Saturday, November 30, 2013

stretching out scars

It's hard to move my hands around now because the skin of my forearms is tight. So many parallel lines, so many tangents, all made of this shiny new thick fabric my own body engineered. All of them are pulling my extremities closer to my core, making sure I don't stray, making me small. I've lost weight since I tried to kill myself and that makes me happier than anything else in the world.

Hello world, I say every morning on another day I took for myself to get better but in which I will do actually nothing but rot. I do not get a reply. Because the world is moving forwards and everyone is accelerating and I am here in the same spot where I decided to die but I'm not dead but I am rotting. I'm stagnant. I never unpaused. I don't know what to do but all I think about is coming to a better full stop. Something that takes away the comparisons.

Friday, November 22, 2013

notes on being depressed and being in love

Every night I sleep at around 9 pm. I sleep with all the ceiling lights off but with my laptop left on, screen set dim. It burns tiny holes with its exhaust fans into the wood of the chair it lives on, all while I slip out of my own life and sink into my own mind. It keeps me company when I want to be alone. As a result, I've developed a deep personal connection with actors I've never met and do not know what are like, and characters who have been written as exaggerations. I listen to scripted words as a lullaby and that is comforting as if there was some one there. Here is the reason why: I get sad.

I am sad when it is dark and I am allowed to cry. Sad like I'm not allowed to be sad in public. Sad like I'm not allowed to be when in class. Sad like I always am but never want to acknowledge.

Pause. Wait. How on Earth can I talk about being sad, being so very sad, being sad at night, being a ball of flesh that wants to turn into a depressed black hole, an absence of a being caused by sad sad sad self-loathing forces? How can I say these things and not sound self-indulgent? Self-indulgent is an ugly word. Self is an ugly thing. Here it is again: I'm an I and a myself and I hate it. I hate how I want to talk about how I feel and how I feel like shit and the only words I can use are sad and self-loathing. These are terms of the ugly self-indulgent, and that's why I use them. They are words that I have to use because a, I am too dumb to think of any other, b, they are perfect for the dumb feelings I have, and c, any other word would be wrong as well. 

How can someone talk about being depressed without sounding silly? How can someone verbalize that? Type it? Carve it into a tree? Use that silly cursive font they drilled into us in grade school? Is there any way to talk about it? I have tried and I have failed and now I've given up. Now I shall just spill like a knocked over pitcher. Fuck it, fuck it. Here goes.

Being depressed and in love is confusing because your heart is filled with handwritten notes signed with kisses, but your stomach is filled with doubt. Why why why do you like me? I want to ask, I want to know, I want the words to bleed from me until I get an answer I can hold. Dear. Stop complimenting me, I don't take those well. But please reassure me that you will hold my hand when I am sad and that you are okay with my being sad. This is all very confusing. I want to lie on my back and stare at the ceiling and do nothing but breathe and think about how I am and how I exist and I want you next to me but you will get bored of staring at the ceiling and you will want to be outside and doing fun things with a real happy fun shiny other girl. I worry. I worry that I will make you sad. Depression should be on the quarantine list of the Center for Infectious Diseases. Please don't let me ruin you. Please hold my hand.

How to think about being with someone when thinking about what dying feels like is a tight rope I have yet to learn to walk. Shut up I know the whole love yourself first before you can love someone else saying blah blah, it's a lie. I love you I love you but I hate me I hate me and on bad days I need you so much it's silly. But love is not a cure for depression, It's a soft blanket and an entirely different thing. Separate the church from the state, the colored clothes from the whites, your personal life and your work life, and the butterflies and kisses from the hate hate hate of your own skin. It's possible. It's weird and amazing and terrible but it's nice and that's the best way to articulate it.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

This sunday

On Sunday, November 18, I tried to kill myself. Things have been a bit weird since then. I drag my fingertips along walls and railing or whatever a lot more when I'm walking around.

My doctor said it's a good thing that I'm an Environmental Science major, and not a Biology student otherwise maybe I wouldn't be typing things out now. I only had to get one stitch and somehow that disappoints me. I played with the stretchy fibers of the inside of my right wrist and I saw pretty veins that I tried to cut but they were tough. Maybe they weren't veins. It didn't hurt.

I went to school on Tuesday and it was really confusing. I'm in a weird head space. I confused a buret for a pipet and I don't do that ever. I know my lab equipment. I cry almost instantly with sad thoughts. I have to sit down or go to the bathroom to bang my head against the wall to remind myself to keep my shit together and it's worse when I make a sound when cry-breathing because then everyone will know, everyone will know.

Things are strange after you sort of try to kill yourself on impulse. I gave up after 30 minutes because it was taking too long to bleed out and I don't know. I texted my brother, and then my dad, that I think I need to go to the hospital. I had been cutting since the night before. But it was only on Sunday that FUCK IT YOLO MIGHT AS WELL MAKE IT A QUICKIE right?

I remember waiting and sitting with my brother in the living room to see if my dad would pick us up or meet us at the hospital. I remember standing up and feeling woozy when refilling the warm water I stuck my wrists in to keep bleeding keep bleeding slowly nice and lovely. I remember crying. I remember watching the anesthetic being injected and the suturing. I remember the dressing. I remember being taken to a psych ward and begging to go home. The days after blur together. I feel lonely. I'm in a wonky head space and I stare at things and ceiling and lie still a lot.