2017-06-20 15:30:53 (UTC)

Self, Don't Fuck This Up

"Luna" by The Smashing Pumpkins

What moon songs
Do you sing your babies?
What sunshine do you bring?

Who belongs
Who decides who's crazy
Who rights wrongs where others cling?

June 20, 2017 Tuesday 4:31 PM

I want to stop my medication.

I already haven't taken Wellbutrin in about a week just 'cause I ran out of pills and keep forgetting to go to the pharmacy, but I've also been forgetting to take my Lexapro just 'cause I'm dumb and don't have a regular dosing schedule now that school is over.

And I have no idea how I feel right now, no idea man. I think I'm OK. I feel okay. I feel fine. I am just tired. Very, very, very tired. Veeerrry tired. But this is because I'm dumb and don't sleep enough or I sleep too much. Point is, I am doing little to solve my sleep problems. Instead, I am skipping my pills and crawling out of bed at 1 PM. I'm spending my days hyperfocused on editing videos for fun, or sometimes hyperfocused on writing for hours at a time with no interruption not even to go to the bathroom (I just bring my stuff with me if I have to pee or poop or something). And then maybe I'm reading, and sometimes checking my e-mail obsessively or playing Pocket Mortys or finally, finally, finally doing some stuff to prepare for college, but mostly I don't do that last thing, no, no, I do not.

I watch lots of videos on the internet, bro. When I'm not listening to music, I'm watching videos from this youtuber known as Cody's Lab. He's cool and smelts his own rocks and has drunk cyanide and also implanted a magnet into his finger sans anesthetic so he could sense magnetic fields. More than these videos, I watch ones about unsolved murder mysteries because I love thinking about that stuff, love morbid things, love watching roadkill

(I saw a very cute and dead squirrel the other day and it reminded me of a raccoon I saw slumped dead on the margin of a highway a few weeks before then; the squirrel probably fell from a wire above the road. It wasn't splattered, it was just curled on the pavement almost like it was sleeping, only, y'know. It was not. The same goes for the raccoon I saw.
Once, when I was little, I saw a dead squirrel on the walk to school and I was fascinated. Back then, my dad used to walk me to school—he walked me up until third grade—and I wanted to entertain him, so I told him that I had befriended the squirrel and its name was Dissected Eye because one of its eyeballs was bursting from the socket while the other socket looked kind of empty and crushed. See, the thing had been smashed by a car at some point.

This is so vivid because I remember passing it every day on the way to and back school, saying hello to Dissected Eye as it rotted except I don't remember if it ever rotted all the way or if some city worker came to pick it up, ooor maybe I eventually got bored of the thing. Or maybe it's all of those things??)

I remember all that time I spent researching body decomposition after listening to (1) the Serial podcast and (2) writing a story about finding a dead body after it had been dead for about 30 to 60 minutes. So I had to do a lot of work to figure out what parts of the body break down first, when the blood settles, when the heat leaves the body completely. I wish I could've written skin slippage but the body was too fresh. I remember I wrote that it expelled all the contents of intestines ("a corpse-load," as Rick and Morty, season 1x3 Anatomy Park, referred to it as) and some of the skin had changed color and it looked all waxy and yes. God, that and the research on 911 emergency dispatch protocols was the most fun part of writing that story.

I remember a while ago, my mom and I were bringing groceries into the house and I stopped to stare at a squashed animal on the road. I don't remember what kind.

Death is a less curious thing when you're devastated, though. I mean, it's comforting to think about the bodies of loved ones rotting
(no, that's not sarcasm, I'm serious—it's kind of therapeutic to know exactly what is happening to them while it happens; it's nice to understand that death is nothing mysterious or weird... it's predictable), but when you first see it, I'm sure it's awful awful awful.

Like, I was there when my dog April was put down while she was in extreme pain from organ failure. It was strange, to watch her shuddering breath eventually just stop. It wasn't sudden; her lungs expelled air as they always did, but then they just didn't suck anymore back into the body after that. Her eyes were open and shiny like they could see, but they weren't moving anymore, and I was touching her fur like I did whenever I curled up next to her. She was warm and it was almost like she was still alive except it was much too late to come back from wherever she was. Everything had just slowly stopped.

I like thinking about this moment because of how bizarre it is. It was not enjoyable, don't get me wrong. Even now, it kind of horrifies me. But not enough to keep me from being fascinated.

I like when books include murder. Like Lord of the Flies—I loved the way Golding described the death of Piggy and that other kid before him (was it Simon?). He focused on the strange details of death... The seeping of blood across the rock, the strange stillness. All that unfamiliar stuff, the crazy fact of seeing someone alive and then dead, comparing and contrasting the two states.

I just spent yesterday and the day before reading these two stories; the first was about a woman named Pia who died in her suburban Detroit home in February 2009 at the age of 45. Her body was not discovered until March 2014. The other was about a man in his 60s or 70s, George Bell, who died in his New York City apartment and was not found for 6 days. The idea of dying without anyone knowing or caring.

I'd keep going but my mom is calling me down to eat and, well, yeah.

As for my pills, which is what I had originally intended to write about (god damn it self). Yes, I want to stop taking them but I am not sure if I should pursue this impulse.

My problem is that, suddenly, I feel very fake. I feel like I am not sick enough to warrant this much treatment. I have never been sick enough to need medication. Maybe I should just climb off of it and deal with things like a real person instead of resorting to drugs. Not that I'd make the same judgements of someone else... But I have never been someone else. I am just myself, and as always, I judge who I am harder than I'd ever dare to judge others (out loud). It is important that I be above and beyond what I expect of myself. This is unrealistic, this is setting myself up for disappointment.

But I am afraid that if I do not always aim much higher than I intend that I will end up falling short, short, short, until I'm nowhere.

I was something when I was little. I was sensitive in a way I can barely even comprehend now; the pain now compared to then is like a faded bruise, y'know. I can still feel the way it would have hurt if I were an elementary schooler, but now it is distant I can move on with my life. Back then, any little comment would've sent me into tears. Back then, I liked to lie because I was kind of good at it, although I was never an actual Liar. I didn't lie to adults and I didn't often lie on purpose.

I liked to be mean sometimes, and I also liked to be right. If I had a particular vendetta against a friend, sometimes I'd pick fights and manipulate so it'd look like they were the problem the whole time. Then, I'd spend weeks feeling horrible about myself and it'd take me awhile to realize it was because I knew I was being unreasonable and unfair, and I knew that I was mad about something that my friend could not change or could not know to apologize for. And I didn't have the eloquence or maturity to be honest.

This changed in high school and I feel much less now than I used to. I am regularly guilty, but not often of picking fights. Mostly, the guilt comes from an accumulation of, I dunno. Just general negative feelings that've crusted up my insides. I wish I had soul past and a soul brush, keep it clean every night before bed so I can sleep without having nightmares. I never minded nightmares, though... So I don't know what I'm wishing for right now.

All I know is that I'm not sick enough.

And the following may sound kind of absurd and kind of, I don't know, self-important, but I have a feeling something has always been wrong with me and I will never know what it is.

My sister would tell me that that's dumb. Nothing is wrong with me unless it interferes with me life. She would say this because I think she has the same thoughts, and she judges herself just as harshly as I do myself. So now she tries to make up for it by trying to make sure I won't end up doing the same thing. Instead of making me feel better, though, talking to Caroline about this kind of stuff just makes me feel shitty.

I know she's right. I know it's dumb. I know that if I think I'm different, if I feel special, if I feel separate from the rest of the world, it is not a reflection of what is and is not normal inside my head. It is a reflection of ego. I feel special because I want to be special; I feel separate because I want to be separate; I'm different because I've made myself that way.

Then why does it feel so ingrained? Why do I genuinely feel so far-removed from others sometimes?

Oh, everyone feels that way. I know that. I'm just being a dumbass right now, is all.

What I really want, what I desperately want, is to actually be special. To actually be different.

Which is why I cannot take a compliment. First of all, I'll never believe it fully and that's for the best anyways 'cause any compliments just make me feel like the greatest human being in the world and then I feel guilty for thinking that in the first place when I am clearly just a dumb teenager.

(And it here it comes again: I don't think teenagers are dumb! But I know other people think otherwise, and I guess I've been training myself to be a shield against others' impressions for a long time... this means, basically, if I can say it first, you can never hurt me. You can't insult me with what I know/think to be the truth unless I've avoided considering it too deeply).

So, a reminder to myself:

You do not have an anxiety disorder. You do not have any disorder. You were not super emotionally sensitive as a child, you were just a crybaby. You were never socially awkward or different in any way—but because you thought of yourself that way, that is how you acted.
You are not special. Nothing in this world is "meant" for you. All of this has been luck, pure luck. None of your achievements are based on merit. You're just plain fucking lucky.

I believe all of the above. But I am always desperate for someone to tell me I'm wrong.


Running on sand. I can't justify myself, I just won't let it happen. I'm not sure where the damage came from, although I am quick to blame myself for it. All I know is that is what makes it hard to stand—when there's no solid ground beneath, no concrete decisions and ideas, it's just hard to stay calm all the time. I mean, I have no reliable information. Every fact changes with a change in my mood.


Off the medication. I want to say I am going off medication to be my true self, and because I feel I don't need it. But mostly, I am going off my medication because I am hoping for a reminder that I am sick. I want someone to tell me, I want a doctor to tell me, that I don't have to do all this blaming all the time.

I just hate being in charge of everything all the time. I hate being my own parent and guardian.

Ah, that's stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Everything is fine. I really do feel okay. I should stop self-sabotaging. I will probably feel much better tomorrow.

For now, I think I'm going to go talk to my mom so she can talk me out of my urge to skip meds.