desperate, grasping claws. I don't want to be miserable. Even if it means I'll be even more miserable eventually, I want to put it off... for as long as possible.

march 2018?

Feat. Me Jumping The Gun Probably "You should order the girliest drink," I told D__d, after he'd gotten some flack for drinking girly drinks. To my delight, he actually did it. "I'll have your girliest drink," he told the waitress, and she put her hands on her hips with a sort of amicable irritation. "You're just going to give me trouble, aren't you?" I'm not sure that's exactly what she said, but it was something to that effect. On the drive home, C___ said, "D__d was flirting with you." I guess, in a way one's friend flirts with one's friend's girlfriend without crossing any lines, because C___ seemed totally cool with it. D__d is a guy you can trust. A guy C___ trusts. I wrote that down as a happy moment. I was also happy when he proffered me a beer at Chan's, and held my drinks when I went to get food. It was funny. It was good. When C___ and D__d went to San Antonio, I tried not to imagine something horrible had happened to C___ when he didn't text me back. I asked D__d for his number. I figured I should have it by now, so I could check on C___. Then I drunk texted him a few days later. I spurned the ideas he came up for me to do to distract myself from being sad. "Do you want me to keep giving you suggestions? Cause i want to help but I don't know what you need." "No more suggestions for things to do," I wrote. "I just need a friend." "Alright I can do that." "Cool. We should hang out sometime." "Sure I'm down for that." So I invited him out, because I'm an adult. He brought M___ (a friend of his and C___'s) and we went to Mulligan's. He ordered Long Island Iced Teas. I don't know what M___ did. I'm pretty sure we talked about video games. I counted to twelve on the way to the bathroom. I was happy. I ended up getting really drunk. I put my head down on the patio table and saw the grating in excruciating detail.

#old writing

I’m stuck in the same old miserable rhetoric, choked by a forsaken, alternate macrocosm that’s seeping through everything like cold water under the carpet. My eyes rotate in my head, and words skip over and over in my brain in lieu of coherent thoughts.

I’m not sure if I should try to paint this particular darkness. Any light is greedily inhaled by a leaden futility.

Was it my upbringing? In school we listened to an audio drama about the several ways in which one could go to hell. We watched theater students perform a screaming monologue from the perspective of one condemned. We were solemn and subdued.

A boy who hated me shot himself in the head when he was fifteen years old. I never voiced my own questions. I didn’t want to be overheard by his family or his friends (who had also once been my friends). Would his hatred for me send him to hell? Did I, in a roundabout way, send him to hell?

I imagined that I reaped despair from my adolescent callousness. I called it my just desserts.

the meadow of tulips

When I'm unable to articulate myself, I think about slitting my wrists. The sertraline was supposed to stop this. The escitalopram. I've fallen through the cracks again. It feels like I've hesitated between two choices too long, and now I've ended up stuck in the middle. Or, more accurately, two choices have hesitated on me. And the hands are gone from the seat of the bicycle, and I thought I was going to make it, I honestly did. But the good things don't last. The good things get rubbed away, and it's like they were never there to begin with. If I sit down in the bathtub, who will I call? I don't want to call anyone anymore. Nobody has the answers. And it's not bad enough... it's not desperate enough. It's just an unfolded pile of nothing. I cried one night when D__d left. I sat on the toilet and I thought, this was supposed to be different. I wasn't supposed to feel like this. This was supposed to be different. When I think about killing myself, there is supposed to be something there to stop me. Something that I want to stick around for. Something that I don't want to miss. Why can't I think of anything? Why does nothing stick? It's all melted and congealed. I can't make out the shape of anything. The meaning of anything. It's sneaky. It's wrapped up in bubble wrap. But I can feel the weight... the want. Pressing down on me and shutting me up. Heavy and slow. Anticlimactic. I told C___ I wanted to buy a numbing spray for my arms. "Wtf. You'll still experience it," he texted me. The marks from my last shy incisions are still on my wrists. An actual joke.

#writing #depression #old

eventualities

I used to make fan forts when I was little and read books in them. I either want to kill myself in a fan fort, or read a book in one. I don't really know yet. I told C___ I probably had to calm down, get comfortable and put on some music before I'd really be able to slit my wrists. What do you write before you're going to kill yourself? Ideally, I think, nothing. By writing you just make ghosts. When I bought an exacto knife at the store, I picked up other groceries. I thought, if I'm buying food, do I really want to kill myself? But I'm planning for eventualities. I ruined a bag of frozen cauliflower. When C___ came over, he handed me a wet paper towel and I dimly saw myself try to mop up the half-dried blood all over my arm and leg. I told Denise I'd cut myself and she made me sign another contract with the number of a suicide hotline and the pavilion. D__id scrubbed the blood out of my shirt and helped me pick up band-aids and neosporin. The huge bandaid I've been wearing on my wrist gave me a band-aid shaped rash. I told people at work half truths - that I was drunk and didn't remember what I'd done. I kind of want to try again, but I want things to be just right. Is it silly that I want to die with clear skin, perfect nails, and a clean bathtub? I can't put into words... the mush. The lack of... the absence... when I reach out. The space. Not smooth, but a disturbing... craggy nonexistence. I can't explain the thing... capture it, or pin it down. I can't understand it or turn it around.

band tshirts

It's summer and I want to remember things. I miss sitting out on the porch of a friend's house, blowing out fruit flavored smoke with dogs licking my knees. I miss being in noisy bars with live music, feeling like I was accessing a part of life that...... ??? I miss walking in the park in the middle of the night and playing tennis in the damp, inhabited air under bright artificial lights. That's the stuff I wanted to write about. It had a fragrance... a taste... a feeling - - - - it's tomorrow I just spent an hour ripping up a bunch of old, shitty poetry and a bunch of those things girls do in middle school where they doodle your name in bubble letters and give it to you as a present. there's no reason for me to be an emotion (sad?) about not having any friends left from elementary school, middle school, high school, or college. the places where you meet the most people. no reason to be any emotion about that. how old am I? I'm fucking twenty-five. I'm over it! when I give anything some genuine thought, i realize how _____ I am. Just....... _____. How do you explain that? Like I'm a chunk missing out of space and time. An anomaly of nothingness. My only friends are my ex-boyfriend and his best friend. They are good friends to have, but it still makes me feel pathetic, in a sort of distant, impersonal way. This is the first time I've written anything all month. My brain doesn't put things together anymore. It doesn't narrate. I don't think there's anything in there anymore. And I'm usually not that upset about it. I usually just feel nothing about it. Nothing about nothing. And when I don't feel nothing, I feel irritated and uncomfortable. Like nothing is right. Like everything is off-center. Like existing is off-center. But it's not enough to make me want to kill myself. Nothing is not enough to make me want to kill myself anymore, so I feel suspended inside a gap in reality with no escape (good or bad). If this is because of my medication, does it pass? If this is because of my depression, does it pass? I've definitely been better, but if this is as good as it gets, I'd rather be bad again.

#writing #SHITTY writing #but not shitty enough

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