LustingforNightmares

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2014-11-22 22:11:54 (UTC)

The Hospital


"Silence" by Lucia [This song is AMAZINGLY BEAUTIFUL AND SO IS LUCIA. LIKE, SHE HAS REALLY PRETTY RED HAIR AND IN THE VIDEO, IT'S BRAIDED INTO A CROWN AND WOW I WISH I COULD DO HAIR AND I WISH I WAS AS PERFECT AS SHE IS]

"Clementine" by Sarah Jaffe [this is immediately a favorite song]

50 states
50 lines
50 crying all the time's
...

All that time wasted
I wish I was a little more delicate
I wish my
I wish my
I wish my
I wish my
I wish my name was Clementine

November 22, 2014 Saturday 9:15 PM

[Warning: this entry started out quite lighthearted but kind of became something sad]


I am a bit sad because I'm all done up with no where to go. I dressed up and did my make up mostly because I wanted to practice without consequences but it ended up looking good so :(

NO ONE CARES ABOUT THE FOLLOWING:

Guess what I just realized, though... I was looking through my beautiful, perfect blog. I am so proud of it, oh my god

Wait

sorry. Get ready for a montage. Ahh, I remember how shitty my blog was. My blog had a life much like a human (shhh don't laugh at me, I'm getting emotional *dramatically wipes a tear from flawless cheek. Makeup remains perfect.*).

The first thing I did right was my URL, be-yondrepair. I changed it about a thousand times before settling on this one. I was inspired by a lyric in a Mayday Parade song (they were my favorite band at the time), I think.

It started out terrible. I posted everything on there and it was chaotic. Eventually, I created two blogs. It was called inbetweenminds or some shit. I still have that blog but I never use it, I created another one, haha. Blog running is fun, okay?

So my blog (be-yondrepair) became a "quality" blog which basically means I reblogged pictures of people holding oreos and nail polish taken with professional cameras. Why the fuck did I do that? That is so lame.

I quickly got bored of that shit and probably went through a couple different blog types until I settled on photography and art.

That's the second thing I did right.

I changed my themes a lot and learned how to edit my blog HTML to get exactly what I wanted which was pretty fucking awesome if I do say so myself.

I eventually got to the amazing theme I have now and yeah. My blog is really, really, really pretty.

This is dumb but I love it so much because every time I visit it, all I see is beautiful art and meaningful pictures and quotes and screenshots from movies, haha.

I know some of the pictures aren't considered art or anything but they hold meaning for me which is why I want to keep them forever. They inspire me and make me think thoughts without words, things I can't express to other people.
Damn, I am glad I'm not a guy because if I was, I'd be put down so much for having the feelings I have. People suck. They make guys sooo much more ashamed of emotions than girls. Poor males. YOU CAN CRY ON MY SHOULDER ANY TIME. I WILL AWKWARDLY PAT YOU ON THE BACK AND AFTERWARD, I WILL SIT WITH A FROWN ON MY FACE AND SAY TO MYSELF, "Okay. That was different."

You know what? I like art containing water. Water seems to be something I am into. Maybe they remind me of my dreams. Water is supposed to represent subconsciousness. I dream of water a lot. I often drown. Everybody I love dies in water. One time, I had a strange dream in which several familiar people and myself were standing in a tall, white room filled with water. We stood still in the shallow sea, each facing different walls, unmoving. All of our eyes focused on the space in front of us.

I had another dream in which the entire world was flooding. I watched a hospital building become submerged. I remember being so afraid. The water somehow became so deep, deep as the ocean. I could just barely see the flickering lights of the hospital at the bottom.

OH MY GOD.

"To see objects underwater in your dream symbolizes your suppressed feelings as represented by the objects."

and

"To see houses under water implies that you are very comfortable with your own emotions."

Yes. That would be me, haha. I don't know if any of this is true but hey, I like dream moods.com. I think it's pretty cool.

Anyway, the hospital would probably represent the psychiatric hospital I spent a month in when I was thirteen/fourteen for depression and anxiety. I can remember how unstable I was. Whatever sadness I feel now is nothing compared to that, wow. I know I talk about my past a lot. Sorry.

The truth is, I haven't gotten over it and I know why. It's because I don't tell other people. My parents don't talk about it either, which I am more than okay with.

I mean I don't tell the people I love. Lily knows and I'm sure Laney does. Aaron definitely does. I am very aware, too aware, that they probably haven't forgotten. I have used time to bury it but, inside me, it's alive and kicking.

I have contradicting feelings. I told Lily and Aaron that I was in the hospital. I told them but I wish I didn't. It's not that I don't trust them, it's just that... I don't want them to see me as weak and I believe I told them for the wrong reasons.

I think I told them because I wanted to say, "Fuck you." in a sense. We were an unhealthy group, okay?

Like, we were bad for each other at the time. We all had depression and anxiety and we only made it worse. We couldn't comfort each other because each time we tried to talk, we made it about ourself and no one was ever satisfied. No one ever felt like they had been heard.

Or at least, that's how I thought it was. It was only a matter of time before one of us did what I did. I think it was always going to be me. I had the resources. I had parents who were eager, very eager, to help and a safe place that insurance money could pay for.

This all sounds so dirty but it wasn't a plan or anything. At least, not a plan that I had consciously thought of. Honestly, much of the time, it felt like my brain made evil, manipulative choices without my consent.

Really, it was a horrific time for me and I need to talk about it. I have Pat but I need someone I love. I really need to talk about this in depth.

And I can't have interruptions or anything. Basically, I need a "session". Like, shit. It gets repetitive to hear me constantly mentioning "THE HOSPITAL" (make sure to think that in an ominous, low voice. If you have listend to Welcome To Night Vale, please imagine Cecil's voice, thank you).

Every time I mention it, I unconsciously feel a bit empty inside, like something is missing and I guess I'm just now figuring out that really, all I needed to do was talk about it. THAT'S HARD FOR ME.

People say, "You can talk to me," and I say, "I know," but I never take them up on that offer because I just don't trust them. I can't. I can't. I even hold Lily, my favorite person in the world, at an arm's length. There are subjects I avoid with her, depression being one of them. Occasionally, we talk about it but I feel dirty and we always say really vague things. We're not specific and it's kind of hard to discuss our feelings when we're pointing at them from a distance.

Anyway, though.

I cannot express enough how bad that time was for me. I could not trust myself (this was the years 2012 to 2013. My depression started growing in 2011 and I think didn't ever fully disappear until recently).

I was in agony. I gained a lot of weight and constantly felt ugly. I wore crappy clothes every day. I sat in corners and didn't talk to anyone. I drew really creepy, horrifying pictures.

They remind me of Jamie's pictures, actually, but I kind of hate Jamie. She goes around showing people her scars. I think she is looking for attention, not help. She's even proud of the number of scars on her wrists and she told me that she tried to kill herself. God, I resent her for that.

And this is why. I WAS TERRIBLE. I thought terrible things. I hated myself. I still have issues with that. I constantly berated myself for being sad. I berated myself for EVERYTHING. This self-hate shot my anxiety through the roof. I remember pacing my dark room for hours at a time, crying, listening to music.

I often talked about it with my friends but like I said, it was never satisfying. I never felt any less alone because we were all going through the same thing. It wasn't their fault.

So I started cutting myself. My thighs, stomach, hips, upper arms, and wrists. It was like a sport. I did it to break the numbness, to take away the sadness, to dilute the anger, to get rid of anything that felt unpleasant.

Yeah. Okay. I'm so sorry for talking about this, I am but I need to understand myself. I am confused. I have always been confused. I used to hate that I did this to myself but I don't think it was my fault.

That's a pretty big thing for me to say. I think everything is my fault.

But really, I thinK I was scared at the time. I had my values confused. I was petrified by the future, murdered by my memories which were warped by my anxiety. I zoomed in on the smallest details and felt humiliated by tiny moments that in reality, never mattered.

I was just scared.

I was alone, too. People told me I was too loud. Too dramatic. Too much of a crybaby. Selfish. And I believed it, and so now I constantly live in fear of being exactly what people told me I am.

IT WAS NO ONE'S FAULT. No one's. It wasn't even mine.

Everything became distorted. All my memories from that time are either glaringly bright, like they were lit by fluorescent lights, or muted, tinted blue, poisoned by everything I was feeling.

These days, my memories are multicolored, pretty things. Even the sad days have their own beautiful color pallet and things are always okay. That sounds quite dull, but okay is better than what it was.

I remember terrible things. I remember cracked mirrors. I remember blood. I remember painting my face with that blood. I remember empty eyes in the mirror, crying, disappointed parents. I remember my dad holding me down as I tried to punch him. Misplaced anger made me violent.

See, I thought I was crazy so I let myself go. I let the instincts invade me. I let myself pick fights with my parents. I let myself become violent, towards them and myself. It only made me feel shittier but I thought it was who I was.

It's not. I'm happy. I'm lighthearted. When I feel my best, it's not easy to make me upset. I am full of love and in control of myself for the most part.

At the time, though... I punched mirrors. I broke my own things. I broke my skin. I used to hit my hips and my arms until purple bruises formed.

I punched my dad (just once). I was honestly an awful person but it was not my fault. I mean, there are things I could've done differently but I did the best I could at that period in my life.

I felt guilty because I was always doing things for attention. I felt invisible, okay? I needed help, a lot of it. I needed someone to notice me. I think going to the hospital was good for me.

I think medication was good for me. I don't think I could've done it all on my own, really.

I'm tired, now. Talking about this exhausts me. That girl is dead, anyhow. I am just trying to justify my actions a little. I am trying to rid myself of the burden those memories are.

I am trying to apologize and at the same, I am trying to defend myself.

I am trying to escape it all.

It's a secret. It's special. It's dirty. Unclean. It is for someone I can trust. I tell myself this is because only someone who loves me will be able to hear what I'm saying.

Anyway, yeah. Somehow, I ended up talking about my history. You know what's sad? I could spend so much time talking about this time in my life.

In fact, I need to spend that time talking about this so I can finally let it the fuck go. Maybe it'll stop weighing me down, sinking like a stone into the recesses of my head when I lie down to go to sleep.

Tied to everyone, at the bottom of the ocean and somewhere along the way, I think I stopped making sense. Maybe around the beginning of that last sentence, haha.


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