Sometimes, it's hard to remember that you can't save everyone. There's nothing heroic about yourself when you don't give up on an individual, rather it just means you have great endurance and patience. It's really the strength of the individual that's heroic when they finally pull themselves out of the shit they've buried themselves in.
I think the most heroic thing I've done is try to pull myself out of the crap I was born into. As I look back over my shoulder, I see where I have come from, and what I'm leaving behind.
I can't take anyone from there with me.
When I was a child, I thought the strongest woman in the entire world was my stepmom. She was all about independence, never accepting help from anyone and just getting by on your wit and cunning. She was more a mother to me than my own mother was. I loved her with all my heart.
After she left, she broke all ties with me and I'd only speak to her maybe a few times a year. She asked me to call her a few days ago, so I did.
Her position now is farther from anything I would have imagined as a child. She lives in the south with an older man she is only with because she's sick of being alone. He is madly in love with her. She doesn't care for him, save for the companionship and the dogs they had rescued together. I can't imagine what it must be like to lay back for a person who doesn't even arouse you.
She's miserable, really. A drunk. I tell her how I'm doing, my philosophies. This time, she is the one in awe and I feel as though I am the adult trying to lead her by the hand. But... to where? There is no place she wants to be. No adventure she had ever been on where she didn't try to simply end it. See, the child in me wants back whatever disappeared inside of her, but the adult knows that nothing has disappeared, I'm just old enough to see the whole picture.
She's more paranoid than I am. She lives her life under the umbrella of being safe and surviving. That is not how I want to live.
Sometimes, I wish I could just snag her bottles away and tell her to get a haircut because she looks like a mess. But she's more stubborn than I am. The only woman I've ever met who is self destructively more stubborn than I am. She will win battles just to win them, even if it means she loses the war.
But you can't save everyone.
My father has an eating disorder. His goal weight will put him 2 lbs under what would be classified as anorexia. He's only a few pounds away.
My mother relies too much on people and tries to manipulate them for her own purposes because she is sickeningly selfish.
None of my parents fight for themselves.
And then, there's me.
You can't save everyone. I tell that to all my friends who've cried over people they felt obligated to help, but I'm a bit hypocritical sometimes. I used to fold myself into a step-stool if only it would elevate others. I know I could probably do it all over again.
But I know this time, I need to save my energy for myself.
My stepmother told me over the phone as she was drunk that every season comes to an end, and that people stay for only a season. She told me she relieved her childhood through me and that she loved me. She asked if she could tell people about me.
There is a light snow on the ground. But even that will melt and soon, the spring will arrive.
When I hung up the phone, I hadn't even cried. Wasn't even shocked by the fact that I had no mother.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Crazy Motherfucker.
I woke up this morning around 7 like always. It's like when my body just decides to wake up, no matter how late I go to bed. My 7 o'clock used to be 4 o'clock (no joke or pun intended) so I suppose this is an improvement.
As usual, I laid in bed and day dreamed. My girlfriend is usually on my mind, so I can just relax and think of her and how close to Canada I am. And then I dozed and that's when shit went down.
I was half awake, half asleep. I saw her next to me and at first I didn't complain because this is a dream and there's nothing wrong with being sexed in your dreams. But my mattress started moving. And I felt warmth and her actual weight against my leg and all of a sudden I was coming. I always wake up when I orgasm, always.
But I couldn't wake up this time, though the orgasm was so intense that I thought I would wake up my entire dorm with screams, and soon it was round two and my mind gets fuzzy around then but my entire experience was as though I was a part of a surrealist's painting. And then, it stopped.
I laid on my back. The sun was streaming through the windows and the dust falling from the ceiling was sparkling like rainbows. She asked me what I was looking at, I replied with the question "Did you ever notice how dust glows every which colour when in the sunlight?" And all of a sudden, bubbles began to fall. I would like to point out that at this time, I was completely awake. Lazy, laying in bed, but completely awake. I could feel everything, there was no waking up.
The bubbles fell and I felt as though someone was... asking me if I was happy with the bubbles. There were no words, only.... an intuition of my own. I whispered that they were beautiful and I blew at them, watching a few pop at the force of my breath and smiled happily when more fell.
I wondered if there were faeries nearby and looking up to the ceiling to see a large blue and white swirl lollipop stuck to it without a stick. I thought "I must be dreaming" and realizing this, I pieced together that in this dream, my girlfriend was not my girlfriend but someone from my dreamworld-mind disguised as her. Dreams, could never be reality and I knew that, so I decided to wake up.
I focused on the ceiling and slowly, it started to fade into my dim room, hardly lit because of the curtains drawn against the cloudy sky outside, but then it faded back.
My room was dark. There were no bubbles. No dust. Hardly any light.
I focused on the lollipop stuck above my roomie's bed and tried to figure how I would wake up. It took more effort than it should have, but I rolled over, onto my stomach trying to wiggle my fingers and toes. When all of a sudden, I saw, felt and heard the covers below me move, as though someone was pushing me from the bed. I couldn't move to hold onto anything. I begged whatever was doing this to stop, and it did. I heard a scurrying, like a scamper of a medium sized creature, and soon it started doing that to my roomie's bed.
I watched in horror, moving my fingers and toes as fast as I could, trying to get away from whatever creature was at the foot of our beds, pulling off the bed sheets. I wanted to wake up. I NEEDED to wake up.
There were drawings on my roomie's bed. They spoke to one another. They were loud, so loud, it hurt. The inside of my head hurt. They were all I could hear and soon they were arguing and they were screaming at one another and I was inwardly screaming back at them to shut up, but they only got louder and I swear, if I had eardrums inside my mind, they would have popped right then.
I never woke up.
As soon as I could somehow lift my heavy figure from the bed, I did, and threw myself at the curtains and lifted them so that some light poured in. Then, I grabbed my computer so I wouldn't lay down again and looked at my roomie's bed.
Stripes.
Just plain sheets. Plain striped sheets. I'm... afraid to leave my bed. To find something.
I don't even have the excuse of "I was heavily medicated" to explain why I experienced these things. I just keep surprising myself.
I don't know what's happening to me.
As usual, I laid in bed and day dreamed. My girlfriend is usually on my mind, so I can just relax and think of her and how close to Canada I am. And then I dozed and that's when shit went down.
I was half awake, half asleep. I saw her next to me and at first I didn't complain because this is a dream and there's nothing wrong with being sexed in your dreams. But my mattress started moving. And I felt warmth and her actual weight against my leg and all of a sudden I was coming. I always wake up when I orgasm, always.
But I couldn't wake up this time, though the orgasm was so intense that I thought I would wake up my entire dorm with screams, and soon it was round two and my mind gets fuzzy around then but my entire experience was as though I was a part of a surrealist's painting. And then, it stopped.
I laid on my back. The sun was streaming through the windows and the dust falling from the ceiling was sparkling like rainbows. She asked me what I was looking at, I replied with the question "Did you ever notice how dust glows every which colour when in the sunlight?" And all of a sudden, bubbles began to fall. I would like to point out that at this time, I was completely awake. Lazy, laying in bed, but completely awake. I could feel everything, there was no waking up.
The bubbles fell and I felt as though someone was... asking me if I was happy with the bubbles. There were no words, only.... an intuition of my own. I whispered that they were beautiful and I blew at them, watching a few pop at the force of my breath and smiled happily when more fell.
I wondered if there were faeries nearby and looking up to the ceiling to see a large blue and white swirl lollipop stuck to it without a stick. I thought "I must be dreaming" and realizing this, I pieced together that in this dream, my girlfriend was not my girlfriend but someone from my dreamworld-mind disguised as her. Dreams, could never be reality and I knew that, so I decided to wake up.
I focused on the ceiling and slowly, it started to fade into my dim room, hardly lit because of the curtains drawn against the cloudy sky outside, but then it faded back.
My room was dark. There were no bubbles. No dust. Hardly any light.
I focused on the lollipop stuck above my roomie's bed and tried to figure how I would wake up. It took more effort than it should have, but I rolled over, onto my stomach trying to wiggle my fingers and toes. When all of a sudden, I saw, felt and heard the covers below me move, as though someone was pushing me from the bed. I couldn't move to hold onto anything. I begged whatever was doing this to stop, and it did. I heard a scurrying, like a scamper of a medium sized creature, and soon it started doing that to my roomie's bed.
I watched in horror, moving my fingers and toes as fast as I could, trying to get away from whatever creature was at the foot of our beds, pulling off the bed sheets. I wanted to wake up. I NEEDED to wake up.
There were drawings on my roomie's bed. They spoke to one another. They were loud, so loud, it hurt. The inside of my head hurt. They were all I could hear and soon they were arguing and they were screaming at one another and I was inwardly screaming back at them to shut up, but they only got louder and I swear, if I had eardrums inside my mind, they would have popped right then.
I never woke up.
As soon as I could somehow lift my heavy figure from the bed, I did, and threw myself at the curtains and lifted them so that some light poured in. Then, I grabbed my computer so I wouldn't lay down again and looked at my roomie's bed.
Stripes.
Just plain sheets. Plain striped sheets. I'm... afraid to leave my bed. To find something.
I don't even have the excuse of "I was heavily medicated" to explain why I experienced these things. I just keep surprising myself.
I don't know what's happening to me.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Food.
I'm beginning to feel helpless these days. I've stopped cutting, but in turn another form of self injury has taken hold of me and in some ways, I feel as though this is worse. Cutting can't kill you. Not if you know what you're doing.
My goal has been... to gain weight back. Secretly, I was prideful, felt victorious over my ribs showing through my skin, each meal skipped and each time my stomach grumbled, it was proof that we were being victorious. But I don't want to have to look like those girls, sickeningly thin who's stomach's concave rather that stay flat. Flat, that's all I want. Flat.
The girls I'm attracted to generally have a bit of extra on them. Not obese, but very Renaissance and Roman. I was so happy with my body weight before I realized I had an eating disorder. I was so thin. When I sat, there were no folds in my stomach, I was model perfection. If I wanted to get a part time job as a retro pin-up model down the street, I could have.
But I know it's wrong.
My father always told me that it wouldn't hurt to lose some weight. That I wasn't thin. That I had pudge. Everyone else tells me I'm so skinny and praises me, as if being underweight is something I should feel proud of. Then the mind kicks in and calculates all the information to equal "Stay Thin at All Costs."
My weight has been returning. I'm not 105 pounds anymore, rather, I think I may be more than 110. Whenever I look in the mirror, what should feel like victory only looks to me like failure. My roomie is thinner than me again and whenever I see her walk across the room, the envy that pulses through my mouth only generates shame.
I want this to stop. Just like how the hunger takes away my urge to start cutting again I fear what will take away my urge to starve and how much worse it is going to be. Tara Hardy once said "Do you know how many compliments I've gotten on my collarbones since I started dying?" And it's true.
When you stop cutting, the urge is still there like a thirst that will not be quenched, but at least you can look at your arms and see Victory. But when I look in the mirror and I see that my "Victory" means becoming what I now interpret as "Fat" my only urge is to lock myself in my room and come out maybe once a day for apple sauce and salad. I don't even like fries anymore.
But I force myself. Mind over matter, if I give up I will lose the things that are most important to me. I'm afraid of eating too much and weighing more than I ever have.
My father is 5'9" and he weighs 130 pounds. He tells me he wants to lose just another 5 or 10 and then he'll be content. Last year, he was supposed to be content with 140. His diet? No breakfast. A slice of bread for lunch and vegis for dinner.
I don't want to be just a product of a man's self criticism. I wish I could gain just five more pounds and still feel beautiful.
---------------------------------------
I think the worst part is how people react when you tell them. I've told maybe five close people and only one has been supportive. The rest act as though what I do is strange or that it's my fault. That all this rests on me and like a switch I can turn it off. I've been made to feel more ashamed of myself by the words of OTHER PEOPLE than by my own thoughts.
I feel like I was more understood back when my poison of choice was cutting.
"I'm not going to help you through this" she said.
My goal has been... to gain weight back. Secretly, I was prideful, felt victorious over my ribs showing through my skin, each meal skipped and each time my stomach grumbled, it was proof that we were being victorious. But I don't want to have to look like those girls, sickeningly thin who's stomach's concave rather that stay flat. Flat, that's all I want. Flat.
The girls I'm attracted to generally have a bit of extra on them. Not obese, but very Renaissance and Roman. I was so happy with my body weight before I realized I had an eating disorder. I was so thin. When I sat, there were no folds in my stomach, I was model perfection. If I wanted to get a part time job as a retro pin-up model down the street, I could have.
But I know it's wrong.
My father always told me that it wouldn't hurt to lose some weight. That I wasn't thin. That I had pudge. Everyone else tells me I'm so skinny and praises me, as if being underweight is something I should feel proud of. Then the mind kicks in and calculates all the information to equal "Stay Thin at All Costs."
My weight has been returning. I'm not 105 pounds anymore, rather, I think I may be more than 110. Whenever I look in the mirror, what should feel like victory only looks to me like failure. My roomie is thinner than me again and whenever I see her walk across the room, the envy that pulses through my mouth only generates shame.
I want this to stop. Just like how the hunger takes away my urge to start cutting again I fear what will take away my urge to starve and how much worse it is going to be. Tara Hardy once said "Do you know how many compliments I've gotten on my collarbones since I started dying?" And it's true.
When you stop cutting, the urge is still there like a thirst that will not be quenched, but at least you can look at your arms and see Victory. But when I look in the mirror and I see that my "Victory" means becoming what I now interpret as "Fat" my only urge is to lock myself in my room and come out maybe once a day for apple sauce and salad. I don't even like fries anymore.
But I force myself. Mind over matter, if I give up I will lose the things that are most important to me. I'm afraid of eating too much and weighing more than I ever have.
My father is 5'9" and he weighs 130 pounds. He tells me he wants to lose just another 5 or 10 and then he'll be content. Last year, he was supposed to be content with 140. His diet? No breakfast. A slice of bread for lunch and vegis for dinner.
I don't want to be just a product of a man's self criticism. I wish I could gain just five more pounds and still feel beautiful.
---------------------------------------
I think the worst part is how people react when you tell them. I've told maybe five close people and only one has been supportive. The rest act as though what I do is strange or that it's my fault. That all this rests on me and like a switch I can turn it off. I've been made to feel more ashamed of myself by the words of OTHER PEOPLE than by my own thoughts.
I feel like I was more understood back when my poison of choice was cutting.
"I'm not going to help you through this" she said.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thinking Back
I've been thinking a lot lately. About events that happened to me around five years ago and how fucked up they were. I wonder why I only just started realizing it now.
When I was 15, I was going out with a woman who was 21. And I know that isn't really horrible. I know a ton of people who dated men in their 30s when they were only fifteen. But it wasn't so much the age as it was the WOMAN...
I had just turned 15. I met her online in an IRC chatroom and even though she knew I was a minor, she flirted with me hardcore. I will admit right now that I didn't really like her, rather I was flattered by the fact that another woman was interested in me. She had told me many times that she liked me and stated she wanted to date me. But I was mostly curious about what this whole "love" thing was and how it worked. So I convinced myself I was in love with her and told her so.
My first sexual experiences were cybering with her. I was no longer shy around her, but it was the shyness that she adored so I pretended to be innocent... pretended to be this good little girl who didn't know how anything worked. I was passive, submissive, sweet. Everything she wanted in another person she could control. She stopped being sweet after a few months, if she was sweet at all to begin with. She always had a temper but I let it pass, keeping up my kind demeanor. But when she started insulting my friends, I couldn't pretend anymore, and that's when the name calling started.
I was a horrible person. This horrible person who was prude, raised by fundies, a whore, a little bitch, a slut. And I was still naive, only now I was naive and a whore. She told me I needed to grow up. And when I told her she was verbally abusive, she told me I was emotionally abusive and that shut me up real good.
She'd go for months not really talking to me sometimes. She'd play Sims for hours throughout the day and when I told her I was being treated like a toy to be taken out and played with when she was bored, she told me she needed space. And yet, she wouldn't just break up with me.
Note: She went for two months not saying anything more than "hey" to me per day.
And then came Greg. Now Greg is the turning point that REALLY makes me see how much fucked up shit I just let slide back then. I don't remember if Greg fully raped me. I can't remember anything passed a certain point in the incident.
When I told my girlfriend this, her words of comfort to me were "So, I guess I won't get your first kiss anymore, will I." And my reply, not even seeing how horrible her reaction was: "No, I saved that for you. He could take from me anything he wanted, but my first kiss was for you."
She didn't tell me until a year later that what happened with Greg wasn't my fault. To this very day, I STILL blame myself, somehow. For some reason. Like I COULD have stopped it from even beginning if I wanted to. "If I wasn't such a whore."
My best friend at the time was friends with Greg. I told her about it because I worried for her. Her response was "Oh my god, that's horrible!" and then "But like... I'm still friends with him." I mean, it's bad what he did to you but I don't let stupid things like that intervene between my friendships! Really.
When she stopped talking to me because I finally got upset with her over a small thing, I again blamed myself. I had pined over our lost friendship for years until today.
I wonder why I always tried to sacrifice myself for people who only ever tried to hurt me. I wonder why those are the people I trusted more than anyone else.
Today, I'm still trying my hardest to not be immature or naive. I'm a bitch because I don't want to be taken advantage of. But for some reason, I still fight the urge to blame myself for every little thing. There are days when I try to wash myself clean, but it's as though my entire skin is made of dirt.
I once heard that people who were abused as children are more likely to be raped. Rape. Statutory Rape. I feel like I'm just another statistic.
When I was 15, I was going out with a woman who was 21. And I know that isn't really horrible. I know a ton of people who dated men in their 30s when they were only fifteen. But it wasn't so much the age as it was the WOMAN...
I had just turned 15. I met her online in an IRC chatroom and even though she knew I was a minor, she flirted with me hardcore. I will admit right now that I didn't really like her, rather I was flattered by the fact that another woman was interested in me. She had told me many times that she liked me and stated she wanted to date me. But I was mostly curious about what this whole "love" thing was and how it worked. So I convinced myself I was in love with her and told her so.
My first sexual experiences were cybering with her. I was no longer shy around her, but it was the shyness that she adored so I pretended to be innocent... pretended to be this good little girl who didn't know how anything worked. I was passive, submissive, sweet. Everything she wanted in another person she could control. She stopped being sweet after a few months, if she was sweet at all to begin with. She always had a temper but I let it pass, keeping up my kind demeanor. But when she started insulting my friends, I couldn't pretend anymore, and that's when the name calling started.
I was a horrible person. This horrible person who was prude, raised by fundies, a whore, a little bitch, a slut. And I was still naive, only now I was naive and a whore. She told me I needed to grow up. And when I told her she was verbally abusive, she told me I was emotionally abusive and that shut me up real good.
She'd go for months not really talking to me sometimes. She'd play Sims for hours throughout the day and when I told her I was being treated like a toy to be taken out and played with when she was bored, she told me she needed space. And yet, she wouldn't just break up with me.
Note: She went for two months not saying anything more than "hey" to me per day.
And then came Greg. Now Greg is the turning point that REALLY makes me see how much fucked up shit I just let slide back then. I don't remember if Greg fully raped me. I can't remember anything passed a certain point in the incident.
When I told my girlfriend this, her words of comfort to me were "So, I guess I won't get your first kiss anymore, will I." And my reply, not even seeing how horrible her reaction was: "No, I saved that for you. He could take from me anything he wanted, but my first kiss was for you."
She didn't tell me until a year later that what happened with Greg wasn't my fault. To this very day, I STILL blame myself, somehow. For some reason. Like I COULD have stopped it from even beginning if I wanted to. "If I wasn't such a whore."
My best friend at the time was friends with Greg. I told her about it because I worried for her. Her response was "Oh my god, that's horrible!" and then "But like... I'm still friends with him." I mean, it's bad what he did to you but I don't let stupid things like that intervene between my friendships! Really.
When she stopped talking to me because I finally got upset with her over a small thing, I again blamed myself. I had pined over our lost friendship for years until today.
I wonder why I always tried to sacrifice myself for people who only ever tried to hurt me. I wonder why those are the people I trusted more than anyone else.
Today, I'm still trying my hardest to not be immature or naive. I'm a bitch because I don't want to be taken advantage of. But for some reason, I still fight the urge to blame myself for every little thing. There are days when I try to wash myself clean, but it's as though my entire skin is made of dirt.
I once heard that people who were abused as children are more likely to be raped. Rape. Statutory Rape. I feel like I'm just another statistic.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Paradox
Last year, my Lit professor called me a paradox. That was the last time I ever had communication with her before the attempt. Because well, she was right. I am a paradox. My life is spent in a wheel and all I do is spin and spin and spin...
I always have psych outs. It's how I live. I think "Finally, finally it's over. Finally I can be happy and productive and do what I've always wanted with my life." But I'm wrong. Always, always long. Such thoughts used to last for only a few hours. One time, it lasted for 3 days. This time, it lasted for months. Months, I tell you, months.
The wheel always spins back around.
Ah yes, the classic case of bipolar disorder. Fucking beautiful, isn't it? Each pole is as deadly as the other - mania which convinces you that you're on top of the world and nothing can stop you and the depression which is your reality check that reminds you that you. Are. Just. Human.
I'm in a terrible down.
It's almost the third week of college and I've already begun contemplating suicide. I thought I was stronger than that. Thought that all you needed to do was just dream and go but the truth is that I'm just flesh and blood and chemical imbalances. When I was a child, I thought I was a faerie. With all my heart, I thought I was a faerie that became mortal just so I could sing. I never fit in my own skin. This body is too small, it doesn't change fast enough. It's stringed up incorrectly and move funny. It doesn't listen to my nerves and impulses.
When I was five... I thought that if I just died, I'd be free and I'd finally fit. I'm claustrophobic in my own flesh. I STILL feel that if I die, I'll finally fit. That not even gravity will hold me back, the universe has no boundaries. If there is a universe. If I'm not just... that word.
I thought I was until I turned 18.
All throughout today, I've been crying. Not a few tears, but actual bawling. I try and hide it from my roommate (who just left to meet her boyfriend) and swallow back giant lumps that I don't remember feeling since I moved out of my mom's house.
My stepmom blames herself for my bipolar disorder. If she really cared, she wouldn't have abandoned me, would she have. Or she'd actually be there for me instead of swimming in her bottles of Merlot. Insects. That's the name of the poem I've been working on since I turned 15 and it STILL isn't finished. I never can write about her.
See, the thing is that you can succeed at whatever you want... if you've got the skills. For me, it's too late. My voice is already fucked up because of the different style of vocal training they have below the Mason Dixon line that they've been trying to beat into me. They're trying to make me into a mezzo. I can't go high anymore. As a child, I once swore that if I ever lost my voice, I'd kill myself.
I guess I thought about death a lot as a child.
See, there's something inside of me. And its been inside of me for all my life. The Scientologists would call it a thetus, the psychologists call it bipolar psychotics but I always called it Emily and she and I have been friends and scheming since the first time I caught my dad and mom fighting. She convinced me that we were more than normal, that magick was real, that we had powers and that we could do anything. I was always alone. But Emily, Emily was always there talking to me at night, egging me on whenever something was troubling me. Today, I can no longer hear her, but I feel her and she has brought with her other voices that remind me just how useless I can be.
Sometimes, I don't know what is Emily and what is myself. We've merged part way. I feel that if I died and both our spirits were freed of this body, we'd wind up traveling together, stuck at the side like conjoined sisters for all of eternity. Out of all the voices in my head, they can be sorted into two categories. The voice that tells me why bother when we are just going to fail anyway and the other one that yells "GET UP SOLDIER. STRAIGHTEN YOUR BACK, ONE FOOT BEFORE THE OTHER. THIS IS NO TIME TO BE LAYING AROUND WHEN THERE IS WORK TO BE DONE. DO YOU HONESTLY BELIEVE TIME WILL WAIT FOR YOUR SORRY ASS AND PATHETIC TEARS? GET UP. YOU WILL NEVER EARN THE RESPECT OF ANYONE BY BEING THIS WAY. CRYING IS WEAK - ARE YOU WEAK? DO WE JUST WASTE OUR TIME EXISTING? GET UP, SOLDIER! HOLD YOUR HEAD HIGH, NO ONE HAS TO KNOW THAT YOU AREN'T PROUD OF LIVING BUT THEY BETTER AS ALL FUCK BELIEVE IT. GET UP, SOLDIER. GET UP."
I can't differentiate which is worse.
I honestly thought this would be over. I thought I had finally saved myself.
I thought wrong. I am not meant for happy endings.
I always have psych outs. It's how I live. I think "Finally, finally it's over. Finally I can be happy and productive and do what I've always wanted with my life." But I'm wrong. Always, always long. Such thoughts used to last for only a few hours. One time, it lasted for 3 days. This time, it lasted for months. Months, I tell you, months.
The wheel always spins back around.
Ah yes, the classic case of bipolar disorder. Fucking beautiful, isn't it? Each pole is as deadly as the other - mania which convinces you that you're on top of the world and nothing can stop you and the depression which is your reality check that reminds you that you. Are. Just. Human.
I'm in a terrible down.
It's almost the third week of college and I've already begun contemplating suicide. I thought I was stronger than that. Thought that all you needed to do was just dream and go but the truth is that I'm just flesh and blood and chemical imbalances. When I was a child, I thought I was a faerie. With all my heart, I thought I was a faerie that became mortal just so I could sing. I never fit in my own skin. This body is too small, it doesn't change fast enough. It's stringed up incorrectly and move funny. It doesn't listen to my nerves and impulses.
When I was five... I thought that if I just died, I'd be free and I'd finally fit. I'm claustrophobic in my own flesh. I STILL feel that if I die, I'll finally fit. That not even gravity will hold me back, the universe has no boundaries. If there is a universe. If I'm not just... that word.
I thought I was until I turned 18.
All throughout today, I've been crying. Not a few tears, but actual bawling. I try and hide it from my roommate (who just left to meet her boyfriend) and swallow back giant lumps that I don't remember feeling since I moved out of my mom's house.
My stepmom blames herself for my bipolar disorder. If she really cared, she wouldn't have abandoned me, would she have. Or she'd actually be there for me instead of swimming in her bottles of Merlot. Insects. That's the name of the poem I've been working on since I turned 15 and it STILL isn't finished. I never can write about her.
See, the thing is that you can succeed at whatever you want... if you've got the skills. For me, it's too late. My voice is already fucked up because of the different style of vocal training they have below the Mason Dixon line that they've been trying to beat into me. They're trying to make me into a mezzo. I can't go high anymore. As a child, I once swore that if I ever lost my voice, I'd kill myself.
I guess I thought about death a lot as a child.
See, there's something inside of me. And its been inside of me for all my life. The Scientologists would call it a thetus, the psychologists call it bipolar psychotics but I always called it Emily and she and I have been friends and scheming since the first time I caught my dad and mom fighting. She convinced me that we were more than normal, that magick was real, that we had powers and that we could do anything. I was always alone. But Emily, Emily was always there talking to me at night, egging me on whenever something was troubling me. Today, I can no longer hear her, but I feel her and she has brought with her other voices that remind me just how useless I can be.
Sometimes, I don't know what is Emily and what is myself. We've merged part way. I feel that if I died and both our spirits were freed of this body, we'd wind up traveling together, stuck at the side like conjoined sisters for all of eternity. Out of all the voices in my head, they can be sorted into two categories. The voice that tells me why bother when we are just going to fail anyway and the other one that yells "GET UP SOLDIER. STRAIGHTEN YOUR BACK, ONE FOOT BEFORE THE OTHER. THIS IS NO TIME TO BE LAYING AROUND WHEN THERE IS WORK TO BE DONE. DO YOU HONESTLY BELIEVE TIME WILL WAIT FOR YOUR SORRY ASS AND PATHETIC TEARS? GET UP. YOU WILL NEVER EARN THE RESPECT OF ANYONE BY BEING THIS WAY. CRYING IS WEAK - ARE YOU WEAK? DO WE JUST WASTE OUR TIME EXISTING? GET UP, SOLDIER! HOLD YOUR HEAD HIGH, NO ONE HAS TO KNOW THAT YOU AREN'T PROUD OF LIVING BUT THEY BETTER AS ALL FUCK BELIEVE IT. GET UP, SOLDIER. GET UP."
I can't differentiate which is worse.
I honestly thought this would be over. I thought I had finally saved myself.
I thought wrong. I am not meant for happy endings.
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