LustingforNightmares

tumbleweed
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2018-05-22 01:00:17 (UTC)

A Brief History of, of, of--


"Something Soon" by Car Seat Headrest

I was referring to the present in past tense
It was the only way that I could survive it
I want to close my head in the car door
I want to sing this song like I'm dying

Heavy boots on my throat I need
I need something soon
I need something soon
I can't talk to my folks I need
I need something soon
I need something soon
All of my fingers are froze I need
I need something soon
I need something soon
Only one change of clothes I need
I need something soon
I need something soon
My head is my head is my head is
--
Binging on the latest sitcom
Feeling guilty every second it's on
I want put my foot through a window
(I document my mind loss)
I want to romanticize my headfuck
(through instruments of wordplay)

May 22, 2018 Tuesday 1:02 AM

Here's an idea! I was hoping just the act of writing that sentence would give me one. A good one. No such luck. I want/ed to die but I have this paranoia that if I were to die now it'd be shameful. It'd look as if I were doing it for the wrong reasons. Which, I suppose is not untrue. But it's not really that accurate either. I dunno, I'm talking out of my ass. What even are the "right" or "wrong" reasons? Why live? Who's asking? Is it the biologist? Are we talking in terms of our genetic material? In which case, I should hold on until I have a kid, right? That's why we live: to have babies that have babies that have babies. And then what if it's the romantic who thinks life should be full of happiness and shit? Ah, I can't even fathom. I've never been that girl. I've always been more of the "Why even ask that question?" philosophy. It's unanswerable, is what my thoughts say (even as they try very hard to answer it plug up the holes). The answer to Why We Ask For the Point (not to confused with the more ambiguous question: what is the point of life/why should someone choose to live or die) is that we want to know whether or not life--or something within life--is worth "it." Is worth out time and effort.

So I guess I'm a little nervous about asking that question only because I know that in my case, I'm asking if I should really be alive right now: I'm asking why I want so badly to be alive, why it is a gut instinct when mostly I am just kind of emptied out. I think deep down I am a little idealistic and I hold onto the idea that if I just keep going things will get better. I'm not wrong or anything; things do get better. Then they get worse. Then they get better. Just depends to what degree. I mean, if the rate of Things Getting Worse was greater than the rate of Things Getting Better, then I guess it seems more reasonable to--assuming a consistent trend--kill yourself. (Then comes the sub-questions: can you assume a consistent trend? How long are you willing to wait for a change? What determines the length of wait-time? Is there a reliable way to figure out the likelihood of life improvement as time goes on, or is it mostly unpredictable? At a certain point, does the amount of emotional damage associated with pain change your fundamental beliefs enough that it is not worth it to go on? But again we are at the same question: what does it even mean for life to be "worth it"?)

I don't think my circumstances justify suicide. Superficially, I am doing very well. I've had a stable home life, a very good relationship with my older sibling, good relationships with my parents, comfortable financial situation, I'm bilingual, had great grades and high praise from teachers throughout high school, some artistic talent, some musical talent, I basically attended college in my senior year after getting accepted into a semi-selective regional biology program that takes 15 students max annually (at that point I was taking all college-credit and only one was taught at my high school), medium involvement in extracurriculars, healthy social life, attendance at an Ivy League university, a cheap apartment for the summer and a well-paying job doing something that I enjoy, I just got a supervising position at my other job, I've done pretty well in my classes these past two semesters (I have an approximately 3.5 GPA, which is unusually low compared to high school, but it is a hit I kind of expected to take in the transition to college), I have made very close friends, I have a romantic life, I am not overly stressed, I sleep eight hours a night, I am well-hydrated and not overweight, somewhat physically fit, generally not unattractive (although maybe a little weird-looking), and I do not have trouble being assertive ("aggressive" as Eli likes to put it; "empowered" says Lancelot), nor do I lack a sense of self--my sense of self is actually very, very, very strong. Even now, experiencing unfamiliar situations, I can see addendums to my core values: footnotes, questions, exceptions to what I so far know about who I am and where I make myself fit into the world. In addition to that, I have what a lot of people don't have: a lifelong passion and a drive to see it through as a career. It was never a question in my mind that I would be a writer. The question was if that was all I would be. Aaaaand probably, yeah, probably just a writer. I think I am lacking in the energy and intelligence required to do much else. Oh, other pretty good things: I don't get period cramps. That's pretty nice. Oh and I have really nice soft hair.

Anyway. Really, the only things that have ever caused me any strife are the things in my head. I was an emotionally-sensitive child (did a lot of self-hating even back then; I'd lie awake and shame myself for masturbating, lol), I got kind-of touched by a close family friend who would later go on to deny it when confronted a decade or so later (I don't think I'm over that yet!!!!!! Because even now I am laughing just thinking about it, laughing and saying "what the fuck?" as I try to figure out! Why someone I loved and trusted and--in some perverse subconscious way 'protected'-- would feel the need to lie, to invalidate the very real thing I experienced at whatever ambiguous age in the middle of the night! Sexual or not, the encounter was strange. I don't know that it affected me then but it sure as hell affects me now--possibly only because she lied about it. Had she fessed up, I might've had to deal with it. But in a way, I am relieved that she has lied. Because now I can be mad. And god, it is easier to be mad than it is to sift through all the other emotions--of confusion and betrayal). Hah. Anyway. Going on: I have had headaches since I hit puberty in middle school. More often than not, they are just tension things, but I also get a migraine about once or twice a month, depending. Usually the pain leading up to the migraine lasts a week on and off (most noticeable when I am active). Another middle school occurrence: the first flexing of my anxiety/depression! I am sure I had anxiety my whole life; I think it either got worse in middle school or I became so painfully aware of it that I developed depression too, haha. I vied for my parents' attention. Sister was off at college. Asked mom for therapy: did not emphasize the urgency enough, maybe did not trust myself enough to believe there was urgency. Either way, she got me monthly therapy and it was not enough (even now I am healthy and I have to go once a week to keep from going insane; twice a week when I am insane). I think I broke some stuff. I definitely cut myself, but not deep because--although I was in denial at the time--the cuts served as both self-punishment and a cry for help. They just needed to be visible. Paradoxically, if anyone ever saw them (Ethan did once) I'd feel great waves of shame and an instinct to deny. I punched my dad at some point. He held me down while I kicked and screamed. Then I thought I wanted to die. I went to a mental hospital. I got out. My family began to talk about returning to school the Monday after my Friday release (yes--two days home and then back to a major source of my anxiety). On Sunday this hit me and I tried to "die" (or more accurately, I tried to kill the version of the future that I feared and was successful). Spent a while in the hospital; unconscious, then conscious, then peeing in front of strangers who would not let me be alone, then getting a tampon removed for me, then getting evaluated a million times over, then going back to the hospital, then coming out and vowing to never go back, then my mom crying, then me seeking the control I relinquished when I risked my own life--seeking that control in the smallest corner things; I limited my caloric intake to 1200 a day and lost twenty pounds over the course of a few months. By freshman year of high school I was 110 pounds versus my 135 of the previous spring. I was sad but I kept living and it was fine. Sometimes I cut myself, sometimes I did not (most recent intentional self-harm: blatant overdrinking and a big ass purple bruise on my hip from slamming my wrist into it repeatedly all day). Sometimes, when things felt out of my control, I starved myself (most recently the month of April). Always I thought too much (most recently: now). Sometimes my sad would rear up and I'd think I wanted to die, but I was always misinterpreting my desperation: to kill that future which I feared.

Then comes now when I am not necessarily less sad. I am better equipped. I have decided (and this decision may be harmful but it is one I base off of years with the faint hope that I am still somehow wrong) that I will never be not-sad. I can be happy, but you know: inherently I am just sad and that's how it will always be. Does that mean I suffer more than not? No, I don't think so. No, I think my superficial "achievements" are kind of nice too. And despite connotations of the word superficial, they are satisfying in their own way. A good torch to keep away the dark or whatever. Sorry, cheap metaphor. Not cheap enough to delete.

I will not kill myself (right now, but also probably I will never kill myself--I really like those superficial things; and maybe some of them/most of them aren't even superficial). I kind of want to die, I am kind of cold, I really have to pee-- but I won't die. I want to write. I want to live alone. I want to graduate, go to grad school--do all those things that sound kind of interesting in theory. So, like. Yeah. I am a little shook but: I think I just managed to cheer myself up????

Wow. Go me. I love you, me. I love you too, me. Goodnight. We will try very hard not to have thoughts (they are all poison today) while we try to sleep. Please, please, please. Things will be okay.


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