Temporary 

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I don’t even feel like a person anymore. At least , I don’t feel like me, although who else could I be? This is just another facet of who I am but it seems so foreign and feral and disconnected. I can’t even jerk off without disassociating. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, feeling inhuman.

Everything feels cinematic and unreal. I feel reckless, on the brink of frenzy. All my instincts are primal and I keep them in check because I’m not completely psychotic, but fuck, I just really want to beat the shit out of someone or get beaten by someone else, spit blood, break my knuckles, something. Snort a bunch of lines and never come down because the goal is to never come down. I’m functioning incredibly well on less than 6 hours of sleep a night for at least two months. 

And I fear that whenever I wake up, I won’t be like this anymore.

I would take the compulsive masturbating and rage and OCD and racing brain and agitation over deep depression any day. 
I remember not being able to get out of bed. I remember needing 12 hours of sleep just to barely function. I remember dozing off in every class, pushing my work until the last minute, being a zombie, the constant mental breakdowns and wishing I would die because I already felt like I was.

I would do anything to not be that way again. And every time I have a second to myself, I fear I will slip back into that place and I won’t be able to escape.

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Porno Flickers

Am I doing the right thing?

I mean, everything feels like a wrong turn.

My manic energy, however wavering, and lack of sleep has given way to a compulsive, stressed, panicked being who needs to cum six times a day just to distract themselves.

That is, until the questions pop up as pounds of flesh and blood swirl around on my computer screen, and suddenly I can no longer feel my own body.

It all just feels so…hopeless.

I know that’s a cliche.

It actually feels surreal–to know there is no right answer, no correct choice, no way out, no solution to anything.

When I was younger, I didn’t even think about the possibility of my whole life becoming, well, shit.

Every smile feels forced. Every laugh is followed by internalized anxiety and paranoia. Every conversation is emotionally draining, usually followed by irrational rage at people I love. I’m tired of the blank stares, the tired half-smiles that are a poor attempt to reassure me that I’m not going to sit on the train tracks and wait for my body to be run over and crushed into nothing.

My hatred for others has grown immensely and quickly. I lash out. I make jokes but they’re meant to burn. I dread seeing people I call friends.

And you know what? They don’t actually care. Nor should they have to.

They have their lives. And despite all their own problems and all their own complaining, I would take any single one of their lives over my own.

I feel like my best friend and I are drifting apart. And I’m self-aware enough to know this isn’t because of my current state–I’m always in a good mood when I see her, but that mood is dissuaded throughout our interaction because she just seems so…distant. So irritated by me.

I have my guesses as to why.

But I don’t want a repeat of last year, where she held everything in until she exploded via text message and I had to drive to her house and threaten to leave if she didn’t fucking talk to me about what was going on.

I know she doesn’t like to talk.

I just keep feeling like I’m letting her down and I don’t even know why. I feel insecure. I don’t really ask her to hang out anymore. I’ve almost stopped completely. I’ve learned not to text her because she never texts me back.

Every time I’m with her, it’s like we’re not actually together.

It makes me even more sad.

I just want to sleep for a while, stop jerking off so much, eat an actual meal, wear clothes that aren’t work clothes or gym clothes.

But tomorrow I’ll be back to staying up until 3am watching porn to, what? Distract myself?

I’m running out of distractions.

Withdrawing.

Another night of feeling invalidated, feeling alone. Sure, have another one of my cigarettes. Tell me all about your plans for the future. A friend of a friend comes to the table, reluctant to sit down (later I learn about his transphobic and homophobic nature, it’s no wonder he didn’t want to sit with us, we probably reek of queerness). My friend starts to introduce us to him and I interrupt by blurting, half-drunk, “He doesn’t care” and am I wrong?

My mood fluctuated from cackling in the passenger seat of my best friend’s car about how we didn’t even want to go to this stupid thing to sulking, slumped, drinking a two-dollar Shock Top and smoking a Seneca, texting my best friend, “Sorry, I’m depressed.”

And then the sex talk begins and I just want to smash that beer glass into my face.

I’m mad at everyone and I have no right to be. I’m just crashing back and forth and the rage from my disorder is erupting within me at random points. Something as small as a facial expression or the positioning of a limb or how this new guy sounds like every other boring fucking white kid on the planet is enough to trigger me.

Two beers down and I’m drunk, in part due to exhaustion, in part due to an empty stomach. We get up to leave. My friend (who we came to see at this shitty sports bar) asks, pleadingly, pathetically, “You can’t stay for five more minutes?” and I growl back, “No.”

Let’s fast forward to the next night. Riled up yet devoid of all energy–how it’s possible, I’m not sure. I binge eat and go from dancing on my patio to The Weeknd to sitting on my bed (with this terrible pain in my neck), totally exhausted but resisting sleep, listening to Radiohead. What a turn of events.

I have plans for tomorrow morning but I’m honestly not sure if I’ll be able to wake up in time. Waking up has been a struggle.

Also, those deep feelings of sexual repulsion have still been happening to me. I thought they would subside, but I guess not. But that’s just another thing for the people around me to not take seriously.

Should I stay for five more minutes?

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.

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

Not That.

I’m listening to “Love/Paranoia” by Tame Impala on repeat, drinking my second cup of, now cold, chamomile tea. My best friend sends me a picture of herself and I feel my eyes well up momentarily because her collarbones are visible and mine are not, her lips are full and mine are not, her skin is clear and mine are not, her eyes are pretty and mine are not, I am not any of that, I don’t have any of that. Another cigarette won’t make me feel any better but I want one anyway. My room is too hot. I don’t know how I’m going to fall asleep tonight–not without struggle, that’s for sure. Even the days that are okay aren’t really okay, you know? I’m so tired of being inside my own head, because it’s not a fun place to be. I need a new phone. I need a car that isn’t a piece of shit. I need new shoes but I can’t any in my size because I was “blessed” with abnormally large feet. It’s even hard for me to find men’s shoes. I just want a pair of oxfords, for fuck’s sake. Something is wrong with my right hip. I’m not that old yet. I would rate my depression at a 7 out of 10 right now, and my anxiety maybe a 5. A wavering 5. I want to win the lottery. I want to be discovered. Or shot dead. There’s so much of that happening, but not to me, because I’m not that lucky.

Email to Psychiatrist II

Long time, no speak. Or see.

I am emailing you tonight because…well, there’s not a simple reason, I suppose. To start, my new therapist is fine, I suppose. She obviously doesn’t really compare to my relationship with you since we have four years of that and you know me very well, and you know I like to put up fights and you tend to deal with my bullshit pretty well. I actually skipped my last appointment with her. Most of it had to do with scheduling, but I also just felt no desire to go. The other woman, the one who deals with my medications, I have only seen once and she has failed to fill out my prescriptions for Latuda and Klonopin so I have been kind of floundering. I called to see what was up the other day but the receptionist never got back to me like she said she would. But I see this woman on Wednesday, so let’s hope I get my meds.

I was actually doing okay for a couple weeks, and then Monday I woke up and immediately was hit over the head with all these stressors (mostly expenses I don’t have the money for), so that was a shitty start to my day. Tuesday was worse. I got stuck in traffic on my way home from work (which I am quitting, even though I have no backup plan. Whatever.), for 45 minutes, and I was already in a rough mood so I started to cry, and when I got home I cried a lot more.
The rest of the week I have been exceptionally anxious. I’m having those feelings of derealization and it’s so unpleasant, scary, and uncomfortable…I do not know what to do. I feel very alone in this, and I feel as though something is deeply wrong with me. I have been passively suicidal, because, well, I’d rather die than feel insane.
What a cheery email.
– Zara