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.

Ramblings from an Angry Widow

 May 25^th was mine and Danny’s anniversary, we would’ve been together for 6 years. I’ve been thinking a lot about his family and the things I want to say to them for cruelly giving me the cold shoulder, I’ve also been thinking a lot about how angry I am at Danny. I’m not angry at him for dying, I’m angry at him for not taking better care of himself—for drinking himself sick instead of enjoying and living life with me, I’m angry at him for all the times he made me feel responsible for his alcoholism getting worse. I’m angry at him for not being more responsible and properly preparing, I’m angry at him for not getting the help that he desperately needed until the last minute.

However, none of this compares to the anger I feel towards Danny’s family. I’m going to end this by making this out to them personally—Dorcas Marsden, you are a gelatinous slob that selfishly chose to sit in a chair and have your children wait on you hand and foot, all because your piece of shit husband died. Your disgusting, weak, and you’re just as bad as my mother if not worse. Danny hated you and his Dad, yet Danny still took care of you when he could, even if it was simply out of obligation. Oh, and lets not forget the fact that you’re the reason he felt guilty about getting to know his biological brother, and even when you knew Danny had cancer you still demanded he make you a cup of tea. You still couldn’t accept the fact that Danny wasn’t religious; when your husband was alive, you spent so much time trying to be the good Christian wife, you wouldn’t even bother to stop your husband from beating your fragile son and then locking him in closets. That worked to his advantage however, when he was 11 years old, he ate his first pussy in that very same closet. Ha! So much for your good Christian household!

Ezra Burns, you’re a sad sack with too many kids and from what I’ve heard, you’re a shit father. You’re a gross old pig that clearly doesn’t even like your wife, you only married her for money and because you didn’t want to be alone after your previous wife died. Perhaps that’s why your dad drank too much and beat your mom, he himself couldn’t stand his cunting wife, let alone stand to be around his aborted disappointments.

And Laura Burns, you denied me some of Danny’s ashes even when I offered to help you pay for half of the cremation, I was even willing to give you $1000 just for a couple of tablespoons. I know about all the times you tried to convince Danny to leave me—you respect me so little that when I got on my knees and begged you, eyes clouded with tears; your soul is so full of dust and the ashes of your dead relatives, you wrote me off as hysterical. You belittled me, patronized me, antagonized me—talking to you was like being curb-stomped after being stabbed in the back, then left to bleed out on the side of the road, which I suppose is why you’re going to just drop Danny in a hole with two people he despised, the same way your Dad dropped his dick into your rancid hole when he got bored with your mom. That's right, I know about the accusations you made against your father. It’s pretty fucked up that you think it’s morally corrupt to divide up someones ashes, yet it’s righteous to bury Danny with the woman who gave you life, then took it from you to sit in a chair, right along with the man you accused of rape. All of this you're doing for YOUR convenience! You’re a gnarled, toothless hag and you smell like your moms piss and shit—or is that your vile malodorous stench? I know you have a tendency to soil yourself, what I really want to know is…when your Dad was pumping in and out of you, did he cum inside of you? Or did he shoot it all over your fat ass because he couldn’t stand to look at your “O” face?

All those times you and Dorcas said you loved me, cared about me, and that we were family—when you found out Danny had cancer, you even went so far as to say and I quote, "If you ever need anything, Danny's badass sister is here to help." Then you hugged me, let me cry on your shoulder after shedding a few of your own; it was complete bullshit. You actually cared so little about me, you kicked me out of the house within the same week of Danny’s death because I disagreed with you. You respect yourself so little that even with kidney failure, you chain smoke, eat garbage food, and make little to no effort to care for yourself. Strong people don't need to tear others down in order to feel strong, they do it on their own. You are a dried up, burlap husk of a woman and I hope your death is as lonely and miserable as your time on this planet.

Good Riddance!

THE PICKLE OF TOP OF THE SHIT THAT IS LIFE

In a couple of months, I have to be out of the house my grandparents own. My grandparents are in their 80’s, their health is deteriorating, and insurance on the house keeps going up every year. I’ve been looking at apartments, houses, and duplexes—even motor homes!

Now, I have only one question… Are these places made of minerals that were plucked from the center of the earth, magically transported to the heavens, where they were encased in gold by the Gods?

Everything is so expensive and none of the places I looked at appeared to be worth it! I thought of buying a used van outright and converting it, but I’m not that handy. I mean, how do you build a shitter in a van without a bunch of shit leaking out?

I can’t handle the degrading monotony of working nine to five—I’m neurotic, misanthropic, and I never sleep. I can’t handle spending most of my life in a place that makes me suicidal, I know myself well enough to know that I just wouldn’t last very long, especially when it’s only to pay for some $1200 roach orgy.

I’m not without a plan, but I do know that things never work out accordingly, the only thing that scares me is the uncertainty.

My plan is to get a car, take on more dog walks, house sits, and drop in visits; continue to work on my writing, and travel as much as possible—then see where I end up… Who knows? Maybe I’ll die!!!