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?

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I Chew All The Skin From My Hands

Whenever I think about money, I automatically become depressed, often even suicidal. I can’t pay for this phone, let alone the bill. Car repair payments.

It’s a piece of shit.

I can’t afford my school’s tuition, I can’t even afford to buy books for a class I need to take. It’s all just so stress-inducing.

I wrote a little today, which was good.

I have a lot of work to do in the next week and a half, but I’ll get it done. I’ll get it done.

“You always push through,” everyone says, and they’re right, although sometimes I wish they weren’t. I am strong, but I’m not as strong as I need to be.

Goals are merely floating specks of dust at this point. Goals are fucking vapor. Goals do not feed me anymore.

I had to leave class for a few minutes to let tears stream freely down my face as I sat on the toilet–how’s that for a good morning? My advisor is useless, my brain is an empty can of sardines.

My only wish for today is to sit in the sun and smoke cigarette after cigarette and talk to someone, about anything, about nothing.

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

Plebeian

It’s all confusing all of the sudden. I don’t know what I want. Or maybe I do, but I feel like an asshole for admitting it. I want a relationship without the work. Dating is tedious and expensive and, most often, a waste of time.

I don’t feel like I belong anywhere now. I have no structure within myself, no sense of security. A giant part of what I thought I knew about myself collapsed and I feel lost and bewildered, and grasping at the air for answers.

If I were a Deadly Sin, I’d be envy.

I envy those who are happy. Those who don’t have crippling mental disorders. Those who don’t need to take medication after medication. I envy heterosexuals. I envy homosexuals. I envy people who know their place. I envy people who have the confidence to flirt, to smile disingenuously at another person and get their shit for free just for passing as objectively attractive. I envy people who simply fuck, just fuck someone because it’s what they wanted. I envy people who get what they want.

Tomorrow I will wake up and be the same as I am now. I will not have a book, or even a novella, or even a single story or poem, in publication. I am not going abroad, ever, in my entire academic career. I don’t have money, but I do have a spending problem.

I’m going to wake up and make tea, eat a banana, fall asleep on the couch, and smoke cigarettes on the patio by myself, all the while wishing for something, anything. Water to close over my head forever. A mouthful of blood. A new self.

Something.

Kurjuus

Your room is beginning to feel like a prison.

Even outside doesn’t feel much better. The air is thick and oppressive and you feel like you can’t really go anywhere–not that a change of scenery would really make a huge difference. Your problems follow you everywhere you go because your problems are, quite simply, yourself.

You want to eviscerate yourself and inspect every organ, every muscle, every piece of tissue that spills out of your belly. Your throat burns. You light another cigarette and feel like you might fall over for a split second. The phone rings but it’s not a number you know.

Hearing about everyone else’s lives is exhausting. You have nothing to say. Yet being alone wears on you–you want someone else to talk to. The silent conversations that take place in your head make you feel insane. But again, everyone else is exhausting. The way they smoke their cigarettes annoys you. The way they purse their lips when they want to say something cruel but don’t. The way they sigh. The way they look at you in anticipation of some sort of emotion, some sort of visceral reaction, only to be dumbfounded when they receive nothing.

Your self-deprecating remarks have worn down on those you call your friends, and you can feel them distancing themselves from you. But you are not happy, not even close, and you don’t know what else to say.

You may be completely lucid, completely self-aware, but that is not always a good thing.

You want to be able to breathe without feeling like you’re suffocating.

You want everything to stop hurting your heart so much. That’s all you really want.

 

I’ve Had Worse.

I can’t explain anything anymore. My words are incongruent and incohesive, my mind is an anxious, dying cluster-fuck of depressive, intrusive thoughts.

I wake up at noon. I pull on a pair of pants that, mind you, are not clean. I sign the back of a check. It’s raining outside and I worry that my car will do that stupid thing when it rains, where it stalls and acts like it’s going to break down but somehow it doesn’t. I drive to the bank. The man in line behind me surprises me with his presence. I’m glad he can only see the back of me. I hate the bank. I’m not enough of an adult to be at a bank. I deposit the check.

It’s raining even harder when I walk out. I drive down Panorama Trail and have to stop and wait for a mail truck, while part of me wishes someone would slam into me at 60mph and destroy me, but that won’t happen. I spend $16 on hair dye because my priorities are screwed.

At home, I try to smoke a cigarette in the garage, but it’s so stuffy and dank in there that after three drags I give up. I go inside, fall asleep on the couch for an hour. Wake up to people talking, so I go upstairs. All I want to do is sleep. That’s all I feel capable of at this point. Somehow, I don’t. I fuck around on the internet all day. I masturbate without an ounce of satisfaction. It’s a miracle I don’t cry after coming, honestly.

I smoke more cigarettes. I feel anxious. My face feels greasy. I listen to Radiohead. I wish to feel something other than misery. I wish for someone to genuinely give a fuck, but I also am happy, in a sense, I’m alone, because I don’t want to bring anyone else down. I eat and feel disgusting about it. I consider going for a walk, but I don’t like the dark.

I maintain an internet presence to cover up the fact that I’m suicidal.

All of my desires are impure and vile. They’re full of self-hate and sabotage. All of my wishes are only wishes to destroy myself, to just waste myself for once and for all. My thoughts are barely strung together. I want to cry but I can’t, which is worse than actually crying. I feel overwhelmed by the empty space around me, and by the concept of time. I want to see my organs spilling out of my abdomen. I want my brain to be taken out of my skull and probed. Just tell me what’s so wrong with me. I’m doing something wrong, clearly. I’m all wrong. I’m all wrong.

The Internal Argument – Intimacy

I’ve been dating my partner, boyfriend, whatever you want to call him for two months. The first time we were physically intimate, beyond a mere kiss or subtle touch, occurred when I grabbed him against me and made out with him. The second time happened when I straddled him on the couch and we made out, again, for a long time, and I completely explored his body and eventually gave him oral sex.

My boyfriend is actually less sexually experienced than I am, but he’s more open to engaging in physical acts than I am. When we were fooling around, I refused to remove any article of clothing.

I know everyone deals with body confidence issues, but it angers and upsets me how deep mine go.

Yesterday we were sitting on his bed and he touched my shoulder and I recoiled in quite a volatile manner. I apologized, and we discussed it briefly. I was feeling depressed and although one part of my brain wanted to accept the touch, deeply desiring and enjoying it, the other, more dominant part of my brain, told my body to retreat, that I didn’t deserve to be touched, and to avoid it.

This toxic, argumentative part of my brain is always the part that wins, and I don’t know why.

Again, everyone deals with body confidence issues. We’re not thin enough, not toned enough, not muscular enough. We have cellulite and scars. Our stomachs aren’t flat. We have hair in places we don’t want hair. Whatever it is, it’s an issue. I guess my issue is, there’s not one part about my body that I like. Even when I was in shape and 75 pounds lighter than I am now and could actually be deemed “attractive” by the average person, I hated my body. But gaining the weight back has made my self-hatred even more severe.

The idea of not being in control scares me. If I let my partner dominate the situation, I lose control, and I won’t be able to enjoy myself amidst all of my worrying and self-hatred.

And don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate myself. I’ve come a long way, and generally, I quite like myself. But I only like the inside of myself. In fact, I love who I am as a person. However, that love and respect does not translate to my physical form, and for whatever reason, my disdain for my body trumps all self-love I do actually have.

I feel guilty because I don’t want my partner to think it’s him. I feel guilty because I can’t change how I feel about my body. I feel guilty because I can’t give my partner something he wants, and deserves.

I’m not sure how others, as uncomfortable as they are with their bodies, can take off their clothing and be okay with it.

-Zara