Do you ever just lay there and listen to the way your house breathes? Do you ever just lay there and watch as the shadows on your wall slowly change and grow as the time passes and the suns position changes? I can feel my depression breathing deep in my gut, spreading its shadow into my heart. It ways heavily and I fear there is not much I can do to stop it anymore. Slowing it seems to be my only option, but its triumph is inevitable. I hate feeling this way. I wish there was an option to surgically remove this depression and anxiety. If only it was something as ‘simple’ as physical.
I’ve been in this new town for 2 and a half months now and my only friend is my roommate. This is a lonely life. How is everyone else’s life going?
A few years ago I discovered that I liked girls as much as I liked boys. It was kind of earth shattering at the time because I was part of a family that was completely against the “gay agenda” as they called it. I know it’s the same old song and dance. My family doesn’t understand me- blah blah blah. I was really worried about telling any of them. I figured I would tell them if I actually had a girlfriend or something. No big deal.
I did meet someone that very year. The first girl I was really interested in. She ended up making some stupid mistakes and ruined our growing relationship. Me, being stupid, was always there for her. When she dated other people, when she went through break-ups, everything.
And when she came crawling back to me, I made sure she knew I was still here, but I would never be hers again.
Thats a lot to give someone of yourself, right?
All that time and pain that went towards her.
I discovered she blocked me today. Changed her name and everything so I can’t find her. I miss her terribly and I can’t seem to figure out why.
It’s like a terrible ache in the pit of my stomach and I hate it because she doesn’t deserve the feeling she gives me. She doesn’t deserve my pain.
I painted this picture one day when existentialism was strong on my mind. I hadn’t painted it because I was feeling suicidal. I hadn’t painted it because I wanted some attention from my parents. I hadn’t painted it just because it looked cool. I painted it because it spoke to me. I hear a lot of negative opinions from all of my family about suicide. They say those people are cowards. They say those people don’t know how good life is. They say those people are selfish. They say those people are mental. Well I say different. I say suicide is damn ugly and suicide is damn beautiful.
Let me explain.
THE UGLY PART
You’re in pain.
You feel worthless.
You feel ugly.
You feel useless.
You feel like scum.
You feel you need to die.
There is so much ugly to the suicide.
But if you think about it, that ugly part isn’t suicide.
That ugly part is all the stuff that LED to suicide.
And for some ugly reason, it just so happens that you created the ugly yourself.
THE BEAUTIFUL PART
You get to be your own release.
You choose the place.
You choose the day.
You choose the time.
You choose the how.
You decide everything.
And when you’re at that end,
you soar away like a butterfly.
Your release yourself from your own hell.
I really really get the appeal. I really wanted it so many times. To just let it all go. But suicide turned out not to be my release. It isn’t for everyone, just like life sometimes isn’t for everyone. I found my release in living. I found it in just being me. But I really get how suicide give that same feeling for others.
I had hoped my painting would explain that to my family. Instead they grew overly concerned. I hope someday I can find the words, or the painting, that will finally show them what i mean.
I can’t really remember the last time I thought there was a God. I don’t think I was ever really into following God or the whole religious thing, either. The only thing I specifically remember that set my atheism in stone is existentialism. That shit changed me.
I’m wondering how many of you are atheist? I know there are some. Did you ever believe? If not, what changed your mind on the whole thing?
I would also like to note that I’m not your typical atheist. I would not be the person to push atheism in your face and tell you that you’re wrong for believe in God. I respect other peoples religion. I respect that people find that faith in a higher power. It’s kind of beautiful if you get what I mean. So maybe the rest of you that DO believe could also tell me what set your faith in stone for you?
On Sunday I moved into my first apartment so I can be closer to my college. The apartments are set up like dorms so I got a roommate and its actually working out great. We’re very alike. I’d say we’ll get along just fine. And then I can’t help but think there is something else that will have to go wrong in my life for this to work out because my life is never just fine all the time. I’m hoping it can be something small.
I made brownies for us yesterday. Nutella brownies to be exact. And when I was pulling them from the oven the back of my hand rested against the burning hot rack. It only hurt for a moment. Then it just stung a little the rest of the day. When I woke up the sting was gone and there was a nice brownish skin that had formed over the burn and I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. That burn was supposed to hurt and keep hurting. It was supposed to last. I, for a seemingly obvious reason, felt that I needed to feel that burn. So I ripped the skin off the top and let it burn. It burned like hell after that and it just felt right. I think I needed that burn because I wanted it to be that one small thing that would go wrong. But I have the feeling that theres still something else.
I’ve just discovered this one called Salt.
It seems he has a whole fan base.
So I went and read some of his posts.
I get it now
He’s definitely amazing
He’s really made me think.
So I indirectly thank you, Salt.
I hope, on some level, you understand how great you truly are.
Some people turn to physical self harm. Mostly this works for them. Mostly it works for me. I mean, it used to.
I’ve gotten better at this self torture thing. I don’t even need the physical aspect of it anymore. I don’t have to hide palpable injuries now.
Instead I have my mind. I can bring my mistakes and pains up to the surface faster than a blink of my eye. I know it all better than I know the palm of my hand.
Because really, I don’t even know the palm of my hand anymore.
I just want you all to know that you are damn beautiful
Maybe you don’t believe me
Maybe you don’t hear it as much as you should
But I promise…
You are beautiful
Yes, you are
I don’t really like sharing my ‘story’. It implies that this story is all I am, which in a way is completely true. We’re all just stories floating within the midst of each other’s stories. In school we had to take some quiz about ourselves so a college could rate highschoolers and how they felt or something. One of the questions we were asked was if we felt that our life was worthless. Talk about a loaded question, right? Maybe my life is worth something to me and my family, but to the rest of the world, I’m just one simple story. What impact have I made? I can tell you right now, it has not been an impact worthy of recognition. My life hasn’t even really started. “Is your life worthless?” So am I supposed to say ‘No, my life is worth everything.’ or would it be more correct to say ‘Yes, I’m just one small story in life’s gigantic book’.
So my story? Probably not very different from a lot of people’s stories, but I’m not one to measure my pains against anyone else’s because that isn’t very fair to my own feelings.
My parents had me when they were pretty young. My mom was just barely 18 when she popped me out. So needless to say, she never had a chance to be that stupid college student who got to go out and get drunk then deal with the crazy hangover in class the next morning. She definitely would have been that person if she’d had the chance. Instead she was thrown into parenthood. That isn’t to say that she didn’t have help. She had her parents, her brother and sister, my dad, everyone she could have needed. And of they all made their fair share of mistakes, but who doesn’t? Kids are tough. So my parents ended splitting and my mom got married to a man who already had two kids. Then out she sprouted another little tike when I was three. It wasn’t the worst scenario ever. I got to see my dad all the time, I got a step-dad who was cool in my little kid book, and I got siblings. You could say I was pretty damn naive, but what three year old isn’t?
Eventually, my mom got sick of this new life she had for us and she took me and my half brother in the middle of the night and she fled right back into my dad’s stupid, naive, open arms. Happy occasion of family reunion. I think I was 6 when that happened. The only thing I was worried about at that point was not getting to see my step dad, step brother and step sister. It wasn’t terribly long after that, that my step-sister died. I don’t really remember what was wrong with her, but she was almost like a vegetable. Wheelchair. Fed through a tube. Diapers all her life. Couldn’t speak. All I can remember is her head twisting in an odd way to smile at me. That’s the only thing I remember about my sister.
My parent’s ended up getting married in Vegas. Trashy way to get married if you ask me, which is kind of a huge glance into what their marriage was. Trash. They fought all the time. I can remember my dad waking me up at 3 in the morning to go look for her because they had a fight and she left. I remember how bad he felt. He didn’t want to leave me home alone, but he didn’t want to let her stay away. He was so determined to fight for her. She ended up leaving him anyways. She made me and my brother pack up our things and stay with her at my Aunt’s house. I think I cried myself to sleep every night for a very long time. One time when I got to come home to see my dad he was sitting on the couch with his legs pulled up against his chest. A picture of him and mom was sitting face down on the table in front of him. His eyes were red and puffy and his cheeks were damp with tears. That, for me, was the image of their divorce. That was the moment I started to really hate my mother. SHE ran to him. SHE ran from him. And my dad was just stationary the whole time.
My dad started dating a girl from work and soon after that he told me she was pregnant. I think I was more excited than he was. He was mostly worried that I would end up hating him. For me, it wasn’t a problem. I liked the girlfriend, and I LOVED babies.
In my life with my mom we had moved out of my aunts and into an apartment. It was an awful experience. I hated every moment. I hated my mom more than the apartment. I moped around all the time flinging my anger at everyone else. I pushed some of my closest friends away. I actually lost three of my closest friends. It wasn’t their fault.
Around this time, I started thinking I needed to have a boyfriend to be cool. My dad had dated this woman when I was little so I grew up with her son. So I thought he would be perfect. And we started talking more. I ended up telling him I liked him. I thought I had liked him. Mostly I was afraid of him. He hit me a lot when no one was looking and grabbed in places I wasn’t ready to be touched at. I was too young to understand that I had the power to make him stop. Mostly I was scared he would hurt me further. So I let him do what he wanted.
It didn’t take long for him to get bored of me. I think he wanted someone that would put up more of a fight. So he moved on to someone else. I’m not sure if he’s done anything to anyone else. All I know is that it made me feel like I wasn’t good enough for him when he moved on. I had felt like I failed him. It made me even more miserable.
My baby brother finally came around and I was feeling slightly better. I had new responsibilities. I needed to be a big sister to a baby now. So I stepped up. And I was damn good at soothing him. My dad’s girlfriend said I was like the baby whisperer. When he was only a few weeks old I had him out like a light in seconds even when he was being fussy. It felt good to be helpful.
By this time, I stopped holding so much of a grudge over my mother while bigger feuds broke between me and my father. We argued constantly and it began to make me feel small and insignificant. I hated the way he talked to me. So I finally gave in and told my mom I needed to see someone.
It was a very strange experience having to talk to a stranger about my life. My very personal life. But I knew from the beginning that if I wasn’t completely honest that would do nothing for me. So I made sure to tell her everything. I was very open with her. I was open to trying to make changes and talking to my parents. I had to tell my mom that I had blamed her for the divorce even after I knew it wasn’t really anyone’s fault. I had to talk to my dad about how hard it was to talk to him, which believe me- it was a very difficult conversation. The one thing I never talked to her about was that boy. I’m not sure that I ever will. I know it could help, but I’m still not ready. I don’t know when I’ll be ready. I still sometimes drive by his house even though he’s long since moved. I always slow down and imagine where he could be now. Even after everything, I still hope for the best for him. I don’t blame him for his problems.
I will admit that I did cut myself. I did think about suicide on many different occasions and in many different ways. I did hate myself.
I do have anxiety. I do sometimes still have stretches of depression. I do sometimes hate myself. But I went to therapy. I go to therapy. I’m a million times better than I was because I WANT to be better. The first step was admitting that I needed help. The second was taking action.
I will always need some help now and again, but I can honestly say that seeing a therapist helped me. It doesn’t work for everyone, but it’s worth a shot. So take a shot -take many shots- and find what helps you.
Just remember, life can’t always be perfect and happy, we make of it what we can.