Hi, back on the site, no plans to die but surely getting familiar feelings again. The more control I try to have the more…I don’t want to talk, there’s a sense that I’m back at the beginning of the loop. I’m a fucking nobody, I need to recognize that, no work or talent can transcend me into someone I’m not. I’ve tried to drop my past my memories but time hasn’t done it’s work I can’t live in depersonlization derealization. I’d rather feel alive and pathetically myself than to walk the earth a shell. No amount of explanation or excuses can make sense out of this despair. No sense of security is real. No self love is real. I’ll never live in reality. and if healing undermines my creative career, and let me tell you it does, it does it does it does, then I’ll stay like this. I can’t fight it, I can’t help myself. I can’t pity myself. I can’t see myself. No amount of self analysis is enough, I cannot live, I simply cannot live. But I choose to. Life chooses me I don’t have a choice I have a responsibility that’s bigger than me. And why me why me why me, every time I’m close to the bottom line something keeps me around. And I hold on to it knowing it’s a lie whether that’s love or lie or art. The world pierces through me, right through me. Cornel West helped me a lot with loving more, and it’s a beautiful way to live, but…let’s not talk about it. This is my reality, where does the fucking PAIN come from? WHEN DID IT GO WRONG? I LOOK IN THE MIRROR AND I AM SO SHATTERED, by language, by social environments by self perception by symptoms by novels or a single connection with a brushstroke of color, I wish I had no eyes to see, no mouth to speak no brain to think no hands to create.
Much of mental health labels are social constructs. I am me and I’m myself and I’m myself and this is me. I can change but I need more time. I can do it on my own. This year’s winter I didn’t spiral down, though I question the inflated ego and restlessness and recklessness is “normal”. I need to sleep this off.
You know what did change? My body image and my relationship with food. I am fairly healthy and in shape and it’s all getting better. But I feel like a fruit waiting to be plucked by death, over-ripe, almost rotten. On every crosswalk every chance, there’s no chance. A life is an old glassware, the amount of care and privilege she must have gotten to come to this point- all it takes is to drop the glass. All it takes. The world is as gentle as a padded room and she still can’t help but dream to die. This is laughable, I won’t succumb to the negative cravings, I’ll only do good to others, I’ll cleanse myself I’ll make myself worthy of living. I need more control but I can’t have it. I need order I need to follow my own dogmas I need patience I need persistence. Every day there are moments I feel as if my eyes have gone completely white and I’ve never thought or done or wrote anything and all I know is to whisper to the wall of my mind help me. But no help will come, the only salvation is in your own action. Love unconditionally and expect the worst consistencies and every good part sparkles as a surprise. I really am trying, i refuse to be a victim, I refuse to be who I was, I don’t care how many regressions it’ll take. I don’t care. I will survive. The death I’ve designed is far, far away. It’s okay, just walk the path.
i hate my body. I woke up bleeding—and it all made sense. Menstruation, the mood swings. How do you expect me to take this seriously.
1 comment
I thought reading your title that you meant to lean into mania and I was going to scream “don’t do that!!” But now I think you mean something more along the lines of that what is portrayed to us as “happy” is nothing but an illusion, and it makes one manic to believe it. That I believe truly.
Love or lie or art? All of the above in my case. But I choose to focus on love. Whether it is art or not is something I leave to critics who analyze what I leave behind. Whether it is a lie I leave to people I try to guide. I try to love, and love honestly without any expectations. I’ll slip every now and then, but I think I get by okay. I like the bit about responsibility, that is what living is. Others hang their hopes on us, and we try to justify that trust.
I think you have good vision and values considering. Life is a work in progress, make peace with the imperfections
And after that illusion, the relative realism of depression is a welcome relief. All of us are something more than nothing, but not by much so identifying with nobodyness and nothingness is healthier than identifying with somethingness and somebodyness.