This is your very first post. Click the Edit link to modify or delete it, or start a new post. If you like, use this post to tell readers why you started this blog and what you plan to do with it.
This is your very first post. Click the Edit link to modify or delete it, or start a new post. If you like, use this post to tell readers why you started this blog and what you plan to do with it.
To be truthfully honest, I am summing up courage and will to put my current thoughts out here. I’ve kept repeating to myself that maybe it’s a bit too early to be expressing what I’m about to write out to the world but what the hell, it’s sorta now or never. It’s in the same concept of how I view loving someone and when is it more than just love…when is it the right time to admit not just to self but to others that you are feeling in love. Stereotypically, I’ve come to the acknowledgement that I affiliate love to a period of time. It always has seemed absurd that people could bring themselves to believe that in just a couple of months of knowing someone and exchanging vulnerabilities, one could peg themselves into thinking that they were in love with the person to whom they were getting to know. It was more absurd to me if I mentioned to a friend that I was talking to someone new and their first question would be whether I love the guy… It just doesn’t seem possible to feel such intensity in such a short manner of time. Though, maybe I am wrong because I’m beginning to see that what might have been and felt impossible and beyond absurd to me, is slowly & steadily changing right before my eyes.
Earlier in the year, in what I’d call my Faith moments, I prayed to God for a boyfriend. I told Him that I wanted someone who’d make me their world and not just a part of it but more so all of it. I was quite serious with my prayer and I was devoted to believing that God would come through. Over time, I fell back into routine where praying just kind of drifted away from my mind (p.s God forgive me) and I completely forgot that I’d been praying for a boyfriend with specifics in check. Now, over near three months later, here I am deliriously happy in a relationship that isn’t even a full two months old. It seems I’ve been breaking a lot of my own ideologies concerning love & falling in love. I’ve always separated the two aspects of love. Even the term caring hasn’t been one I’ve used lightly before, it’s actually what I’ve considered a lot of my past relationships as, them based on care rather than love. Caring to me is showing affection for one’s well-being and maybe due to that limiting factor, I didn’t suffer the intense aggony people seem to feel when they part with their partners. In my previous relationships, I struggled quite a lot to let my walls down and my guard as well. I had boundaries my partners didn’t even know existed. I was well aware I cared for them, for the physical and mental well being but I couldn’t bring myself to involve emotion into that sequence. I cared, but not too much. I let my guard down, but just enough for them to feel my presence. I didn’t love them and I wasn’t in love with them either. Back to the present, something has changed. Things have supposedly become everything emotional. Maybe it’s because, my current significant other showed me his flaws before he could introduce me to the rest of himself. Or maybe it’s because he expressed love for my flaws before he could see the less damaged sides of me. I can’t be certain what among the mirage of things between us has made our relationship special but I can say with certainty that emotions are now the biggest part of our relationship.
On the day we asked each other if we could be each others significant other, I remembered the prayers I had talked to God about giving me a boyfriend. Before then, I was ridden with doubt that this would turn out to be just too good to be true but in that moment when I remembered that I’d prayed for this, every sense of doubt dropped from my shoulders like I weight I had been carrying. I told myself that I’d take that as my sign that God had heard my prayers and He’d given me what I had asked for. A boyfriend who’d show me that my vulnerability to emotion could be something beautiful. That I didn’t need to time myself to how fast I’d care more than I was accustomed to. Now, I kinda do believe that love knows no time frame because it’s early in my relationship but I know for sure that I love him and he has relayed to feeling the same towards me. I’m no longer gonna just put one foot in and the rest of my body out. I definitely do deserve to be loved by someone with the emotional depth of more than a pin cushion and I definitely deserve to express more than just care to someone deserving of more love than my mere words can express.
P.S I’m not too sure if I’ve made sense with this post but hope it’s clear enough to have brought across the point of it all. Love, Dawn.
“ I need you you know, and you need me, it’s just a matter of time before we realize just how much. “
He wants to fall with me. I’m uncertain he’s ready for whatever that might mean, for either of us. He insists I shut up every time I try to tell him that he’s always gonna have an out from me… right after, he insists that if he hurts at the end of it all, it will be on him. He is quite strange but I’ve gotta admit it’s beginning to grow on me. Quite the straight forward boy he is, can quite easily come off as cocky and you know what’s said about cocky boys… Me too, I’m not too certain what they say about cocky boys but I guess there’s gotta be a saying out there somewhere. Back to the straight forward stranger, if I were to be honest, he had me when he had the gall to text me that I needed him. Me who is trying to eliminate the term need from my vocabulary, here he is with the very word I’m trying to uncling myself from. I have never had anyone pack a mean pair of balls like he has approaching me like that. I wasn’t sure if that pick up line has worked for other girls but I was sure not gonna let him know it worked on me. I handed his ass back right to him for I have a reputation to maintain. #noemotion 💪🏾. Curious question though, is playing hard to get a thing that everyone does, girls to be specific and how long should it go for before you burn out of bullets to shoot him down with…? Anyway, this stranger keeps seeming quite different from the typical boy who’s chances of giving in run much higher. I don’t know what to make of it, still treading carefully. I might be a tad bit emotionless in this field but a girl’s gotta still armour herself, just in case you know, he is the one who finally breaks through.
Now I can say this is with utter conviction, this stranger brings out the heavy lain corniness outta me, I’m half the time embarrased by our conversations. Like its beyond cringe worthy if I had to expose it to the world but there’s a minor joy brought about by the corny which makes me happy and giddy, like a little happy girl which I know I’ve not felt with anyone else besides him. I wanted to start this update with the heavy disclaimer that this isn’t a love letter to the said stranger. It’s just a bunch of spitballs to bring clarity to me and my mind towards this boy who promises me the world over and over again, and despite the impossibility of that fact, he always seems to bring out a smile on my face. He and I haven’t met in person and if either of us were normal human beings, we’d have our first meet all planned out but no, he and I intend to surprise each other. Just basic conditions in place but he seems to like walking around with an air of mystery to him. Truth be told, I’m trying to keep up. He’s a dreamer alright, seems to have ‘our‘ time together all planned out to the very last second. I like it kinda, men who thrive on control ease me up a bit … I no longer know what we are doing, he is an enigma right now, maybe he’ll retain it but my attention is definitely drawn…for emphasis, he’s got me picking up his phone calls which many can attest to of how bad I’m at when it comes to picking calls, as a matter of fact, he’s gotten me doing it every nightfall. I sure don’t recognize myself anymore when it comes to him. Here I am making adjustments to myself for a stranger…. but, a little secret, I’m totally okay with the changes he’s bringing out.
Like I said earlier, this isn’t a love letter or anything close. I don’t even think I’m poetic enough to conjure words that resemble those of lovers to each other. We can call this an introduction of my new enigma. I’ve obviously not delved enough for y’all to seriously see why he’s got my attention captive but maybe down the line, I’ll rope y’all in on more about this quite interesting stranger of mine. But for now, just know, a girl just might be smitten. 😅
Under a full moon, I sinned tonight. I did what I thought I’d vowed in my heart to not partake in but here I am, with the stench of it as a reminder that I broke my silent promise. Sanctity destroyed. I’m numb and guilty all bundled up in one. I wish I could say I had the chance to stop myself and truthfully speaking, I had all the chances and enough reason not to defile that promise…but I did. It’s done, and will probably happen again.
I’ve been on a quest for the past week, a quest for a poison I truly didn’t need. Fueled by some miniature need to fit in; where, I’m not sure. The quest deemed futile which made it all the more enticing to attain. Today, I got what my mind thought it needed, for I can say with certainty, my heart knew it wasn’t essential.
That’s the thing about illusions of the mind, they are insatiable to say the least. My quest was sought out to satiate an illusion of a need that had nothing to do with my current state of mind. I knew better, but I still went ahead and sought it out. The feeling was fleeting, less than I had hoped it would last. I thought that if maybe finally finishing my quest would feel victorious but despite it all, I wasn’t that out of it to believe I’d feel a false sense of pride for getting to the end. Curse my mind for not being deceiving enough.
Guilt reeks off me like the stench of the two cigarettes I just smoked. Behind the latrines of my backyard, approximately seventeen minutes after the assurance that my dad just left the house. I swore I’d never smoke at home, it’s sanctity should have meant more to me than tobacco in my lungs. There I was, breathing it in, in the very same darkness I claim to fear so vehemently but it seems like tonight, I was hoping to disappear in it, to keep my cover hidden. Like the smoke blown from my lungs, I hoped that the guilt of my doing could fade into the night as well. My dad may be in the dark from my defilement but my mum’s spirit, not so much. I apologized to her picture in my room just before I took the cigarettes from their current hiding place, just so it wouldn’t feel like I was figuratively pissing on her grave. “I’m sorry mum, I know I knew better.” I’m sure you wonder, if I knew better, why go ahead and do it, or maybe, you might already know the answer.
I took up smoking for the fancy of it. Thought that maybe it was about time I picked a poison. I’m not a drinker, so I thought why not smoke, add to another illusion of being aesthetic to my already messed self. Got over it quite as quickly as I’d picked up the habit, got bored if I can call it that. It wasn’t doing for me all that I felt I needed it to do. So then why after months later, did I so insistently yearn to smoke again, for I can assure you, the two cigarettes I just had, didn’t do what I thought they would for me. I can say with absolute certainty, I’m not the definition of a good person. At least, not with the stream of choices made recently. Tonight, I’ve defiled not only my home, but the recovery process of my mind. Like I said, guilt hovers like a cloud formed halo, this time, just one made of smoke.
“Baptize me in river of guilt, but raise me back up with rivelts of forgiveness” Dawn.
A girl has been bored. When am I never though… But despite everything else your caught up on, (#always your reliable depressive ), I don’t want to dwell on that as of now. I’m in too much of hyped up state to ponder over as of my current bestfriend & long time homeboy, depression. I’m gonna assume your curious on what has me feeling less forlorn than my usual state of being and from that assumption, I’m gonna share what has me feeling different. You’re girl’s been horny as hell (cue the audience’s laughter) …like majorly to the degree I’m fliker’ing my twickie…😂😂 That’s a statement I came up with two nights ago while keeping my sister company as she got drunk on a new alcohol she’d been meaning to try. We were sharing on our impending states of horniness and I told her how it’s in my next budget to get a rabbit vibrator but I’ve got no idea where the money’s gonna come from, ( PS. I’m taking willing donations to get a girl a vibrator, any amount will be appreciated 🤗). So yeah, in the midst of that conversation, I came up with the statement flicker your twickie. What can I say, I’ve been on a journey of forced celibacy for quite a couple months now and it was bound to take a toll on me eventually. Truthfully speaking, I pride myself over how long I can go before giving into my body’s urge to mate if I may call it so and I think this has to be that limit because I can’t help myself from needing some sort of release, (cue the major embarrassment ) but yeah, since I don’t have a man, the next best thing is a little playmate who’ll be utterly at my beck & call and who’ll I’ll not need to impress as much to get a little bit of pleasure from.
Whilst in the subject of partnership, I recently thought about the subject of having a Dominant again as a partner for myself. After such a while of me have stashed away the submissive in me from the front of my mind, she snuck back to remind me that she’s still there and that maybe she feels ready to make a gradual come back. After my last relationship as a submissive, I purposely took a step back from being in any sort of relationship, in regards to being in the normal kind of relationship or the Dom/sub relationship due to the matters of my ever loyal companion, my mental instability. Despite it all though, I have immensely missed the clarity and beauty that I feel as a submissive. The immense pleasure & thrill of it is a high that’s unmatched for me. It’s impossible to forget what it’s like to have such care given to you by a Dominant worthy your submission. I’d be lying if I said the sexual connection isn’t among the bigger perks of why I miss being in a Dom/sub relationship. Therefore recently when I thought about it again, I pondered over whether I feel ample enough to take up the role of a submissive partner to a deserving Dominant. I went through a couple of internalized questions and just really delved deep on whether I feel like I can put myself back into that head space. Let’s just say, I feel I may be ready for it but I’d have to make a few adjustments in concern to my mental health and whether the Dominant will be up for the task of handling me with all my luggage.
Entirely away from that, I’ve been meaning to seriously gush over a book I read recently that I can’t seem to get over just how incredibly wonderful & hilarious it was. Allie Brosh’s book Hyperbole and a Half is a book I didn’t realize just how much I needed to read. It brought me such joy & laughter. I read it in bed at two in the morning and I was laughing so hard, I started wheezing from it. Despite how short it was, it was an incredible read and I’d recommend it to anyone. I can’t forget to mention the imagery used in the book that accentuated it’s hilarious nature all the more. The writer’s sense of humor in the book had me wishing she could be my best friend. The book is mental health related and I loved how I was able to relate with her in some of her experiences with depression. The way she brought out her encounters with depression felt a lot like home for me due to the sense of familiarity & relatability. Hyperbole and a half will probably be among the best books I’ve had the pleasure of reading this year and I’d love to read more of Allie Brosh’s work.
In my spare time, apart from when I’m self loving & reading books, I recently started listening to podcasts as well. Through a girl I follow on social, I came across her podcast which I thought was super cool & insightful especially since the episode I listened to first had a touch of mental health to it. From listening to that episode, it made me wish that I had a friend who related on issues mental health & depression. I’d genuinely love to have someone by my side who understands what it’s like to struggle with an invisible battle. Hell, I’d love to have a best friend who relates on being a fellow crazy and we can laugh at how badly we are done existing, in this life at least… So yeah, I loved listening to that podcasts, it’s called The First Draft on Sportify and Apple Music if anyone would like to check it out. So yeah, I’m glad I got to rope you in on the better parts of my time bored and just in case anyone wants to be my friend, my one requirement is that you’re a touch of crazy and maybe a tad bit depressed too, for the days we both need to hurdle together in our depression 😅.
Through my mental health journey, I’ve grown to learn that it looses it’s aspect of private and individual just cause of what & who it ropes in along the way. In my case, my ongoing journey has roped in a few people, some were strangers who turned into family and others were family right from the start. It weighs heavy on me as a person who struggles quite often with the mental battles I go through, and this is not because of what it’s done to me, but because of what it’s done to those around me who’ve stuck by me despite my ailing mind. I have seen it tear down my sister and it was for me more excruciatingly painful than any insition I’ve ever put on my body. I remember last year when I had my depressive episode for about six months. It was right about the time when my country was on a lockdown due to the pandemic. I was stuck in our apartment with my sister and we had no means to go home due to a cessation that had been implemented on my country which prohibited me to travel. I self harmed more during that period than I ever had before and it became an instinct & it was such an impulsive nature for me to do, I grew numb about it. I ratted myself out to my sister cause I knew if I didn’t, I’d have probably not so intentionally hurt myself beyond what my little first aid after care routine could handle. Even then, despite being so out of touch with anything else besides the throes of my depression, I could see just how much my battle was weighing in on my sister. She carries her emotions on her sleeve so it wasn’t so invisible to me just how exhausting it was for her to see me go through that gutter. It’s not until recently in one of the countless conversations we have about my mental health did she admit to hating her work over that period when we were quarantined together and that she wanted to cry her eyes out everyday she had to do her job. She wasn’t sure if anytime I wasn’t in her periphery, I wasn’t cutting myself and now me being aware of what it must have been like for her to go through that, genuinely breaks my heart.
My guilt in depression is tethered to what my battles have done to others besides myself. I can honestly say, I haven’t found love enough for me to feel guilty over what being mentally ill does to me. It’s what it does to those I care about that shatters me the most. To say I have tried to hide the ugly effects of my battles from my loved ones would be putting it lightly. Sometimes I just rather die with it and let it rip me from the inside out all on my own than let it seep out to those who matter more to me than anything. With my dad for instance, my old man doesn’t know just how much effort it takes his last born daughter to live through each day as a depressive. On some days, I want to shout it to him with such aggression about how I can’t seem to shake off this sadness that I’ve carried around for all my life. On other days, I can’t help but think he’s better off in the dark, from it all. Untainted from my demons.
It’s been both a blessing and a curse having my father out in the clear from my battles. It’s been a blessing because then he doesn’t have to look at me different. For now he knows the bare minimum concerning my depression. He would still be in the dark if I had never needed his help on buying antidepressants last year after starting therapy. It was a hard enough secret to keep cause then it was just me and my sister having to find means on how we would get money to take me to therapy and for me to see a psychiatrist as well. It got so hard every two weeks trying to figure out how to come up with the sum of money I needed for every therapy session because I couldn’t tell my dad that I needed money for something he was completely out of the loop on. When I finaly had to ask for his help, I came home with a prescription letter from a psychiatrist with a list of antidepressants I needed to start taking. This was right after my county opened it’s borders and the cessation that had been put in place due to covid was lifted hence why I got the chance to travel home which put a halt on me going to therapy because it was in different counties.
To say I was nervous bringing up that subject with my father was an understatement. I wasn’t sure he’d grasp what I was saying or if whether he’d even understand the gravity. This isn’t to imply my dad is slow or anything like that. On the contrary, my dad is pretty intelligent. What I was worried about was whether it would make sense to him the way it was meant to, from my understanding. It’s through him and our conversations together that the aspect of being an African and having a technically African raised father that I saw how much ones background and tradition affect different aspects and subjects which in my case was & is mental health. He actually took it quite casually which was what I thought I wanted but turns out it wasn’t what I needed. I didn’t see concern on his face when I tried telling him that I struggle with depression. Instead I got a speech on prayer & exercise and how much it would help keep me less idle. I told him that it had nothing to do with that and that it was a chemical imbalance in my brain that made me depressed and it still didn’t faze him. I was quite frustrated to say the least but I understood him despite it that he couldn’t just magically see it as I did. I gave him the prescription and told him that I needed him to buy me that medication and he was fine with it.
Whoever believes that they can go through mental health on their own have it quite wrong. I never knew just how much I’d need my father’s understanding until I finally brought him into the know about my struggles. A few days before my last birthday, my dad finally bought me the antidepressants I had been prescribed and I decided to start on them the day after my birthday. I’d already been on a different set of antidepressants two weeks before and they had really exhausted me out so I didn’t want to be loopy on my birthday since I was gonna have a little shindig going on that day. Cue to when I finally started my new meds did I see true & genuine concern which was more than his impassive nature had ever expressed. A few days in after I had started on my new meds, I got some really scary side effects after taking them and I thought I’d get them under control by buying some antibiotics. I had major and I mean major heartburn and aside from that, my heart rate was over the roof. I had heat flashes and I could hear my own heart beating so loud and quite fast, I was certain I was having a heart attack. My dad’s girlfriend is a pharmacist and I asked her if she could prescribe something for the heart burn and she asked me about the meds I was taking and I told her what I was newly on. Later that night when my dad came home, he was beyond agitated. Apparently, after my conversation with his girlfriend earlier, it was apparent to her that one of the antidepressants I had been prescribed to was very severe and was mainly for schizophrenics. In basic language as was explained to my dad, he was told they were for ‘crazy people’. That was genuinely the first time I saw my dad loose his calm and look so terrified. I believe it dawned on him that he’d just bought his daughter over the counter meds that were going to completely alter my mind and irreversibly damage it for life. For the record, I never once thought of it as my dad’s fault because it wasn’t, neither of us would have known. He felt responsibile for that mistake since he hadn’t done research or any enquiry about the meds he was buying me before he handed them to me. I on the other hand was more upset that a supposed legal & professional psychiatrist had prescribed to me medicine he knew wasn’t meant for me and which would probably have adverse effects on me but went ahead and prescribed it regardless of knowing all that. I was livid and after that, I quit taking the meds all together because despite how badly they were reacting to my body, they weren’t meant for it from the very start.
After that experience, I have not had therapy or been on any other antidepressants since. I soon after asked my dad if he could look for a different hopefully better psychiatrist to whom I would see and get a better diagnosis of my mental health as well as better effective treatment. This is where it has proven to be very difficult to get my dad on board because he quickly fell back into his slow paced process of doing things. It’s been a few months since that encounter with the antidepressants and after that, my life sorta fell back into routine. School opened and everything else took a seat at the back of my mind. I didn’t get better per say but the depression went back to being my day to day cup of tea, the one I was accustomed to. Now, due to different triggers, I am in the middle of another depression episode and I thought it would be perfect timing to see a new psychologist & psychiatrist but mainly the latter. I made my dad aware of my need now for a psychiatrist and told him I have been struggling again but he doesn’t seem to see the urgency of it. Even just thinking about it right now, is nerve wrecking. I’m triggered by his lack of motivation and urgency in getting me help especially now when I’m not at my best mentally. I admit he’s not fully in the loop of just how bad my mental instability goes, he is clueless of my self harm which has started again after I’d been clean for 98 days. I have racked my mind on how to bridge that information to him without alarming him but I just don’t know where to start. On some days, I want to just show him my arms and let them speak for me but I get scared of what he’ll think or do. It’s taken me a lot to admit that I am mildly suicidal as of currently and I am going through the days trying to find the will to see through the end of each day. He isn’t aware that I don’t know how much waiting I can do anymore before I can completely disintegrate. I am trying to be patient but it’s hard when my mind isn’t on board. So yeah, that’s where I currently am. Mental health is so contradictory in how personal & individualistic it is but also how communal it trickles down to. I hope that the wait isn’t going to be longer than my mind can hold off from completely falling apart.
“I’d been depressed for so long, hiding it wasn’t an option anymore, not by choice at least. My body took the choice out of my hands.”
Last night as I lay in bed thinking as usual, my mind drifted off and I began to wonder what the world around me sees whenever they look at me. In all natures, be it physically, emotionally, spiritually and even more so mentally. Only a substantial amount of people can give just a little bit of insight on what they think they know about my mental health and the struggles that enslave me on a daily. They see what they perceive as just the basic stressful day to day experiences one has to go through being at the point at which I’m at right now in life. It’s absolutely okay in their eyes that I’m stressed out about not knowing what I want to do in my life or whether I have a plan for the next phase now that I’m done with college. I can say with certainty that nobody sees what I feel or have to live through on a daily… not even a fraction of it. A friend of mine earlier last night mentioned to me that she has noticed that I’m extremely general on everything I relay to her and my response to that was that the world isn’t interested in the specifics of one’s life. People rather just know enough than know too much. It’s enough for them trying to be allies but too much to be a friend. It’s extending support but without having to be presently there, in the middle of it all. I would honestly rather not have any ally at all if that’s the case, therefore having to maintain my specifics to myself.
If there’s a chance that the world around me thinks I’m normal, then truth be told, I’m offended. In the stereotypical sense of the word, normal is boring and I would be highly offended if anyone considered me boring. I may not be your ray of sunshine, but neither am I living through the normal cycle of being this person who believes that everything sorta just falls into place… not to piss on anyone’s parade who might live by the notion that everything does sorta just fall into place. Alright, maybe I am, even if just a little. Entirely, what I’m saying is that, I don’t think I have been afforded the luxury to believe that my life is following a mystical path where I’m meant to entirely live through mental suffering just for it to get better in the far future and that I’ll look back at it and think that it was all worth it. Simply, I’m not cut out for normal…and I’ve learned to accept that and maybe even embraced it.
I’ve mentioned it before to my sister that the worst possible thing that could happen to me in life would be to be termed as cliché. Just the thought of it, makes me want to buff in my mouth and it wouldn’t be pretty. Cliché in my eyes would be anyone thinking that I self harm for attention. Just so you know, anyone who does self harm is seeking attention, just not for the reasons that the world thinks they are. It entirely could be a subconscious reaction to emotional pain but, from what I have felt in that moment, despite trying to hide it, there’s a part of you deep inside that seeks out hope that someday someone will see that invisible but obvious cry for help. That they won’t look at you like a loon but will take an initiative to get you help, the help that you might not have had the courage to ask for.
“How can I afford to feel self conscious over my body but can freely walk around with no sleeves covering my wrist and with my scars bared out to the world.”
I thought about that yesterday and if that screams normal to you, maybe you need to check yourself. I don’t have an answer to that, just like I don’t have answers to a lot of other questions about things that I do but can’t seem to have an explanation over. How I can even afford to walk out of the house with my marred wrist but can’t wear a dress because it will show out too much of my curves or in better terms, my fatness… It’s intriguing, isn’t it? That I am more ashamed of what was God given more than I am ashamed of what I self inflicted on my own body. It leads me back to the question of what it is the world sees whenever they look at me. Do they see the internal turmoil I have to face just with having to decide if I look more fat in a dress or whether I can pass on the lie that I was in a car accident to explain the scars on my hand? Are they remotely aware that I want to die but not necessarily from my own hands. “That I’m not suicidal but sometimes the lines get all blurry.” I know they don’t see all that, and it’s why my friends can afford to read my blogs and tell me that they’ll kill me first if I ever attempted suicide. That it will be selfish of me to choose my life over hurting them if I died by my hands. Oh, how selfish I will be if I died anyway besides what is considered natural. Well news flash, suicide is as natural as it gets. Until they can see beyond their hurt over me taking matters into my own hands, they will never see what truly lies beyond my eyes. They will never see beyond the lies of the fabricated stories meant to explain the scars on my hands. It’s not until they are ready to hear more than just the general, will they be aware of just how truly miserable I feel just having to live through everyday without the knowledge of why I’m even breathing.
So if you think for a moment that I’m normal, then I think you’re the worst kind of ignorant. It’s like if you treated a cripple like you would treat an able walking man…you’d be of great insult. Don’t look at my scars and then express indifference. I had that happen to me once before and it’s taken me over five months to express just how of a dick move that was. To completely disregard of my pain, is to disregard me as well. Don’t deceive yourself into believing that you’re doing what’s best by ignoring the elephant in the room. If you’re not going to kiss those scars like you would kiss every other part of me, don’t bother touching me at all.
I wish that sometimes, I didn’t have to act like am normal as well. It’s a deception from me too. Why can’t I just scream my lungs out in the middle of the streets just because I feel like it will be the next best relief? Why do I have to hold the pain till I’m behind closed doors to make deep enough insitions on my skin just to bleed the pain away? Why can’t I just break completely apart and not question myself over it or care about what it’s consequences will mean for me? I wish I didn’t have to fight so hard to keep the crazy tucked in when all I yearn for sometimes is to disentangle myself to little bits and pieces. All I ever feel like is a sitting duck or so in this case, a sitting crazy. I can’t tick off cause I should care enough about the consequences of what it will mean to the world but what about me, what about what I’m having to hold inside to prevent it from breaking out. A jar can only hold so much of anything without spilling out. I can’t even be crazy enough to finally get the attention I need that will get me help. All I wanna do is be crazy enough to get help and maybe if I’m lucky, stand the chance to gain a little bit of normal, even if it means gaining a bit of boring.
Do you ever have those discoveries in your life that make you feel like maybe life might not be such a bad shit show to live through… Yeah well, I just had such a discovery a while ago and it’s quite alright might I say so myself. I knew that through this platform I could view the stats of how people engage with my blog but today I made a new found discovery that let me in on the amount of people who interact with my blog, this being on a daily basis, a weekly basis, monthly & yearly. Let me just say I’m quite surprised but in a good way. I didn’t realize how far and wide my blog has traveled and I can’t help but feel so grateful that people are interested in the ‘insanity’ I often spill. It truly feels good and despite the fact that I mainly write here as a form of therapy for myself, I hope it brings a little bit of familiarity to someone who shares in what I go through in my mental health journey. So before I delve into anything else, thank you to anyone who comes across this and reads it and picks out something they think is cool, or simply anyone who enjoys having a peek at my mind through my writing. To express my gratitude, enjoy this rare picture of myself smiling.
How often do you feel like your stuck in the middle of something? How often do you try to figure out where your thoughts or feelings lie concerning a precise matter? I don’t have answers to this either cause I very much never know which side I’m on, at least when it comes to matters concerning thinking & feeling suicidal …Yeah, that’s where I’m heading with this… I say this with the utmost calmness I can master. I realize how sensitive of a subject this is and the sense of alarm it raises anytime it’s mentioned. I truly don’t fully consider myself a danger to myself currently, therefore, please calm down if in case you weren’t at the beginning.
I believe I’m what I’d call passively suicidal. In the scale of normal human existence, living would most times be considered as something automatic to human beings. Technically, being alive is essentially living, at least the most basic aspect of it. The more complex aspects of living require for one to feel a sense of fulfillment and pleasure in more than merely just existing. The secondary aspects of living become unfamiliar to those who may feel ‘plagued’ by any kind of mental turmoil…you know, the kind that has you wishing you were dead rather than waking up to a new day. Don’t get me wrong, I am living, at least the basic aspect of it. For me at least, I regard my suicidal ideation as more of passive in regard to those occasions when I don’t exactly wish to die. I live through the waves of wanting to fulfill my hopes and aspirations in life as well as wanting to die all in a matter of hours. Ideally, it’s more of just a means to an end for me. I just think that sometimes I loose track of where to begin living. If living didn’t seem as such an impossible task for me, I doubt death would skim through my mind as often as it does.
If I could quantify the workings of my mind into one word, the word would be turmoil. It perfectly matches the back and forth, the up and down and side to side that my thoughts bounce off from every other day. It would explain how easily it is for me to tip over from reality and simply want to end things as they are, especially in moments of hopelessness. It’s a turmoil that evolves from basic sadness into what I’d call a gut wrenching hollowness that still to date has not enough words that could define it. Only unless one is accustomed to it, does it remotely make sense to you why dying would feel slightly more appealing than breathing. On those days when I feel an inkling of control over my thoughts, do I wonder whether the appeal of death is just that, an appeal. It gets me thinking over whether dying is a lot like keeping my options open, at least until I can figure out a better, less scandalous & less finalizing option. It’s on this days that I choose not to panic over my passive ideations regarding death and it’s on those same days when I envision for myself a life where I’ll have hopefully gained the capability to handle pain in whichever form it may come, but most especially, if it stems from my mind.
I sometimes do think of letting go of dying as an option. It feels hard to fully both consciously & unconsciously let go of the idea that dying won’t solve all of my today’s and the rest of my life’s problems. Am I ready to close that option? I can’t say for certain. I realize that it isn’t something that just sprouted in the recent years since I began comprehending my mental struggles. No, I do believe that death has always just been a silent secret option for me. I recall a time before my mum was ever sick, I always made sure she knew that if she ever died before me, I’d die right after her. There was no question about it in my head and even despite how young I was, I needed her aware of my plan to never exist without her and that it was always going to be her and I in this life or the next. I wasn’t scared of the gravity of what it would mean to die…and for sure, I did try. I may not recall vividly what exactly I did to try execute my plan but the truth remains that I tried regardless to follow her in death just right after she passed on for I saw no need as to why I was required to be left behind. It didn’t make sense then and part of it still doesn’t make sense now. Therefore closing that option out for me is a lot more harder than just deciding to stop leaning towards it as a solution to my problems. It’s the aspect of no longer existing in this life to experience my turmoils that makes dying look so appealing. It’s the escaping factor of it that makes it look not at all scary but just maybe life saving instead.
I’m not writing this to glorify or beautify suicide or dying in any form. Not at all. It’s a major symptom of mental disorders and should be treated as so. Don’t be mistaken, I have felt the shame and guilt it carries along with it. When I look at my dad & sister and think of what it would mean for them loosing another loved one, it breaks my heart. The subject on suicide has a long way to go in the world. To end the stigma it carries will take a lot but it needs to be spoken about and not shunned as this horrifying subject no one wants to discuss. I hope that this post doesn’t trigger anyone but shows how easily it is to fall into the head space of becoming suicidal. I know for me to begin living & fully erasing the parts of my mind that consider death an option, I must heal. I must start again. I hope to get there. To get to a place where I’ll be ready to begin living despite every little fear I have.
“bury me in satin, lay me down on a bed of roses, sink me in the river at dawn, send me away with the words of a love song… “
It just seemed right to continue with the lyrics of the song, as cliché as that may seem. It fits perfectly though with the context of what I wanna write about so I thought why not start it off with the lyrics to one of the most beautiful songs ever written. I listened to this song for so long while in highschool and it still felt right then just listening to it, despite its message entailing a subject most would consider mobid. I don’t think death is mobid personally but neither am I indifferent towards it to the extent of being unaffected by it. I find it narcissistic when people are cold and unbothered by the aspect of death. I’ve had different people use the phrase, “death is unavoidable, it happens to everyone and we can’t do much about it” … All those are facts about death but why normalize it like it’s your daily cup of tea. Death isn’t inevitable yes, but it’s not anything to throw a parade over, hence why I think referring to it so casually comes off as a tad bit narcissistic to me… Or I could be wrong too, and people just choose to view it as so as a means to cope with the inevitability and finality that is death.
Anyway, that wasn’t my train of thought when I began writing this update, no.. I presume everyone has how they wish or hope to be remembered when they die by those they leave behind. I too am subject to having how I wanna be remembered and not just by my family, but by anyone who may have ever come across me in any and all aspects of my life. We need not to have shared a special bond or relationship for you to have any kind of memory of me.
When I think about it now, it sounds a bit obnoxious stating to others how I want them to remember me but regardless of it, I think we all have a few aspects of ourselves we envision & hope that they will be remembered even after we are gone. Maybe it’s our unconscious mind’s way of letting the world know the parts of ourselves we might not have had the chance to express or show during the time we were alive but despite not having explored them, they still remained very much a part of us. Therefore, if I died tonight, this is what I’d want you to remember me as…
Remember me by the fact that I was secretly happy being sad. That I no longer knew how to want anything else than to express just how beautiful and aesthetic I hoped to be, even in the depths of a sadness so deep, I knew no existing way out of it.
Know that all I’d ever wanted in life was to seek and envelope myself in a life so tranquil, I’d quit searching for any other happy ever after. Remember me as the girl who was so lost of peace, it’s all she had ever hoped to uncover before the end of her life. Envision me as I had lived to envision myself, lost at shore staring at the sun sink at the sea. Remember me for the little peace I’d found within the depths of the chaos that lived within me.
Remember me as the girl who’s words never seemed to be enough for the world…as the girl who had so much to write but not enough words to articulate just how much she felt. The girl who one day hoped to have a best seller, that would shift the world’s view of what mental health truly entailed. Through her words, she hoped to bring hope to those who faced a similar mental battle with every breath they took. A girl who hoped her words could cross globes and touch hearts with the flowing sadness that rippled through her veins. I wanna be remembered as the girl who struggled to be vulnerable. Who felt she had to hold a shield to herself at all times cause she didn’t know if she was strong enough to take the pains thrown at her. Look and remember her beyond her exterior, beyond the broken shields and high up walls put up around her. She felt everything.
I hope you remember me for the unsubtle secrets I tried to keep hidden. The secrets of just how corny I was. Of just how much of a hopeless romantic I could get, especially after reading a very explicit novel. Remember me for the childlike dreams and simple pleasures that I kept tucked hidden in the small sunny sides of my mind. Remember that I wondered what the world would have been like for me, had I been made to be happy.
…and finally, think of me as I thought of myself, a wondrous creative. I considered myself an aesthetic being who could spend hours tucked away with a book to my face and a pen in my hand. Remember me for all the sad songs in my playlist that I’d drown in at the devil’s hour. Remember me for the love I yearned to feel that would have me so drunk, I’d never need liquor again. Remember me for the funny thoughts of myself dancing in just a shirt and a pair of knickers, despite the fact that I never once danced in my life.
I could go on and on about all the things I wanna be remembered by but I can assure you, none of it will truly matter when I’m gone. All I can do is hope to be remembered for all I hoped to achieve but never got to actualize…and if you can, light a cigar in my memory.
“Breathe girl, Breathe…”
Why does it feel so hard to do that simple but exhausting task…
Should it count that maybe I’m out of breath, out of will to live, out of options to choose from… Is it why I feel laboured just having to exist…
“Goddammit Breathe Mercy, you need to breathe…
If not for yourself, do it for your sister, for you dad… ”
I can’t understand why I just won’t breathe …why don’t I want to breathe easy… do I want to breathe at all ?
I expect this doesn’t make sense to anyone, welcome to the wagon, it quit making sense to me long ago…
Am I breathing yet. I’m still in pain so I guess I’m still trying…
Everyone needs me to live, I need to breathe instead… I won’t live if I can’t breathe, right ?
Once again I ask, why can’t I breathe, why I’m I lost at it…
I’m thinking too much again, no surprise there… If I could breathe as easy as I think, I’d have no chance of dying, I’d probably begin living…
I don’t want better, I don’t believe there’s any better… My mind knows it, that’s why I can’t breathe, I don’t believe in it.
One can only breathe if they believe they can and maybe, that’s just it for me…
I don’t like breathing anymore, it hurts to breathe, its exhausting.
but I’ll breathe, for everyone besides me.