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.

Corrosive Empathic Psychosis

It was Christmas Day and little Tiffany’s parents sat in the living room as she passed out presents, her blonde curls bounced and her face lit up with a smile, like the glimmering Christmas lights loosely strung around the small Christmas tree. The smile slowly began to fade as she noticed that her gifts were stacked into a large pile, creating a maze that left very little space for her and everyone else to move. Meanwhile, the extended family members that grew up with nothing only received socks, underwear, and a few food items.

The voice in her head began to get louder as she sat down, cramped between the exuberant amount of gifts and the couch. She felt trapped and claustrophobic as she began to open the gifts, feigning Christmas joy. Her pretty blue eyes started to water as the voice began to bellow, “you’re a piece of shit! You’re a waste of space! Who the hell do you think you are?!”

Tiffany began to panic, yet she said nothing out of fear of upsetting anyone. She felt overwhelmed as she felt everyone staring at her, judging her. Tiffany’s thoughts raced as an invisible hand wrapped around her neck, keeping her from saying what she really wanted to say, so instead, she screamed. She grabbed her hair and screamed louder than the voices that told her she was worthless, making her appear spoiled and unappreciative. Her family gaped at her, stunned by the sudden madness happening in front of them, angry at the screeching brat they maxed out their credit cards for.

Later that day, everyone went home and the pathetic princess tried to apologize to her mother, who was already too stoned to care. “You have to remember that there are children who don’t have what you have.” Her mother's words and slurred speech created a familiar, lonely void that Tiffany’s heart always managed to fall into.

Tiffany went to her room, cuddling with her self-hatred, noticing the only thing beautiful in her life were the expensive inanimate objects everyone mistakes for love.

The End

Anxious mutterings and False Pretense

 My anxiety with people overwhelms me. Every day I'm anxious about being social and opening up out of fear of how people might try to hurt me. It's not about what they think, it's about what they'll do. Does everyone feel this way?

I'm not perfect.

This is important because just like everyone else, I put up a front. Does everyone really do this, or am I just a fake piece of shit?

I'm.Not.Perfect.

 Nonetheless, I smile and I laugh trying to make the best of this mortal coil. This place is so fucked up, I force myself to talk to people and I do my best to interact; despite the fact that deep down every day I want to die. Does this make me crazy? Am I chemically imbalanced, or am I correct when I feel like I'm not meant to be here? I've personally never met a human that wasn't on some level mentally ill! I continue to smile and I continue to laugh, pretending that nothing is wrong. I do this because I don't know how else to cope.

I'M NOT PERFECT

Narcotic Kisses

My minds distorted

but you're going to take me to the bottom until I'm finally euphoric.

When I'm swallowed in depression

you embrace with temptation

and when I've finally had enough

I crush you up and huff you up.

I pop a few

Then you whisper little nothings like

"I'll rescue you."

In the end...

It's just me

and you

and your

Narcotic Kisses.