This Is (Not).

It’s not what I want.

This depression is numbness, total indifference. I can’t feel enough to even write a half-assed poem or work on a draft of a story. It takes me weeks to answer emails. Every decision feels like it was made in a fog of carelessness. I can’t wake up in the morning. I really can’t. I now require eleven hours of sleep. It never used to be like this. And when I do get up, my eyes are slowly closing in my 9:30am class, but I can’t even have caffeine to alleviate the struggle, so I just get up and go to the restroom and sit and go back and try to keep my head up. I’m late with all my schoolwork and so little effort goes into it.

I thought I was doing better for a while, but now I realize I was just becoming numb.

My answer to most things is something like, “I don’t care,” or “It doesn’t matter.”

I just need to keep pushing through

but that’s all I ever do anyway.

“Why do you need more queer friends?”

The fact that you have to ask why answers your own question, but allow me to explain…

I need more queer friends because I’m finding it increasingly difficult to relate to all the straight, cis-gender people in my life.

I need more queer friends because I want to discuss gender and sexuality in ways that my straight, cis friends don’t and cannot understand.

I need more queer friends because I was stunned into silence when my straight cis female friend said, “When I see a man in a dress, I refer to him as ‘she,'” because clothing clearly is always a perfect indicator of gender.

I need more queer friends because I just get so damn frustrated when I’m talking to my best male friend, who has no experience of being queer in any way, and questions my experience so thoroughly that I feel like I’m being interrogated.

I need more queer friends because questioning your gender and sexuality is something queer people can understand.

I need more queer friends because I want some sense of community and belonging.

I need more queer friends because I am queer.

Cognitive Distortion Number One,

constantly saying the phrase, “I can’t.”

I can’t get up on time.

I can’t do the reading for those classes.

I can’t lift weights today.

I can’t open my mail today.

I can’t write that paper.

I can’t pretend to be upbeat for this next customer.

I can’t make that phone call.

I can’t run those errands.

Attempt at reversal:

I will try to get up on time.

I will do some of the reading for classes.

I will work out when I have ample time.

I will open the important mail.

I will work on that paper one bit at a time.

I will just be myself, fuck it.

That phone call can wait.

Those errands will still be there tomorrow.

Four Months

Almost four months I’ve been gone from WordPress. I don’t know what happened. Well, that’s a lie. I became very depressed. I just didn’t have the motivation. My last post had to do with the election. I still stand by “Fuck Trump.”

Over the past four months my life has consisted of extreme lows of self-harm, depression, suicidal ideation, apathy, and stress, as well as a month-long hypomanic high that basically just had me sexually aroused to the point of being in pain. Unfortunately, the hypomania didn’t last. I rarely ever experience hypomania, so when I do, it’s a fun change from the rampant depression.

I got some gene testing done to give me more insight into my medications. Turns out everything I’ve ever been on (except Lithium, which can’t be tested) is ineffective for me. Except Latuda, which I found strange, considering it did nothing for me while I was on it, and Invega, an atypical antipsychotic which I’ve been on for a couple months now. It’s okay. The side effects are terrible. I’m already a binge eater but the Invega has increased my appetite and I’ve gained a little more weight, which is the exact opposite of what I need, and it also obliterated my sex drive. Which sucks because, hey, I enjoy(ed) masturbating, but now I have no desire to. I’ll go weeks without it now, and any depiction of sex or even affection on TV or whatever makes me feel sick.

But I feel a little bit better on the Invega. Stress on “a little bit.” I definitely don’t want to die, but I’m not where I need to be. I feel stressed and out of control, like I’m just going through the motions of life while not truly enjoying anything, and I have a severe issue with lack of motivation. I haven’t been doing homework and I haven’t really been going to class. A lot of this is situational. Which makes it more difficult.

For those of you who have stuck around–thanks, I appreciate it.

– Z

What The Fuck Happened Last Night?

I have been absent from this website for a while now due to my overwhelming depression and stress, apathy, and lack of time. But I am here today to say: what the fuck.

I stayed up until almost 2:30am watching CNN.

Honestly, until about 1am I had some hope that Hillary would win. But as I continued to watch the electoral college votes rise for Trump, finally hitting 244 right as I was going to bed, I thought, Maybe not.

But I still had hope.

I dreamed that Hillary had won, and when I woke up, I knew she hadn’t.

I have cried a total of five times today, and it’s only 2pm. I am scared. My friends are scared. My peers are scared. I feel empty and helpless and it seems like this should all be one long terrible nightmare.

I am scared for my rights and for the rights of other women. I am scared for the rights of other LGBTQ people. I am scared for the rights of POC, people of different religions, and other minorities. Basically I am scared for anyone who isn’t a straight, white male.

This election has made me lose faith in the people I am supposed to call my brethren. My fellow citizens. It’s made me lose faith in people’s intelligence. It’s made me fearful for my future and for my own safety.

I know not all hope is loss. But today is a dark day.

Tangled.

You asked for it, you fool. You asked, and you received, so it’s your own fault that you curl into yourself as you struggle to fall asleep, the glow of the TV pale blue.

“I want you inside me.” These words, not about you, not about you at all, tumble in your brain at any given moment–while you’re sitting in your car on a chilly evening, as the sun sets and makes the clouds golden, while you smoke your third cigarette, while you walk to class in amidst the pitter-patter of rain. These words, those words, you just can’t get out of your head. You see them in bright red letters, you feel them slap you across the face.

And when she asks you to hit her, you wonder if you do it because she asks or because there’s a part of you that actually wants to, that wants to make her sting, make her skin turn bright red, bright red like the muscle of your tangled heart.

You get drunk, more drunk than you need to be, and when the situation is brought up you do your best to smile behind your cigarette, take another sip of your gin and tonic, pretend like it doesn’t bother you, because at the end of the day, there’s nothing you can do.

But you sit there with your drink, and your cigarette, and your people, and those words get tangled on your tongue.

There Is No Right Answer.

I can’t help but stare at the girl, no, young woman, who sits across from me in LAB 207. Her hair is artificially white-blonde and always pulled back in a severe bun, her face is makeup-free except for some mascara. Her eyes are so green. Her face has a bone structure that I can only envy, with a painfully perfect nose, narrow and sharp, that sits above her lips. They’re not full and luscious but neither are they thin and lifeless. They’re stained red. Her cheekbones are ferocious, cutting the sides of her face. Her arms, mostly covered by the sleeves of her blazer, are covered in multicolor tattoos.

I can only hope that she knows how disgustingly beautiful she is.

I smoked too much today. The total comes to eight. I’ve had worse days. I’ve had better. But for today, it’s too much.

No matter where I turn, I am trapped in a corner. There are no trails free of giant roadblocks. There are no right decisions. I consider giving up, and by giving up, I mean…

What do I mean?

Every breath feels like a waste, and like a struggle. Every joint in my body aches with pain, throbs with discomfort. My knees buckle when I crouch, they crumble when I stand. The arches of my feet flatten on the ground and the sensation of two giant needles shooting up through my heels and my calves alarms me. My neck feels permanently bent in a twisted way, my back aches. I have no coordination and I bump into things, jabbing myself in the thigh, in the upper arm, in the side.

I can no longer sleep without the TV on.

I wonder what that young woman is doing right now. Has she unraveled her hair from its prison? Has she changed from her formal attire into sweatpants, wiped the mascara from her lashes, tossed her high heels into a cluttered closet?

Does anyone think about me?