totally unedited ranting, bear with me

She walked at a steady clip, arms crossed around her, and an ear bud in one ear. The sky was gray, the morning quiet, and all around her wind played with fallen leaves.  Nausea from not eating enough over the last few days was starting to set in, but she ignored it as determinedly as ever.  Feeling cut off from all of her friends, nay from people as a whole, she trudged on leaves crunching underfoot. 

Her soothingly sad music pumping through the lone working ear bud was a background to her thoughts.  The wind picked up around her, a flurry of dead leaves swirling, bumping into her and skittering away.  The sky looked on impassively as she wondered if maybe she could be lifted up and taken away with the wind.  Her stocky overweight frame solidly reminded her that this could not be.  She passed a sad thought for the lost opportunity to play with the wind.

 The leaves were partway through changing, reds and browns littering the ground.  How could she go back to that cage?  How could she go back to feeling that way?  She couldn’t stay walking around with bare legs and a thin jacket forever could she?  What if she stayed until all the leaves had fallen, what if she gave up eating and drinking, and just waited for the coldness of winter to kill her?  She hadn’t succeeded with her many suicide attempts, maybe they had been too active, maybe she just needed to stay still and wait for death to find her.  Play hard to get as it were. 

She started as she noticed a man on a nearby roof drilling; she had forgotten that she wasn’t in fact the only person on these quiet streets.  She then saw another man, and a car driving too fast, and remembered that it wasn’t them who didn’t belong.  It was her.  This wasn’t her place, and it had never been.  She had tried once long, long ago, to fit in.  Others had tried to hold a spot for her.  It wasn’t working.  She wished they would just follow her lead and give up.  It was of little importance anyway.  In the grand scheme of things what mattered she?  For she had nothing left to give, and had stopped caring long before people noticed.  Now all she wanted was some peace in which to pass quietly from this world.

  The bright leaves fell around her, the only spot of color in so much gray.  She paced onwards, listening to her music, a lifeline to feeling anything but the familiar numbness.  She felt like she didn’t exist.  Can she be a figment of her own imagination?  Imagining walking and not leaving a step, breathing and not making carbon monoxide, she almost smiled. 

No part of her was still real, this was all just window dressing, and even that was too tired to go on.  How long until people realized that they couldn’t keep carrying her like this and let her go?  She had lain on her back, arms folded over her chest, pretending.  She wanted to go to a graveyard and lie down on the grass, not out of disrespect, but longing.  She longed to know what it was like, to rest.  How she wanted to join the inhabitants in their eternal sleep.

She couldn’t trust anyone.  They all wanted to help until things got really bad then they were all too small against the bigness of her crazy.  No one could help; she wanted them to stop trying.  Making big promises, about being there, and her getting better, then ultimately just not being able to rescue her, for she couldn’t be rescued. Maybe she couldn’t be rescued from the darkness because she was the darkness.

Scars on her wrist, scars all over her skin, but the ones that hurt the most invisible to the eye, unnoticed by most.  The people who had inflicted the scar tissue blaming her for the symptoms of her illness, and choosing to ignore the root of the problem, for surely it is all because she is bad. The people who want to get to the root of the problem merely human and unable to withstand the ugliness, and pain involved.  They are well meaning, but idealistic.  Nowadays she is the first to admit that she is bad.

So much crazy in her brain, it forms a cage around her.  Holding her captive, and in its thrall as it were.  The difficulty in being a fairly intelligent talented person, who can’t even feed herself, is an unimaginable hardship.  She is often treated like a slow child, looked down on, judged, and invalidated.  She can’t explain how hard it is to be intelligent, possibly more intelligent than some and yet unable to control herself.  She always loses to the crazy, and acts like an irrational child.  She can’t seem to help it, yet she knows she should be able to. 

See she is extremely weak, she broke, she got sick, and she can’t get better. She is wrong.  Everyone tells her not to give up, but no one feels what she feels, or goes through what she does.  It’s so easy to say not to give up, but maybe someone should have said that to her years ago.  Maybe then it would have done some good, but now it’s much too late.  She can’t stay here.  She is too weak, then why torture her making her stay?  Wouldn’t it be more merciful to let her go?  She has nothing left, she is nothing.  She’s so tired.

I beg everyone to just let me go, I’m done with the pretty, dark poetry that was the last 11 years of my life.  Now I’ll say it bluntly, I don’t see it as an end of my life; I see it as a natural end of something that was gone long ago.  Don’t tell me it will get better, I don’t care if it’s a fucking Disney ending, I don’t want it.  Don’t you dare tell me that’s the depression talking, I know what depression is I’ve been living with it for over a decade, at this point fuck off. I care about you, but you guys don’t care about me.  You care about who I could be, but I’m not her, and I may never be. 

Eventually you are going to have to give up because this is too big, it’s too dark, if you believe in God you may want to pray because I honestly believe that he’s the only one left who could help.  That is if he really exists and cares, but why would he?  If I mattered wouldn’t he have cared at any point in my life thus far?  I didn’t just wake up this way, it took years.  So everyone shut up about hope, and how sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do.  Welcome to every day of my life the last 11 years, as I had to stay alive, but my hope died bit by bit.

Just go away, and trust in God if you do and my lack of skills with a razor if you don’t.  Don’t you see?  This has to be me, it can’t be you, so give me space, either I will die or I won’t you can’t make life do what you want all the time.  Stop controlling me!  When it comes down to it how are you any better than the people who originally abused me?  Fuck off.

Layer one of the bad days Possibly more to come

I am sitting on my neatly piled stack of blankets (that make up my bed).  Sarah is on the couch, and Melinda is lying on the floor nearby.  Fun girls night since Trevor is at drill you ask?  Nothing quite that normal for me.  Suicide watch, oh fun.

I cut with a hidden razor blade recently, then woke up early today to cut with a piece of broken glass.  I cut over the same cuts until the blood flowed freely again, cleansing me.  Melinda and Trevor were already watching me more closely before he left due to these and some other warning signs such as increased insomnia.  I cleaned the blood up sufficiently both times, but they insisted on cleaning and bandaging the cuts.  Melinda is worried to sleep at all since both of these times where when she was asleep.

As a cutter it is pretty easy to figure out when people are less attentive, and what will make them more or less attentive.  Using this knowledge to cut feels a bit underhand, but addictions are a bitch.  Mel kept me in eyesight all day.  She followed me on to the balcony, back to the living room, and even  into the closet when I curled up in a dark corner and cried.  She seemed to be more concerned after that, although I tried to convince her that besides my slight claustrophobia I like closets.

The straw that broke the back as they  say, was when Melinda went to the bathroom and I slipped outside, ran to a nearby drainage ditch, and used a stick to reopen and further cut my cuts.  The blood looked so peaceful running down my wrist to pool in my hand, coloring the grass red.  It was almost pretty. Once A scared Melinda found me, she wouldn't let me move an inch without supervision and immediately started calling and texting around to find someone to back her up.

Her threats of a psych hospital got me to let her bandage me, to eat, and not to purge.  Her friends who know her very well read through the lines of her fairly calmly worded texts and immediately dropped all they could to come over.  Nathaniel came over, and now Sarah is staying the night.

I feel stupid messing up so many peoples lives.

I'm not saying take me to a hospital.  Take me to a morgue.

Questions

How do you know what rock bottom is?  So many times feel like the proverbial rock bottom, but I am very hesitant to label it as such because who knows whether or not it really is the bottom.  For all I know there could be many more layers of suck.   I feel presumptuous saying that anything is rock bottom.  Maybe doing so will cause God or fate or whoever to want to prove you wrong, and hit you with more shit.

Also, if you have a rock bottom time, what happens afterwards?  Will things get better, or is the pain just less acute?  I think you can only feel so much before your mind literally rejects it.  If you pray to die and you don't does that mean that God doesn't love you?  Or is he the biggest  most sadistic douche ever?  Maybe there just isn't a God.  There is so much emptiness and pain, it's infinite and tragic.

My pain is just a mere drop in the ocean of pain and suffering.  I pray to die.  I cry and beg God to let it all end.  I long to just slip away.  I'm still here.  What does that mean?  Am I weak to not be able to successfully kill myself? Have I failed at something so basic as copping out?  Let me die.  Forgive me for being weak, and absolve me.

I am not good.  I am not good.  I am not good. I am not good. I am not good. I am not good. I am not good. I am not good. I am not good. I am not good. I am not good. I am not good. I am not good.

Just let me go.

My Terms

During my last therapy session Dr. R said that I have intimacy issues.  She's right, I'm just impressed that she got that from a drawing.  I don't handle emotional intimacy well, which is ironic from someone who craves it.  Physical intimacy scares the crap out of me because it's too close to emotional intimacy, and it tends to involve a certain amount of trust.  I don't trust.

I push people away, I pull away, then I throw up an illusion of intimacy.  Only I'm never really there, just my sham self.  People of the world, feel free to objectify and abuse me.  I'd be more comfortable with that.  I see myself as inherently without value, or beauty.  I think I can be sexy or hot, but never pretty or beautiful.  I present myself a certain way because then it's on my terms.  (also my body just looks better a little less covered, it takes your eyes off of my fat) 

I don't want to "fall in love."  That sentence sounds way too much like "hand me your heart so I can crush it repeatedly, and so you can lose yourself."  Don't woo me, I'm not worth that much, just rub up against me in a club and keep grabbing me when I try to pull away.  I don't need roses, I need to feel in control.  I know that what I'm wearing is driving you crazy just a bit, I know that I'm super easy to a point.  And Guess what?  I'm probably using you more then you are using me.  It all makes me feel so empty and cheap. 

I am empty though.  The reason you can't truly love me, is that there isn't anything to love.  Like I said I'm a shell.  The outsides of a person, but none of the insides.  Come on, let me show some boob, you know you want me to.  Dance with me in the dark, where you can't really see my face.   All you can do is feel me, that's all there is.  

Maybe I do have intimacy issues. 

I'd rather have guys lust after me then love me.  It's safer. I make everything sexier, because sex is black and white.  It's about raw feelings, not the refined ones.  Fuck being refined, and giving up your heart.  Take my body, and stop trying for my heart.  I promise you it doesn't exist. 

The Moody Angst I Promised, Right on Schedule

When we started this blog I promised myself to strive for honesty in all posts.  Sometimes it's hard.  I really want people to like me.  Presenting my illness in the most appealing light possible is second nature to me.  Here we go, feel free to hate me.

I cut, so goodbye shoes.

I've been feeling lonely (even surrounded by people), alone, and like an annoying burden.  I'm hating my life, I'm not being as thankful as I should, because honestly I just want my old damned life back, and I don't want to be treated like a stupid kid.  I fought with my best friend because I'm sick of the way I get treated because of this illness, and my own actions.

I cut a star, right under my cleavage (it's on fat, and really unattractive)

My whole life feels like a nightmare.  I can't mitigate these feelings, and when I try I just wind up driving people crazy.  I like order, and structure and a plan. I'm not saying that they have to be rigidly adhered to, I just like to have a mental picture.  My brain feels numb.  I feel like no one likes me or wants to be around me.  My own family doesn't want to be.  I push away the people who do want to be there, because they are going to leave eventually.  I have nothing to give.  I'm a hollow shell.

I'm not "doing something important" with this blog.  I wanted to help people who felt like me by being honest and open.  All I'm doing is having a blog of self indulgent drivel.  A record of my failure, and stupidity.

I like the band "Smile Empty Soul."  I knew that I liked them the first time I heard the title.  It's just so perfect I want to get a tattoo of it, even though I don't love their music.  What  a perfect, perfect concept.  I feel like it's saying to smile to get through life even though you may be empty and lacking in whatever deeper shit other people have.  I'm not sure what they meant by it though.

My depression is hard for people to be around,  but my attempts at feeling better are too.  I'm not okay, and frankly I doubt I ever will be.  I'm just waiting to die.

Of My Day

I finished my coffee painting this morning, and drank a bit of it. :)  Then Melinda and I went to Kohls and "saved money".  It's always saved money never spent money.  We "'saved" on a pair of short black boots and a white lacy dress.  Altogether they were $8.  I think I'm going to wear the dress for my birthday with these stack heeled peep toe laced up sandals I have, or possibly my awesome nautical heels (also peep toed).  For my birthday my guests are all wearing costumes to fit the identities that I secretly assigned to them.  I will probably be doing their makeup.

Emily and I are hanging out which is ALWAYS fun! :) We are working on her outfit for the party. She will be wearing my bustier style shirt, combat boots, mel's black flowy skirt, doing her hair ,makeup, wearing these sleeves she and I are making, and I made her an accessory that is AWESOME!  Not to give away her outfit, let's just say there's a cat hair core! :)

We are also snacking on Twizzlers and indulging in our usual strange conversation patterns.  She is my friend here who speaks "Kumari".  In art, clothing, and just the usual random references.  I love Em :) <3.

We also sat on a bridge and be glad that I resisted the urge to jump off. :) It was fun to climb up on the rails and dangle our feet.  Oh and I haven't cut in ages (I think the increased antidepressant dose may be working) Melinda agreed to give me a prize every time I make it thirty days without cutting.  So that is fun, maybe I can use this to acquire shiny new clothing :)

Now this sounds like self indulgent blathering.  I shall now try to relate this back to my disease.  Let's just say that BPD is a bitch, but having projects to work on and friends to hangout with make it much better  I've been feeling better since I've been able to do more artwork.  It makes me miss cutting a bit less. I actually really really, want to cut, I still have trouble not secretting away sharp objects.  But I'm so close to thirty days, and I really want a new pair of shoes or something. :)

Oh, funny Trevor story, He says that people are going to start thinking he is a klepto, because he was at work last week and he caught himself automatically putting scissors in his pocket.  So see sharp object gathering is contagious.

Anyway, I'm sure I'll have a down swing for you guys and be able to write dark, moody stuff later. :)

Complaints and Updates. A Rather Boring Post

Why is it that the slightest of illnesses can make life seem overwhelmingly difficult?  I'm definitely not on my death bed or anything but sometimes I wish I were.  At least then there would be an end to feeling sick.  Plus people would probably let me do art in bed. :)

I'm not sure if the almost constant nausea and general "ickyness" are solely due to my psych meds or not.  All I know is that I'm more sensitive to motion then usual, heat, eating, not eating, sleeping, not sleeping, being too active and sometimes nothing at all make me sick.  It's to the point that I didn't brush my teeth tonight because standing made me feel too bad.  Melinda and Trevor hand me things so I can keep lying down, and I'm wondering if I will have to do tilty art for the rest of my life. (I can't draw straight lying down).  I can see people in the future looking for the deeper meaning in all of my crooked drawings.  "Maybe, it has to do with her feeling out of place in the world."  "No, I think it symbolizes her struggle with mental illness."  Little would they know that it's something as simple as an upset tummy.

Now to stop complaining. :) I'm super lucky to have Melinda and Trevor who are extremely patient and understanding when I don't feel well emotionally or physically.  Also Trevor kindly sharpened all of my charcoal pencils for me today (with hair cutting scissors, I really miss my exacto knives). And the other day Melinda Obligingly fed me chicken nuggets so I could keep working with the clay. In other News I started a charcoal drawing of tree roots with a human heart.  I will post it when I finish as well as my drawing Lonely Myocardium.  Oh and of course the polymer clay bouquet I made. :)

Also my I will be meeting my therapist twice a week since the insurance has kicked in now.  That should be interesting.  All in all I do like her, shes the first therapist I haven't been able to bullshit.  Plus she likes my artwork and laughs at my jokes so what's not to love?

I really should end with one of my usual quips.  However my mind has gone blank, please feel free to obligingly laugh. 

Tick Tock, Tick Tock

It has been a dismally long time since I have written anything on this blog, which is not to say that I don't care about this blog or any of the readers we may have.  My failure to write tends to go deeper into feeling unable to be a writer, and to avoidance.  Although I also just feel sick a lot, hang out with people some and currently have been devoting every moment that I can to art.

I made a sculpture of a head (pics to come).  It was made out of things around the house (which you have to remember is a house with two artist in it, but there are still some trash and hand crushed elements).  I also made a sharpie drawing which will also be uploaded soon.  I made a bouquet of random,  bright, colorful, flowers out of polymer clay for Em.

Tomorrow I hope to do a charcoal drawing.  So wish me luck. :)


Now to try just a minute or two of the deep stuff.

I'm going to be 22 in 13 days.  I remember being younger and excitedly counting the days until my birthday.  I could barely wait for the one magical day where things were all supposed to be more fun and all about me.  Add in gifts and cake, what's not to love?

This year I regard my birthday with apprehension.  There are fun parts, like the creative over the top invitations we made (cootie catchers made on origami paper, slipped into envelopes filled with glittery pink confetti.  With Gemstones decorating the envelopes).

Not all of the glitter in the world could completely reconcile me to this birthday.  I never planned to be alive to be 22.

13 more days before I far exceed my deadline.

13 days in which to steel my frayed nerves for one last attempt, the one to end them all as they say.  I haven't been very successful at all since the time I almost was.  Give it time, I have almost a fortnight to figure out a way.

I will :)