Sugar Baby Blues

 

Art done by:

https://www.deviantart.com/misiasart     

    Abbey always had a thing for older men; not her, or any of her friends around her really understood where it came from. On several occasions, they would express concern, other times the friendships around her would just crumble. Her parents on the other hand, didn't seemed concerned, or even surprised. From an outsiders perspective, Abbey was the epitome of privilege--blonde hair, blue eyes, a cheerleader with an upper middle class family that had the means to help her pay for medical college. It made no sense that someone like her would attach herself to unstable father figures, but people often mistake beauty with goodness.

    When Abbey was 13, she fell in love with her art teacher, and continued to have an affair with him until she went off to high school. That same year, he went to prison for having sex with an 11 year old girl. Throughout high school, she juggled a relationship with both her high school boyfriend and his dad. They both got away with it, and the relationship with both of them ended when she graduated. Unfortunately, things got progressively worse during college. Her first semester there, she developed an obsession with a married teacher that resulted in her getting kicked out of school, and having to finish her courses online. When that didn't work out and she had to go to a different school, her parents refused to pay for it, so she developed unhealthy attachments to to sugar daddies that ultimately ended in heartbreak. The only person she ever opened up to was her best friend Kristy, who is currently consoling her confused, childhood best friend.

    "Abbey, honey, don't let that geriatric fuck boy get to you! We're in the prime of our lives, by the time we're 30, he'll be impotent."

    Abbey chuckles, wiping her tears with a damp Kleenex. "I just don't get it, he acted as if he really liked me. He told me he was only interested in dating me and being intimate with me, then when we go out dancing he blows me off for another woman! I mean seriously, what the fuck?!"

    "He's an emotionally stunted narcissist that treats women like props, that's it, it's not about you." Kristy was blunt in her analysis, which people either hated or admired, but Abbey appreciated her tough love.

    "Spoken like a true psychologist." Abbey gave a weak smile, she sniffles as she stares at her hands, playing with what is now an unusable wad of snot cotton.

    Kristy looks down in deep thought before sighing, "Abbey, I've known you my whole life and I love you very much, but this pattern..." Kristy pauses briefly to consider her next words carefully, "this pattern has remained consistent since we were kids and I'm really, really worried about you."

    They both remained silent for only a few seconds before Kristy continued, "At the Marsha Ross Institute, they're working on this experimental treatment plan. It's only been used on patience with amnesia associated with head trauma, but their has been a high success rate."

    Abbey rolls her eyes and chuckles, "uh Kristy, I don't have amnesia. Sharp memory? Spelling bee champ? I mean, HELLO!"

    Kristy didn't let her friends generic, cocky, cheerleader attitude distract her. "Maybe not, but I do think their could be something from your past that you may not be thinking about, and this may help you connect the dots."

    Abbey rolled her eyes, "for what purpose?'

    "Uh, so you can make healthier decisions for yourself and move on with you life? Duh!" Kristy replies with an edge to her tone, clearly irritated with her besties stubbornness.

    Abbey looks down at the Kleenex in her hands as she considers the idea, then throws it away in the small trashcan next to the couch. "OK, I'll do it."

                                                                                         ~

    A team of students, a doctor, and a professor surround Abbey in a sterile white room; Kristy stood next to her with a supportive hand in hers. The doctor spoke seriously and directly when regarding the treatment, "Abbey, this treatment will work much like a time machine. Your mind will take you back to a memory that you've forgotten, and probably for good reason. Do you understand that whatever you see, we are not responsible and the memory, as well as what you do with it, will be yours to carry?"

    Abbey felt a pang of fear and hesitation at the possibility of unresolved trauma, which she never bothered to consider. However, if that were the case, better to deal with it now than later. Still feeling uneasy at what she might discover, Abbey responds with a reluctant nod.

    "Are you sure? Once you go in and uncover these memories, theirs no going back."

    "Yes, I understand, I want to continue." Abbey replies with more confidence, but as more of an assurance to herself than the doctor.

    "OK, then lets begin."

                                                                                    ~

    Abbey was injected with a drug called Neocortoxine, a muscle relaxant that stimulated the part of the brain responsible for memory. Once the doctor placed a hat on Abbeys head--one that appeared  as if a robot gave birth to a pair of ominous tentacles, all of which were attached to what looked like a mini fridge with a couple of buttons and a light switch; immediately Abbey began to drift as neurostimulation allowed electrical impulses in the brain to uncover what was lost.

    Abbey stood in a poorly lit basement, surrounded by dusty boxes and cobwebs. She remembered this place from her early childhood, her parents had to downgrade after her baby brother was born. Luckily, they only stayed there for about 5 years; both her, and her parents absolutely hated the place. The basement was the worst of all--the musty air made Abbeys allergies twitch, causing her to choke. As she began to cough, two men descended the steps with a little girl traveling behind them. The little girl was Abbey when she was 6, one of the men was her dad, the other she didn't recognize. She was worried that they would see her, but as they approached the bottom of the steps, and all three of them walked past her without a second glance, and her coughing began to subside. She then realized that her experience there is merely palpable, not so concrete. She was--well, I suppose in a literal sense, a ghost within her own past acting as a spectator.

    Abbey walked around the corner to see her 6 year old self, sitting on an old couch next to the unknown man. He was older, old enough to be her grandfather; he had a tall, stocky form with a stern look about him, and a seemingly predatory gaze that never seemed to leave young Abbey. 

   Abbey watched the little version of herself look up to her dad as he gave her clear instructions, gesturing to a video camera. "Now, you're going to be a good girl and you're going to help daddy make a movie, OK? Then we'll go get ice cream!"

    Little Abbeys eyes sparkle innocently as she nodded emphatically, "But first," Abbeys dad stated as he held up a finger, pointed at the burly man on the couch. He leaned back, then unzipped his pants. "I need you to take care of my friend here--just like ice cream."

    Older Abbey gaped at the scene appalled and outraged; the violation of trust, the look of confusion and fear on young Abbeys face as the man roughly grabbed her by her hair, the secrets buried beneath an image of wealth of mediocrity...

    'How could I be so stupid!'

    Abbey jolted from her chemically induced hallucination, then began hyperventilating. Kristy runs over to her friend, taking the tentacle robot off her head. "Whats wrong honey? What did you see?"

    Abbeys sobs uncontrollably, "How could he do those things to me?!"

    "What do you mean? Who did what to you?" Kristy wiped the tears from Abbeys eyes.

    "My dad, he let men do horrible things to me when I was 6 and..." Abbeys bottom lip trembled, "fucking recorded it!"

    Kristy was afraid of this, hell, even the professionals in the room saw it coming; but Abbey needed to address the issues that were ruining her life. From this point on, Kristy could see that things were only going to get harder; not just for Abbey, but for the both of them. She knew that their was a possibility that this may even put a strain on their friendship, maybe even end it. She also knew that it was likely that Abbey may never come back from this, and inevitably blame her like she was currently blaming herself.

 

   As guilt began to rise up in Kristy's throat, she choked out a small sob lamenting the suggestion she had made, then lovingly embraces her. "Shhh, I'm here bestie, I'll be here every step of the way. You're not alone..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blackout Rambles

 

                                                                                        

                                       Strung Out 

                                                                   

                                                           by:    fadeintoablackout

                                                                                                            

                                                                                              

I’m sitting here drunk, listening to music… on the radio! I would never listen to anything on the radio given the option. Yet here I am, sitting here drunk, looking for messages in music I would never listen to on my own; hoping to catch a “clue.” I suppose in this dark, drunken state this is how my psychosis is choosing to manifest itself.

As I sit here by candlelight, rocking back and forth, cuddling my own tortured thoughts; I have no choice but to accept this darkened solitude like most people with no trustworthy family and no close friends. After all, what’s new? No matter how many healthy friendships I have, or even if I’m in a loving relationship, I will still feel alone because everyone does. That’s the price of being human—we all feel the same, and we all cope with it horribly. So the weather for this Valentine's Day was frighteningly fitting—cold, bitter, and lonely; just like February 2020.

Everyone acts as if they care if someone is feeling suicidal, but they're full of shit. The only thing people care about is not being inconvenienced—one will say to reach out to friends, family, or a trusted loved one. What if your friends don’t care? What if the people that say they care about you are too preoccupied to care? What if you don't have health insurance and can't afford a therapist? What if psychiatric care, in general, is too triggering due to past experiences? Perhaps that's the universes way of telling me to off myself, just get it over with, you don’t belong. Perhaps friends and loved ones are just people you spend time with to help you forget about the pain of being alive, but they don't give a shit about you anymore than a stranger does. Maybe love doesn’t last forever and empathy doesn’t exist without something in return…

On Friday, February 12, I went to a rave. I had a blast by myself and said nothing to no one—except for a security guard, “Where do I show my tickets?”

The bartender, “I’d like a shiner please.”

And some random guy that asked me what time it ended, “2am.”

Oh, and the guys from the Tiny House Burgers food truck, highly recommend! So yeah, my social life is a total riot…

The problem with human beings is our primitive, tribal instincts. A rolling stone that gathers no moss tends to leave no impression, the same goes for human beings. A stone with “roots” so to speak, shows that it’s hospitable to others, reliable even. We can’t determine if a rolling stone with no moss is harmful to the unit unless it tears through like a wrecking ball (that's right...I'm listening to Mylie Cyrus), the same way we can’t determine if a loner is a loner by choice or had it enforced upon them.

Oh my God, Jlo’s ‘love don't cost a thing’ just came on… Is this accurate? Does giving a shit about someone truly come at no cost? I look at people who have either one person or a small collective of people that seem to love them and genuinely care about them, I won't lie, I do envy that. I don't really know what it's like to be in a stable, nontoxic relationship of any kind and I really want better for myself. I do have one friend I can count on from time to time, but she has a lot of her own personal issues and can't be there for me in the way that I need.

So what do I want? Do I want roots? Is it even worth it? I know every living creature on this planet dies alone, but am I meant to live alone regardless of how heavily it weighs on me, or how much I try to connect with others? I guess the real question is—what am I looking for and how do I want to be treated by another human being?

Quietus

                                                                                   

Love is for fools and emotional puppeteers and I have no time

No patience for mind games

Yet here I am

Bound by caring and burning with need

An infernal bondage

Tied up and left to bleed

I long to cut myself off

To detach myself from your strings

I want to shut the world out

Just so I can be alone

A cry for help

 

                                                     Henry Wallis' "Chatterton" 1865

  "My dear friend, I have been at war with the grave for some time now." Thomas Chatterton 

I don't reach out when I need help, some would say it’s self defeating; personally, I don't think anyone really gives a shit. I’m so used to people who say they care about me get angry and upset, suggest pills or hospitalization when my emotions are an inconvenience to them, or they have nothing to say at all. I mean, what could anyone say? People with depression aren't equipped to help others with depression, those who don’t have similar issues couldn’t possibly fathom the desperation that occurs.

I’ve been stuck in this gaping maw for nearly a month now, whenever I feel as if I’ve pulled through on my own, I end up being swallowed—I stop showering, I eat too much if I eat at all, and just getting out of bed feels like I’m sprinting uphill. The emotional baggage affects my neck, shoulders, and back. I thought about going to therapy, but I’ve been down that road many times before. Without insurance, its pricey and time consuming. Most of the time, you end up going through multiple therapists before you find the right one. I don't think I have that kind of time…

As much as I want to reach out, ask someone for help, it feels like emotional black mail to tell them I’m suicidal; but I feel like I need to tell someone. Yet, whenever I get around people, especially large crowds; I feel lost, alone, out of place—I spend most of my time feeling like I want to jump out of my skin, but what I really want and I try to do is feel comfortable in it. I’m so tired of fighting…

I want to reach out and connect with others, but I feel selfish for even trying. I don’t know who I am or where I fit, I feel completely and utterly worthless. Expecting more feels greedy and narcissistic, I feel like I don't deserve to be loved or cared about because theirs no way I’m good enough. I feel like a mistake…

If anyone is reading this, yes, it is a cry for help; but I don't expect anything from you, I certainly don't want you to feel obligated to reach out and try to help. Theirs no use in feeling just as uncomfortable as I do, I’ve done this alone before and I pride myself in being able to do so, I just hope I can do it again.

I want to want to live, but I’m completely clueless, and I feel guilty for being alive.

I don’t know what to do…

                                                                                    

                                                                 Art by: NerdGhostWaffles 
                                                       

Drinking Venom

Making connections and establishing friendships has never been easy for me, especially when you’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop; the same shoe that kicks you in the teeth with rejection, social isolation, and never ending anxiety. My attachment style has often been avoidant, smeared with a bitter shit stain.

My relationship with human beings is a lot like my relationship with food—I either can’t get enough, I judge others so harshly that I purge everyone from my life, or I starve myself of human contact to the point that I feel ill. I’m vigilant, distrustful, and I’m often weary of what people’s intentions are. I can’t make friends or even date without that voice telling me that I’m a piece of shit, I deserve to die, how narcissistic are you to think that someone like you deserves to be seen and heard?

Lately, this voice has been urging me to slash myself with a razor. At one point, this voice urged me to workout for hours to the point of injury, just so I didn’t have to think about the intensity of my emotions and deal with them properly. All I did was replace one addiction with another, although I felt strong and proud, in reality I was sick. I didn’t even realize it because stereotypically, people with eating disorders either vomit everything they eat, or they’re wasting away on a deathbed with a feeding tube.

I feel more comfortable when I’m fit, but for the moment I’m trying to feel comfortable at 150lbs. so I don’t fall back into old habits. I’m trying to feel more comfortable with being around people, with making new friends, dating—I’m trying to love myself and other people without judgment.

My entire 20’s consisted of toxic relationships and trying to adapt to life outside of an institution, at 30 I want to do things differently, regardless of what the voice keeps telling me.

 

A Confounding Parallel

 

Jackson Pollock: Alchemy

    Recently, I had a conversation with a friend about relationships and how they affect our personal lives—she’s currently in a relationship with an alcoholic and seems to be dealing with the same problems I had in my last relationship; the constant fighting, the abusive and avoidant behavior, as well as the overall instability. Although I don’t regret my last relationship, it was an emotional roller coaster. Being in love with an addict is like being in love with a cancer patient, they love you, but they’re too sick to give you what you need. I realize now, that with Danny, I was simply repeating a cycle that I had grown accustomed to since childhood.

    Growing up my mom had a tendency to feign certain illnesses and encouraged me to do the same, all so she could receive a government check and not have to work for anything. Meanwhile, I was given absolutely no life skills; I was drugged, institutionalized, and surrounded by chaotic environments and unstable people. I learned to shut the world out because alone was better, alone I was safe. All I had to do to escape was daydream and write, so I could fantasize about killing people I couldn’t kill in real life. As I got older and realized I wanted more for myself, my mom would lose her shit and attempt to stifle my progress out of fear for her financial security.

    Danny was the shield, he was the one that had my back and told me that I deserved better and that I was capable. Unfortunately, he was a shield in a sense that a couple of gargantuan, soul sucking buzzards turned him into a Jackson Pollock painting by crapping all over him. This, I believe, really tore Danny down. The instability within the house compelled him to drink more, eventually making him sick and not much better than my mom who pops pills and sleeps all day. I was so angry at him, I felt like he let me down! So for quite some time, especially after he quit his job, I cut myself off from him. I crippled myself emotionally and yet, I stayed with him, trapping myself in this psychologically torturous limbo of being single and being in a relationship. I tried everything I could think of to make it work while distancing myself emotionally, all because I didn’t want to be left alone with my mom and her mountain goat with Down Syndrome.

    Although Danny helped bring me out of my shell, his addiction got so out of control that everything became a trigger, and therefore isolating. I wanted to do so many things with him—go to shows, go to the movies, travel. It got to the point that we couldn’t do anything together because he was drunk all the time, and going out with a mean drunk was not my idea of a good time. I feel shitty for feeling this way, or for even writing this; but if I’m going to be completely honest with myself, I have to admit that when Danny died, a part of me felt relieved. Relief coexisted with my rage, depression, and of course my guilt. For months now, I’ve felt a sensation of freedom that I’ve never felt before. Thanks to Danny’s support, I’m no longer my mothers cash cow. I guess that’s just how death works, just like love, it brings pain and relief.

It’s really fucked up that this is what acceptance looks like…

                                                             Jackson Pollock: Number 31

Unified by Turbulence

 

Ever had one of those days where you just want to put your fist through a window, to feel a wave of tranquility wash over you as you pick the glass from your arm? Well, that’s basically how I feel everyday…

When I’m happy, I’m angry.

When I’m sad, I’m angry.

When I’m completely content my mind will go a mile a minute at times, taking me to places that I don’t want to go. Although I try to shove it down, it doesn’t seem to fix the problem. With further contemplation in an attempt to provide myself with self awareness, I’ve realized that this is normal. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if maybe… just maybe it affects me more intensely. Given my diagnosis of BPD, a qualified professional would tell me that it certainly the case—yet with all the therapy I’ve done, all the drugs that I’ve taken, and all the progress I’ve achieved through sheer will and dedication; I still feel angry.

This is something that is unlikely to change—I can try my hardest to live my best life, but more than likely, I’ll carry this rage around for the rest of my life. Instead of ruminating and allowing it to crush my spirit, the best thing would be to accept that this is normal.

Anger seizes me…

I’m trapped

I’m choking

I’m dying within this flesh tethered confinement!

I’m just as benumbed to the life moving around me as they brag on their emptiness

as if apathy is something to be revered.

The world is shallow and savage

I feel my blood become frozen as my heart turns cold.

Now, with my baneful eye

I crave war and suffering with the metallic taste of death.

I am no different

I am just as cold

I am just as empty

I am just as vain.