2014 Summary

I mainly organize my thinking into school years, so trying to understand what happened through 2014 is...strange, in my way of thinking. But I'm kind of curious, so I want to try writing it out.

The winter of 2014 was atrocious. It was the peak of my self harming, when my obsession with burning began, and that of course sucked. It was terrifyingly hard, especially since four of my friends have January birthdays and each celebration included me hiding from lighters or, in one shameful case, having to beg my friend to hide a lighter from me. This went along with a whole host of other yucky self harm fantasies that seemed to plague me where ever I went, and was probably the worst I had ever had it since my major depression in junior high.

By February I think I had finally given in and told my mom that it was becoming serious. I was no longer interacting with the world in a healthy way, and while I hated worrying my mother, I had promised her during junior high that if my depression ever got out of my control that I would tell her and see a therapist. And so I told her and we started looking up psychologists, though I didn't get an appointment until April.

The rest of winter was agonizing. It was a constant haze of self harm thoughts, cigarette cravings and bite wounds, all the while failing out of AP Calc (which was causing me terrible stress, I had never failed anything, not to mention something that affected my college GPA) and dodging questions about my gloves. This was all combined with what I thought to be unrequited pinings and friend anxiety, and I was just. Having a grand old time. Ehhh.

Spring came, I was in therapy, and shortly after my first appointment I accidentally confessed my feelings to Beck at stupid o'clock in the morning over Facebook, like a stupid goof. But then they actually reciprocated, which was AWESOME, and I rapidly started improving. Having the love of your life return your feelings has a crazy way of changing your mindset, oddly enough. The self harm fantasies slowly but surely began to reign themselves in, and after about four months of therapy I said I was mentally stable enough to stop the sessions. With it, though, came the realization that I had been emotionally abused by my stepfather for years without giving it a name, and at my last session with my therapist I asked him how I could cope with this. His only advice was to never bring it up, and to move on, all the while striving to get as far away from his house as possible. These words continue to bother me, but I have found no better counsel.

Senior year of high school ended, just in time for me to realize that I absolutely hated my school and everyone in it. And to think, for the past four or maybe even seven years I had assumed I loved my school! But I didn't. It was a terribly environment with a lot of terrible people, and I was glad to be out. I graduated one grade-point below academic achievement, but they gave it to me anyway because reasons. My major plans had changed in the last few months, altering my life-long plans from elementary ed to special education. I had lost a friend who had been close to me since seventh grade, and lost trust in another. But with the end of the school year came summer, and summer meant moving out of my step father's house and spending the next few months almost exclusively with my father. This thought, and this thought along might have been what helped me dredge the last thick trenches of senior year.

Over the summer, I immediately began regretting all of the scholarships I did not sign up for as the FAFSA screwed over my family time and time again. I had many fabulous trips, most of which I can't remember because traveling never interests me. The only thing that sticks out is that I finally visited my now-partner, Beck, for the first time. It was wonderful, but unfortunately short (I believe a mere 30 minutes). We officially started dating after that, and I have never been happier. Then there was the Alaska trip to celebrate my Nana's retirement, which made me realize that I absolute abhors the idea of cruise ships.

Suddenly I was catapulting straight into my first year of college, which was surreal. I was placed in the Hmong House, a living learning community inside my dorm building, and into my room I carried with me many punk clothes I would soon tire of, an array of knee-high socks, hopes and dreams and aspirations, and fears of inevitable relapse once the stress kicked in. I was scared of my lack of support system, as every single one of my close friends had chosen a different graduation path, separating us among six different locations. Luckily, I soon found solace in Martina, the lovely people of my hall, and the Queer Cultural Center.

College has been jam-packed with new experiences so far, and my first semester has been full of adventure. I figured out my sexual identity, going from a bisexual to a biromantic grey asexual. I started entering the slam poetry scene and now perform during slams, almost making it to nationals in the qualifying round. I ruined my sleep schedule a bit and found out about many mental health locations on campus, just before realizing I didn't want to go back to dependency. I helped Martina through a bad breakup, learned what it truly meant to run through the winter air for a 3 AM friend. All the while I slowly but surely became a navigator of the metro lines, which solidified my once crumbling friendship and helped me reconnect with my ex girlfriend, who remains a valuable friend and ally through many hard times. I finally decided I didn't want to start smoking, and thrilled in the independence that came with buying tea for myself on bad mental health days. And then somewhere along the line I became obsessed with sports anime(?????????).

During Thanksgiving break Beck flew to Minnesota and stayed at the house for three days, which were blissful even with the constant dog attacks. I think of those days often, and they fill me to the brim with happiness. It was the start of what will be a series of visitations.

By finals I was having panic attacks over dad's threat to take me out of college if I got any Cs by semester end. Which I hadn't gotten a C in years (not including Calculus), the thought of having to live with my stepfather again after finally realizing my escape had me teetering on the edge. This combined with the suicide scare of my new friend and the stress of excommunicating myself from my on-campus church drove me to the brink, but I managed to keep myself together enough to make it through.

Finally came winter break, where a torturous Trakas visit at one point had me covertly running away to Kate's house to hide from their bigotry. I had never felt more independent and radical. I managed to terribly upset my mother and earn the respect of Nikki and John, and afterwards the Trakas family were careful not to talk politics around me.

And now comes the new year, where my only thoughts are some rebooted stories I want to write and a future spring break Beck visit on the horizon. I pray I will grow stronger and wiser by next year's end.

Life is good.

Anarchy, College

I have been so scared all week.

Dad sent me angry messages sometime last week about my grades, saying that if I got a C in any of my classes this semester I would be taken out of college to join the workforce. I wasn't planning on getting any Cs, but suddenly the fear was everywhere, and I could not stop thinking about it. I was terrified and the anxiety was high.

Then this Monday I found that my friend from dA, Anarchy, had terminated her account with thoughts of finally committing to her suicide plans. It was an old message from the weekend. I had no idea whether she was alive. We had only known eachother for a month or two, but we had become friends. I thought she was like me, filled with suicidal thoughts but lacking the courage to go through with them. Apparently I was wrong.

She was only 14. 14 years old! I couldn't stop thinking about it. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't concentrate. Studying for finals was impossible, I was listless, the number 14 rolling through my head, unable to think of anything else. I bore an immense grief in my chest but had no idea whether I was meant to mourn or not. I had no way of contacting her to see whether she had actually attempted or not. For all I knew she was in a hospital, or uninjured in bed, or dead. At 14 years old. Suicide.

Today was my last final. I got a decent score, and afterwards went to check in with the professor. IT turns out many assignments I thought were optional were actually mandatory--I was currently at a C and I had hours worth of quizzes and short essay assignments to do by midnight if I hoped to stay in college. Last night my neighbors were partying until 1 AM so I have barely had any sleep, and I was planning on napping after the final. But now I will be cramming homework until midnight. And doing that again tomorrow. And trying to secretly cram over winter break without my parents finding out. And hope I can raise my grade to a B.

So here I am, getting ready to cram, an in a last resort of my sanity I check dA, just like I have done periodically every day since Anarchy's suicide threat, to see whether she was back. But this time, she was.

Anarchy's alive. She had thought about committing, but did not do it. She is alive. She is not dead. I can breathe again.

I am crying from relief and I am just so glad. I am so glad she's alive. And while that is a weight off my chest, I wonder whether it will help me focus on this work--if anything, I want to go into the streets and celebrate, or at least rest my eyes in a finally peaceful dream. Yet I do not have even that luxury. Still, I am glad. I am giving myself this one short reprieve to write and rest, before I dive into this homework hell.

I am so overcome with emotion I am not sure how I will manage to concentrate, but I'm just. So hopeful. So thankful.

Life is good.

The Visit

 Beck stayed at my house for three days. It was wonderful. It was absolutely wonderful.

I got to hold their hand a lot, it was wonderful. Their hair is very soft. I wish I had gotten to cuddle them more. I now miss the blessings of high school when I could just hold someone for an hour straight. That was great. I want to be able to do that with Beck. None of the kisses lasted long enough. They were all very sweet. Everything about Beck is very soft. I promised mom I wouldn't sleep next to Beck but she never checked the last night, I should have done it anyway. I miss them. I miss them a lot. Being next to them was a special kind of warm and it'll be hard to not have it anymore.

Five hours before we had to wake up for the airport, I couldn't sleep. I kept looking up above me at Beck's bunk and thinking that they would have to leave soon. I looked up and whispered, asking if they were awake. They were. I climbed up and we just touched foreheads and laid next to each other, and said "I'll miss you",  "I'm glad you came", and "I love you." I don't think I said anything but those three phrases that night, and I am happy with the three I chose.

Then I went back to bed.

I miss them. I miss them a lot. I keep remembering what it felt like to hold them. I keep remembering their smile and the way they held their hands. I keep remembering their laugh, and the way they'd duck down in embarrassment after kissing me. It was adorable. They are adorable. Way too adorable.

We left for the airport at 5:25 AM.  It was dark; I took them to the middle of the hill and showed them how Minneapolis sparkled in the distance, a flurry of lights. They kissed me and grabbed my hand. In the car all I wanted was to hold them tight tight tight but the seatbelt wouldn't let me. I kissed them before they went inside and mom laughed at me. I was not the least bit embarrassed.

I miss them. I miss them so so so so so so much. It will take a while for me to get used to just texts and video calls again. The real thing is so much better. I can't wait until I get to see them again.

I am so tired and all I want to do is dream of them beside me.

Life is good.

I Finally Told Someone

 I wonder if it will stop bothering me now.

Can simply telling secrets help me free myself of the ghouls that keep them company?
I have so very many secrets to tell.
I wonder.
I wonder.
I wonder.

(I wonder if it's too late.)


Life is good.

The First Snow

 The first snow of winter arrive today, apparently a whopping 4 inches (maybe even 6?). I never realized it before, but there are so many thoughts of mine connected to winter. Or maybe just because of the eventful depression of last year do I find any meaning of it. But today, I had a lot of thoughts running around in my mind.

Winter makes me think really romantic thoughts. But it's also dangerous. I can't decide between the two.

Winter was when I started dating Rachel.We held hands outside after going to a musical together, even though our hands were numb as hell. I was still wearing ribbons back then. It seems like so long ago.

I later wrote her a song about how she made my winter a happy one. The melody sounded too much like Justin Beiber's "Baby" by accident, so I never sang it to her. It wasn't even a good song, but sometimes I still recall the words and hum it to myself.

Winter makes me think of cuddling. What better time is there to cuddle than winter? It also makes me think of thick blankets on the couch in front of the fireplace. I wish the fireplace still worked at the house. I'd love to cuddle up with someone, letting them lay between my knees with their head on my shoulder. Like a bunk bed. A fluffy, slightly limb-tangled bunkbed. Beck is coming this Thanksgiving, if the fireplace worked I'd add that to the list of things we'll do together. Though I doubt I'd have the nerve to pull it off in front of my family. I doubt I have the nerve to pull off half the things I promise them.

Standing in the cold, hugging my scarf to my face and seeing my lace sleeves poke out from the ends of my coat, I think I look very cute. When I feel cute, there's a swelling of pride that Beck gets a cute girlfriend. I don't know why it matters so much that I belong to someone else, but it feels even better to know that I am worthy to stand by their side and make them proud and happy. I guess I like being a trophy wife. I feel like a trophy wife. I am very cute and I get to be loved by an amazing person, and that makes me feel even cuter.

I want to cuddle them. I want to hold their hands until our fingers are uncomfortably numb. I want them to see me with my cheeks flushed red from the cold and think, "wow, this is a side of her I haven't seen." I just want. To be romantic. With them. I want to cuddle.

Beck is so strong. So incredibly, incredibly strong. I can't believe the things they go through, live through. Most people couldn't even imagine it. And they get through it. Beck is the strongest person I know, they are so strong, amazingly strong, dangerously strong. I worry. I love them a lot. (Have I already talked about this?)

I see a lot of posts circulating Tumblr about abused queers with poisonous environments running from home and asking for temporary housing, money to move out, etc etc. It makes me heart hurt. What if Beck had to do that? It makes me scared. I wish they had someplace safer. But at the least they trust me and let me know what's happening, so my heart can rest a bit easier knowing they will allow me to support them. I hope they lean on me a bit more in the future, too. I want to grow up really fast and become independent, so we can live together, and be happy and safe, and spend our days smiling.








Winter reminds me of last year. That's when I started my fixation with burning, which was the peak of the worst time I ever had with depression (discounting 7th grade). It is probably good the fireplace broke. I don't think I want it fixed. I'm scared of fire, even though I used to love it so much. It made me feel calm, and really safe. I wonder where that safety went off too?

I remember sticking my hands into the snow. I left the house without a coat, my shirt thin. It was -20 degrees. I went outside, felt the frozen sidewalk beneath my feet. The cold felt good. I plunged my hand in the snow piles, leaving it there until my fingers began to burn, then become numb. It was satisfying. I ran back inside, but within a few minutes I craved it again, even stronger. I ran back out, rolled up my sleeves, and burrowed both my arms into the snow, burying them to my elbows. It was nice. Opening the door to get back inside was hard. The family never noticed my abscences or my bright red arms.

Sometimes I still feel how hot my tea mugs are and remember how nice it felt to press to scalding cup to my skin, along my scars. It was really nice. Sometimes, when I burn myself while pouring the hot water, I get bits of that experience back. It still feels good, but it drives me inside. Makes my cravings go wild. I hate burns. I hate burns. I hate burns.

The cigarette smoke around campus makes my stomach burrow into myself so bad. I want smoke. I crave it. It's an eternal hunger, it never goes away, and damn I want it so badly. I'm going to visit Rachel soon--I told her if I tried smoking, it'd probably start with her, using the cigarettes she makes herself. Now I wonder, whether maybe I should start with Beck instead? I may feel too ashamed though. I don't want to start smoking, I don't. I don't want to start a habit I surely cannot ever hope to break, I don't need a new one to add to my list. And it would probably feed my burning addiction, and I'd want to burn myself with the cigarette butts. It only takes one time for me to get hooked. I don't want to do that to myself.

Seeing the winter and feeling the unpleasant chill in my toes, it brings back some of the urges again. I imagine the scarf around my neck being a noose. I pull it tighter around my neck. I love having my neck compressed--it feels really nice. I tried choking myself and I actually moaned. That's bad. That's really bad. I'm starting to think I have a pain fetish. I also used to moan when I bit myself. And everything felt better and I realized I had started to bleed. Amber gave me that sort of idea during our play, she said I hurt her. It felt good to me. I don't know. I don't want that. I don't want to like pain.

I started reading a lot of shoujou manga again. I like it, it's cute. But I forgot how bad it makes my emotions act up. I get overwhelmed too easy. I start kissing my arms, and then I start biting them, and leaving marks just to have some way to vent out my overwhelmed feelings. I get urges to hurt myself. It's not worth it, I know, but I get addicted to the emotional rush it gives me. And i like cute stories. I want to keep reading them, find a bunch of cute ones. But that's what I did last year. That's what made me start biting. I shouldn't go back to that. The fact that I restarted reaidng some old BL comics already was picking up a bad habit that hurt me, but shoujou's are far worse. It's dumb. I hate how I can't do simple things like read romance stories without wanting to kill myself. It's ridiculous. No one else has to worry about this. But I can't.

I like horror but it makes me panic. I like romance but it makes me want to hurt myself. I like happiness but it makes me suicidal. I like sadness but it makes me suicidal.



Winter is full of strange things. I like the sound of my footsteps against the packed snow, how it sounds like the little squished sounds in Animal Crossing. I played that a lot as a kid, and loved how the footsteps sounded different in snow. Now I notice it in real life.

Maybe I should just focus on my footsteps instead of winter. A lot less thinking.

My lips are too numb for me to sing, now I can't use it to distract myself. Maybe that's the only reason I'm thinking more than usual.


I hate being alone with my mind.

Life is good.

Overthinking the Future

 I always joked about how glad I was that Minnesota had legalized gay marriage. That was because it would almost force Beck to move here, since Louisiana still has a way to go. I've always known where my roots were stuck--I've never dreamed of leaving Minnesota. My dream job is my old elementary school; I've vocalized how I want to move into what is currently my mother's house and keep it in the family. I love Minnesota. It's my home, with its Savage Sunsets and Minnesota nice. All the cold winters and blazing summers in the world couldn't change that.

And Beck is okay with that. I love to bring up the future with them (I think about our future far too much, far in advance), and we've talked about how I want to always live here. And we have also talked about how Louisiana is not so great. At all. In the least. I mean, great food, but trash people (from a racial and sexual orientation-openness point of view). So I always thought, no problems! Everything works out perfectly.

But recently I've been wondering whether it's quite so simple. Beck is 20 now, and honestly, I'd love the idea of them moving out (though I realize it isn't my decision to make. But I am, as always, overthinking everything). The environment they live in is not exactly the most healthy. Luckily they live mostly with their mother, since their father is pretty toxic at times. Their mother is a lovely, wonderful woman from what I know of her (I dream of meeting her someday and giving her a hug), but recently things haven't been so good for her. Problems with alcohol have been coming up more and more frequently and she's been sent to the hospital a few times. It's getting so bad that Camille and Beck once mentioned possibly going to live with their father again, which is a no-no. And the stress and guilt from beck, their mother, and at times Camille seems to feed off into each other and cause all these break downs.

I cannot say I can understand it fully, being so removed from it all, but I know life is hard there. Super hard. And I am repeatedly amazed at how Beck continues to push through and keep moving forward. I am so proud of them. I am so incredibly proud. Few people are as strong as my partner.

But I wish they didn't have to go through that. Again, I like the idea of Beck moving out from their parents, and living somewhere a bit more removed from the near-constant string of hardships and struggles. But Beck isn't dependent yet, and neither am I. I urge myself to get a little more world-savvy each day, but I won't be at that level for quite some time. It will be years before we are living out the oft discussed fantasy of a cat-filled apartment together.

But now, even if that apartment becomes a reality, I wonder. I wonder if I should really rip them from their family and their home. They've voiced acceptance, but now I wonder if I do.... The family has a lot of problems, and it makes the atmosphere unhealthy, but it also means they have to be supported. I want to support Beck's mother. And I know Beck absolutely adores their sister. If we were to remove ourselves from their lives, it wouldn't make the bad thongs happening there stop--but it would mean that Beck would be getting phone calls, time and time again, of the new struggles their family is going through. And I think Beck would probably feel bad not being there, unable to help. Unable to look out for them. I know I would take it hard, and Beck usually feels sympathy far more strongly than I do (which I love even when it worries me).

So if we were to leave Louisiana, it would almost be like leaving the rest of the Moutons for dead. Or at least, being too far to come running to their aid. And that makes me nervous. But at the same time, I don't think I could live in Louisiana. And I want to support my parents into old age--and no way in hell would either of them come to Louisiana.

I know these are Beck's decisions to make, not mine. It's pretty damn impertinent of me to even think about it. But I am just so serious about them. I want to spend the rest of my life with them. So I can't help but think far ahead into the future. What's the right choice? Is it better to stay in Lousiana, or get away from there as fast as possible? Would it be healthier, or worse? I know these are ultimately Beck's decisions to make, and I don't care to bring up the topic yet. It's far, far too early to be worrying about this.

Maybe things will be clearer once they stay in my house for a few days and lives a while in my life. Will they be happy? Will they start wanting a life like that? Beck has already mentioned living with Jordan in Minnesota once before, I believe, so maybe I'm worrying about nothing?

One day, when it becomes more realistic, I'll bring it up with them and talk about it. Until then, I should put it away for a while and enjoy the relationship we have now. There's no need to rush. After all, for now at least, we aren't going anywhere.

Life is good.

Exhuastion

 I've been tired for weeks now. Maybe even months--I don't know, I don't know. I've felt dead for days. It keeps getting worse. I want to close my eyes and never wake up. Getting out of bed is hard. And while I've been giving myself 8 hours of sleep for years (mostly because I know that tiredness hits me hard and brutally), it no longer helps. I am constantly tired. And it's been messing with my head. Really badly.

I think that's why I keep willing cars to hit me. It's been bad since college started.

I've been taken naps--I never was good at it before. Now it's becoming second nature. I fall into them effortlessly. But I never feel any more refreshed. I wake up from one nap only to desperately crave another. Night can never come fast enough.

I haven't fallen asleep in public yet, but once I've been close. It's worse when I stay up, even if the amount of sleep I get stays the same. And my head. My thoughts. Are so messed up. My belt looks more like a noose every day. My skin feels more and more appetizing. I'm hungry, I'm so hungry for flesh. Gloves make me sleep better. So much better. I need my wrists constrained to feel normal.

It's deranged.

I desperately want it to go away, but everything I've done so far hasn't helped.I've been trying to look it up, but mostly I just get results for depression and anxiety. My depression has never been better, and while I do have anxiety, I feel like if I hadn't had these problems before, there's no reason for it to appear now. Other things that have come up is allergies (Deeh's perfume?), anemia (don't think so), and being woken in my sleep. The last one seems most plausible to me, since I often wake up with my gloves strewn across my room. And that never happened before college. Deeh hasn't mentioned anything about it, and I don't know how to bring it up. Maybe I should, though.

I'm worried about her own college habits, too. She has scary posters on her wall. Pictures that have haunting resemblance to all those anorexia examples I saw during my research on eating disorders. I want to help her, but I have no idea whether I'm in a position too. I'm not even certain if I'm right. I don't know. I don't know.

I'm thinking I should visit the Boyton Health Center, ask some questions. Maybe about Deeh, but mostly about myself. I wouldn't even be opposed to getting a prescription. At this point, I just really, really want to rid myself of my fatigue. I want to remove this exhaustion.

I want to die, but we'll get through that. Because I want to live so, so much more.

(I can't wait for Rebbie to visit. I can't wait to fall asleep in their arms. I can't wait, I feel like maybe once I'm cuddle up in bed with them pressed into my arms, I'll finally feel rested. Or, at the very least, I won't mind being tired.)

Life is good.

Angel Sighting

 I like to think every single person is placed in their daily lives for a very particular reason. There is purpose behind the placement of every single individual on every sidewalk, every second. God places them there because they have lived certain experiences or have certain qualifications that render them perfect for certain necessary interactions. God wants some people to meet.

...On the way to Drawing class, I was crossing the long, four lane street to get to Regis Hall when a car jumped in front of me. And at the exact moment I laid eyes on that car, my mind screamed "HIT ME". And this message flashed across my mind and I froze up--my body tensed, my eyes widened, I was feeling the panic attack coming hard, strong. I forced myself to the other side of the street and my breathing was already erratic, I wanted to die, I hadn't been this bad in weeks, I couldn't go to class like this, no no no no no

and within seconds of me getting to the other side of that road, a woman walked up to me. She had to try a few times to get my attention, I was shaking so bad inside, but I finally heard her and looked up from my feet. She was small, with curly hair wild around her face, and her eyes looked at me with the smallest bit of urgency from behind her spectacles.

"Excuse me, could you help me?"

And her voice calmed me down a bit, and I answered very politely, Yes, yes I could, what do you need? and she pointed to a magazine lying open across the sidewalk and asked if I could pick it up for her. She had a terribly bad back, she told me, and couldn't bend down to get it.

And I said "Yes, of course," and as I went to get it, I felt positivity slowly cleansing my thoughts. By the time I walked back to her, within those few seconds, my breathing was back to normal, and tears no longer threatened the backs of my eyes. I was calming down. I gave her the magazine, and she looked me straight in the eyes and said "Thank You", and she smiled into my face in this completely sincere way.

And I was fine. I smiled to the tips of my ears and told her she was welcome, and I told her to have a wonderful day, and she gave me one final smile before we parted, and my heart soared and sang because it was free of the terror that had so recently gripped it, and I was alive, and I was breathing, and I was no longer breaking. And I thought, "that was very convenient." And I thought, "I must have met an angel."

Because what were the chances of someone needing to talk to me right as I started having a panic attack? What were the chances of someone being there who had every reason to speak to me, who had that kind of smile that would free me? God put her there. God went to the woman with the bad back and the bright smile and placed her gently across my path, God took the magazine out of her hands and placed me there instead. God let me get there just as she did, God let us meet, God wanted to tell me that He was looking out for me.

Maybe God even caused the car to jump out, and caused my mind to scream out pleas of death that I had held back for weeks, finally convinced that I had my life under control. Maybe God set all this up to remind me. Maybe he wanted me to recall my faith in angels, in faith, in a God that could support me and make me believe.

Or maybe it was coincidental. Maybe it was sheer luck. Maybe I am misconstruing a series of very regular, exceedingly mundane events. But maybe I'm not. I don't think there is such thing as a mundane event left in this world. We are all placed very strategically in our lives in case we may be of use to others. We are pushed through experiences that will equip us with conditions advantageous for certain situations. And we will be used to help people, and we will be helped. Every single person on the street is there for some other person, in some way, shape or fashion. Even little things--it matters.

Regardless of the background circumstances, i can safely say that woman helped me much more than I ever helped her.

Life is good.

Standards

 I was going into the Delaware Clinical Research Unit to be assessed for the self harm study they are conducting. It specified that minor self harm was included in the study (they mentioned burning and scratching in the same context as cutting), and depression was not a requirement. And yet, I still felt the pressure of those per-conceived standards of "real mental health issues" during my interview.

I had been diagnosed with mild depression when I met with my therapist last year, and but mostly i had recovered from depression by that point. Most of my anxiety and depressed thoughts now stem from inadequacy stemming from my self harm. They said that was okay. It was okay if I did not have terrible depression.

But I did say I had lots of experience with depression, starting in junior high. That that was where it all started. And the head nurse who was interrogating me, she looked at me and said, "were you diagnosed?" I told her no, I was self diagnosed, I was too scared to tell anyone about my depression. She asked why. I told her my step father was emotionally abusive and that I was afraid to talk in my house or gain his attention, and that I was scared for more obvious reasons besides stemming from having mental illness. She nodded and looked uninterested. "My daughter's in junior high right now, I understand what it's like to be that age. It's a hard time in life."

At first this made me feel better. But the she kept bringing it up: "I had a phobia in junior high" "Were you diagnosed?" "No, but--" "Junior High is a tough time, I know." Any time I brought up my depression, she reasserted how junior high was 'a very difficult time'. Yes. Yes, I know it is. But do you think I would be here getting an interview about self harm and still confuse regular preteen angst for depression?

Please, do not make me doubt myself now. I know what I went through. I hate doubting myself. I hate thinking maybe I was stupid and exaggerating. That kind of denial is what kept me from going to a therapist for so many years. That denial was what kept me from dealing with self harm. That denial is what led me to believe I didn't even HAVE self harm. If that denial hadn't existed, maybe these damnable habits wouldn't be so deeply engrained into me that I need to go get free treatment from the Delaware Clinical Research Center under the guise of participating in a study.

But maybe I'm wrong! Tell me, is having convulsions and hyperventilating at the sight of blood a normal preteen experience? Should I discount my years of phobia, where the sight of even a vaguely red liquid would throw me into a panic attack where I couldn't use my muscles for half an hour, becoming a trembling mess on the floor? Is it normal junior high life to constantly want to die, constantly think you're going to die, honestly believing you're in danger of breaking at any given moment, even when you're supposedly safe in a classroom? Is it normal to break down in tears in the middle of the school musical because you saw a nail behind the stage and imagined being impaled by thousands of them? Is it just regular preteen drama to never have a single happy day for three entire years of life, where smiles are either fake or terribly fleeting, where home is the place where you can finally collapse on the bed and think of dying for a few hours without anyone there to judge you? Are the middle school years supposed to haunt you for the rest of your life, always creeping on the edges of your vision, intensifying your sad moments, whispering how you could easily go back into relapse, where the self harm first started, where you first decided that chipping away at yourself was the only way to be functioning again?

I am in college now. I am in college, and I still spend half my week mumbling how much I want to die under my breath. I still get nervous around sharp objects because I'm afraid what I'll do if I'm not controlled. I walk in front of moving cars and hope they hit me, every single time.

I know I shouldn't. I know people care. But every time I cross a street I can't help but long for a car to just sweep me off the road. I want to be hit, and I want to go to the hospital during one of the most excruciating ambulance rides I'll ever have. I want to wake up in a hospital bed with a thousand needles stabbed into my flesh, IVs and beeping machines shrieking madly around me. I want to wake up in the middle of surgery and see them cut me open. I want to finally go home, still feeling a terrible soreness run through my body that threatens to plague me forever. I want to run my hands over my stitches and fantasize about ripping them out, reopening my wounds, bleeding out.

Luckily, cars on campus always stop for pedestrians. Even when they don't, I think about how horribly guilty I would feel seeing my family have to pay for the medical bills. I don't necessarily mind how they would feel about me--it's hard to care, sometimes, or remember that I'm cherished. But I would hate them to worry about money again because of me. So I won't run into moving cars.

These thoughts, though, are direct results from my depression in junior high. Does everyone feel like me? Did I just go through one of many hard junior high experiences?

How dare you judge me based on appearances, doubt my trials, think I'm not 'depressed enough'. Yes, I have only gone to one therapist. Yes, I never got diagnosed in junior high with anxiety, depression, or phobias. I talked well in your interviews, I seemed happy enough, my self harm is mild. But does that mean I lose my identity as mentally ill? Because you believe that I'm probably too happy to own my own past?

Shouldn't you, who is interviewing mentally ill people as a job, know just how good we are at hiding our pain and how much we try to?

Stop setting standards for mental illness. My label should not be an achievement. It should not be something I must earn by meeting a baseline. I should not need trophies on my wall or on my skin. So much mental illness is invisible. So is mine.

Life is good.

I'm Fine

 I keep on remembering this poem I wrote in 2013. I think I actually write is in 2012, but I didn't think it was good and hid it away as a scrap. Then I rediscovered it, loved it, and put it up. I used it for poetry reading. And I come back to it, time and time again. Roughly two years later, it still sounds so accurate. (It also includes how I felt when Kate and I were growing apart--strange how I keep coming back to that. It also talks about how I found out Tyra had self harm problems.)

My friend, I know, has joined me now
As each day, we count another night
Further from that death
And each day, I break a bit more
But I also become much, much stronger
So no need to worry, I'll be fine.

I hope you never become one of us
Waiting for our hearts to heal
Standing in bands of broken soldiers
Keeping our chins up
So the enemy thinks we're strong
And the ally believes we aren't weak.

It doesn't matter how many prayers I whisper to God
In harsh, shaking gasps at the window pane
And it certainly doesn't make a difference
What I write inside these pages
So all the little hints I drop, with forced smiles
And shaking laughter-
Ignore them, I'll be fine.

Your distant warmth and promises that you cared
I can only hold onto memories and believe they still apply
Having no right to doubt your heart, I try
But it's hard to hold on when you create walls
And those walls are flat, polished, reflective
Where am I supposed to grasp onto?
How can I survive near you?
When the only glimpses I catch are sad, shallow smiles?

Oh, but now things have changed
Slowly, I'm regaining my grip on reality
And taking my fate into my own hands
See, how she laughs with me now, and my chest bursts with joy?
I smile internally multiples of before, when the world didn't tremor
Without purpose, I'll wander aimlessly,
Hoping I can convince myself that searching is my 'reason'
And that I'm not just searching in circles where you stood---
But see, at least I have my efforts back
Worry not, I'll be fine.

I'm leaving behind the past me, who accepts everything
--that's what I say while taking steps forward,
My past self clinging to my shirt sleeve like a lost soul.
There's no way I could dispose of something so pitiful
She represents my hope, and hope is so hard to do away with
Though I've told myself the truth time and time again
It rolls around in my head like a stone that doesn't exist.

But see, I have people who care
They hold me and smile sweet, grand grins
And float about like doting parents.
They say kind words with sincere expressions
So sincere I would never want to worry them, or disappoint
So I'll tell them that I have gotten over that pesky problem
The one they never agreed with
But saying so is the first step toward making it a reality
So don't cast your eyes here, I'm fine.

Just like I'll always be fine.
Just like I have been forever.
I'm too good to struggle.
And as you know and loved,
I'm too good to fall.

Life is good.

Forgiveness

 I still often think about when I put myself at my absolutely most vulnerable state. It was in high school, maybe junior year--it was when I was realizing my entire friendship with Kate was falling apart.

For example, our last year of junior high, during the Chicago trip, we were talking in the middle of the night and I told her I had been suffering depression. I told her I had been suicidal. And even as I told her that I had since recovered (my obsession with Julie had successfully distracted me from my dark thoughts enough where depression no longer ruled over my life), she was crying. She cried over my sadness, and I felt then that she truly cared about me. (I now realized I have told people 'I've recovered' a lot, and never once have I been right. Maybe I should start reevaluating how I use that phrase.)

In junior high, we told each other absolutely everything--we cried together, we held onto each other, we told each other the darkness in our hearts. I think the problem was my darkness kept growing, and her darkness ran dry. Her life got better; mine got worse.

My depression got worse. But I had been seeing more and more that Kate didn't really talk to about her life anymore. Not even just about concerns or darkness--about anything. I was losing track of whether I even knew what was happening in her life anymore. I was losing track of her. And I realized I didn't want to tell her about my darkness anymore---it was too large by this point, she wouldn't be able to understand anymore---and I didn't feel safe telling her. Not only had I become distant to the point where to burden her with my troubles felt like an intrusion, but it now felt as if she would hurt me if I let her in.

I started dating Rachel, and I finally had someone to talk to about my depression. It was strange not talking to Kate about it. At one point, I realized I was hanging out with her more out of habit than out of fondness; she became more and more volatile, and I felt like anything I had to contribute only served to get her angry. She didn't have enough patience to deal with me. And it was scary. And it hurt. I became to be terribly afraid of her.

And I was getting more and more stressed and more and more worried about it. At one point, my own insecurities started to feed into my depression. And then, there was one day where, more than any other day, I wanted to die. I wanted to die so badly.
And it felt awful. It was terrifying. And within my terrible, horrible panic attack, I remembered Kate and I's old friendship, and thought that if I never came out with my feelings, I wasn't being a good friend either. I had to try trusting her.

So in my most vulnerable, I called her. And I told her I wasn't feeling well and that I needed to talk to someone, and she said okay. And I was so scared. And putting myself in the most bare and defenesless state I will ever be in, I asked he this question:

"If I were to die, do you think anyone would care?"

Now, this is a terribly awful and manipulative question, especially coming from someone who just admitted to being suicidal. But it is also a very easy question. This was one of those questions that had a pre-set answer, one that you had to say regardless of your feelings about it. And anyone picking up my very obvious, depression-mangled hints would be able to see that. There was only one right answer, and it could very well set my life.

She did not see that. I still remember her response often, though I know I should let it go--the fault was mine for asking questions when I was expecting an answer. But somehow I still can't forget it:

"If I were to die, so you think anyone would care?"
"I...think so"

She never gave the sentence conclusion. It was very non-commital. After she said that, I went through the rest of the conversation with my mind blank and in a fuzz--I ended it as soon as I could and curled up in a ball on my bed. I didn't even have the motivation to go through with my suicidal urges--the life had been sapped out of me. I just had to lay there broken and dull, wishing my heart would stop so I wouldn't have to get up and stop it myself.

She didn't say she would care if I died.

We are friends now--with a much different relationship than when we were confidants, but a healthy friendship nonetheless. But ever since that conversation, I don't think our friendship could have ever been the same. I don't think I have forgiven her for that comment. I think I'm going to hold it in my heart for the rest of my life, as a weight I can't get rid of. I will not bring it back. I'm still alive, she still cares about me--there's no reason to burden her with that kind of guilt or shame this long after the words had been said.

...Recently, my college course on thinking critically has been covering A Case for Reparations. It goes that the actions of the past can be at least partially forgiven if the offending party admits they have wronged the other, acknowledges it, and tries to do something about it (such as an apology and some kind of forward action to redeem themselves). It keeps reminding me of John.

My therapist told me before that I'm supposed to just forget the emotional abuse, and that bringing it up may not necessarily change anything. I have been trying to. I put the house behind me, I put the man behind me, but I can't escape it--I still have to see him often. I still have to talk to him. Yesterday was his birthday, and I was supposed to call him. I didn't. Because although he hasn't hurt me lately, those wounds are burned into me as resentment and fear, and even wishing him a happy birthday feels like I'm betraying some part of myself.

I wondered, then, if reparations could help? If I were to tell him that he had effectively emotionally abused me, and if he were to own up to it and apologise, could it inspire change in him so he could improve upon himself? If that were the case, would I finally feel better and be able to forgive him?

....Going back to that one night in Chicago with Kate. I once brought it up to her, maybe last year, about how much it meant to me when she cried over my sadness. She said she couldn't remember ever doing that.

Would John ever be able to own up to his past actions? Somehow I think that, much like past talks, I would not be able to explain it in a way where he could understand. It would either sound like I was throwing yet another angry accusation or baseless insult, over exaggeration or otherwise heedless point; or it would go over their heads. They would understand I am upset, but not why--has anything happened recently to create this??---and try to connect it to current times (and thus, find no fault, and not understand my side). Then, they would force me to say I had forgiven everything, regardless of whether I actually had time to. This is why I stopped trying to explain myself and why I felt bothered. This is why I had told myself I would stop trying.

So no, I don't think reparations are effective for this situation--at least, not in a way where I could ever forgive him. Same goes for Kate's comment. Even if I told her about what she had said, even if she apologized for it, would I be able to forget? Could I forgive her? I doubt it. This, and the trauma brought by the emotional abuse, will probably stay with me forever without being given proper conclusion. I just need to wait for them to get weaker with time and fade.

Since I need to give John some belated birthday wishes today, I hope I get over it soon. There is only so long I can give noncommittal answers to "you two are good, right?" before Mom begins to get upset.

Life is good.

-------
EDIT:
I apparently write about this exact thing in my post from 2013, Panic Attack. I guess I don't change my thinking much.
But I feel like realizing that is kind of important somehow????
I'm not sure yet. I still have a lot to think about.

Secondary Self Loathing

 I am beginning to understand Rachel and her previous need for abusive relationships. This strange fixation with pain has taught me many things, one of which being that there is more than one way to look at hurting yourself. I still fantasize of burning, biting, and tearing, but I am learning that when one doesn't like themselves, they may very well wish for someone else to burning, biting, and tearing. This is especially true if you are trying incredibly hard not to hurt yourself anymore, but need some form of release.

Still, self-harm fantasies are a far more common occurrence for me, but occasionally I will imagine having someone else pull my hair, bite my legs, and call me disgusting. And, strangely enough, there is some sort of satisfaction in the scenario. Just like there is a sick satisfaction in taking a deep breath full of cigarette smoke in the city--No, I might not be the one smoking, yet I can find ways to do myself in. Everything in life is capable of hurting you, if you can manipulate it right.

My mental health has improved dramatically since last year---I know longer interact with the world in the same way I did then. I no longer have the need to 'baby-proof my air'; I can live comfortably and safely in my own skin again. I can breathe easy around most sharp objects, be left alone with only occasional repercussions, and look at the world through the eyes of a healthy and mentally stable person, albeit with a few exceptions. That being said, I still have my ups and downs--a panic attack I had six days ago had me seeing things again that I hadn't seen since I wore gloves, and even now nearly a week later I am unsteady on my feet and with my eyes. It takes a while to forget that mindset--it worms its way into your head. But I'll be okay. I'm in a fun, exciting environment, living with someone that keeps me taking care of myself, and I have my partner or even Rachel for whenever it gets too overwhelming.

I made the mistake last week of getting cocky, believing I had already fully recovered and that I was perfectly healthy. Recovery doesn't happen in less than a year. It may never fully heal me--I can never forget the things I've seen and thought. I still wear gloves to sleep, and I still have fantasies in various forms. But I'm improving. I just need to remember that I am a bit more fragile and a bit more sensitive than others, and keep myself at this slow and steady pace. I'll do my best to keep myself safe and not take risks. I don't want to break anymore--by my hand, nor anyone else's.

Life is good.

I can finally believe my motto again

 I think I'm finally getting better.

Therapy has been going well. But while the vast majority of it was me improving, there were times I slipped into bouts of biting. Anxiety sometimes crept up on me, bad thoughts sometimes took my breath, and I begged for death under my breath. I still haven't completely weaned myself off my gloves---I still need them when I'm sleeping. But most of my symptoms now feel very far away for me. I rarely if ever feel that bad anymore. I don't have self harm thoughts about the objects around me. I recovered far, far quicker than I was expecting, to the point where I may cancel therapy. And today, I really felt it. Safety.

Before, I was obsessed with reading stories--hours upon hours of stories each day---and it overwhelmed me with emotions. It was almost like the tears again; an addiction, a way for me to feel strong sensations and chemical releases that  couldn't otherwise. Maybe that's exactly what it was. But from the comfort of my bed, for hours on end, I could put myself through powerful waves of emotions and thrills that sent me on the edge of tears, and never have a moment of calm. It was overwhelming.

And I quickly realized that, like when I was in paramount stress, being overwhelmed with emotion made me want to hurt myself. It was nearly every time. Be it overwhelmed with euphoria or sorrow, I would always end up gnawing on my hands, or scratching at my face. When I was stressed, it was the same. I think that's why it began to carry over into everything else--I was so scared of being labeled and suffering self-harm, so scared of being a freak, and so anxious over my feelings over Rebbie, that I was always in a state of stress. The only relief was escape in my stories.

The therapist said that I felt emotions too strongly. That's true, I guess, though I hate to think it. I've always been like that. The smallest thing can fling me over the edge, into impossible hysterics. I feel every emotion so intensely. I guess it was my downfall. Hurting myself was always the conclusion.

Therapy has been attempting to teach me to distance myself from my emotions a bit, to a healthy level. 'Separate your thoughts from your emotions', he said. It never sat right with me. But by the third visit, I had talked over my feelings with Rebbie and we had found our love to be mutual. And since then, though not much changed, I felt incredibly less anxious. Bad thoughts plagued me less and less, and self-harm has been at an all time low. Now, it rarely happens. I guess that anxiety over them was really eating away at me and I was trying to hide it from myself. I can finally interact with my environment healthily again.

But I continued therapy, because I knew all of my dips had been because of my complete and utter inability to deal with stress. But today, I went back to the stories. And they crashed over me just like before, an amazing amount of intensity and inspiration. And at first, I felt a stronger urge to hurt again. I gritted my teeth until they were sore and bit down on a wound in my lip. But then, that faded. I was just desiring the urge to paint.

When did I get to the point where I could deal with stress at a healthy level? When was I able to sort through my feelings through harmless and progressive means? What was the tipping point where I stopped solving stress with pain and started using art? I don't know. But it's amazing. I'm far but perfectly emulating mental health, but I finally feel healthy. I feel like I'm free, a bit. Distanced from mental illness. I've recovered, I'm becoming a good person again. I can breathe.

I can finally say it again and mean it:

Life is good.

Brain Plasticity

 I just finished my second date with my therapist, and we are actually getting somewhere. I always assumed therapy was just talking about your dark secrets and inner fears until the quack tells me what is making my thoughts dark, but apparently there might be more (or even less) to it. My psychologist has an interest in neurology as well as simple empathy stuff, and brought up that topic of brain plasticity as a hypothesis for my self harming habits.

And when he mentioned it, it seemed to make almost too much sense. It would explain how I can constantly think about hurting myself while not being depressed. It explains how I recovered from my depression in ninth grade when I became fixated on Julie and forgot everything else. It explains why being alone with my thoughts was so hard, why I never felt quite as dramatic as I thought I should have been, how it was never quite consistent and how I sometimes didn't feel as mentally ill as I saw in my past self and in others with serious problems. It's friggin brain plasticity.

Basically, it's not that I'm really sad, but that during my depression I kept thinking of that mental self harm, and then Rachel told me what i was doing, and I started thinking about it constantly. The self harm got worse because it became all I could think about; and the more I dwelled on it, the more that that line of thinking became further ground into my brain. Suddenly all lines of thought led inevitably to self harm. But there is a way to get around it, just how I managed to get out of my depression--distraction. That fills the rut.

There is a chance that I could interact with the world in a healthy way again. I could look at the world and not see ways to hurt myself. I could handle sharp objects without panicking. I could feel noprmal around lighters again. I could finally feel like a normal, functioning human being again.

I am so overjoyed and filled with hope. Overcoming my thoughts is going to take time, but I am so incredibly enthusiastic for the results.

Life is good.

Lists

 I like lists. Organizing life into lists makes me feel a bit more... I don't know how to describe it. Settled, maybe? Either way, it is also a way to chronicle the things that happen to me, especially things that I can't otherwise bring up. I need t share things; I don't feel sane if there's something I can't share. So when there's some important life event in my life that I can't possibly share, I like to put it in a list. I've written numerous lists on this blog, and I've been making lists since I was little... But nothing this dark before. But I really want to write this down somewhere, because it is meaningful to me, it is important, I think about it all the time and it affects me and I will never stop thinking about it. It is important to who I am.

So this is my list of ways I have fantasied hurting myself (or, for a few, more than fantasies).

• I have dreamed of razors. This is probably the most obvious but one of the least frequent for me. It scares me too much. I have seen it far too often and it has traumatized me and I can't even get close to a razor because of it, much less try. I have seen craters and canyons in the walls of her skin and rivers so deep they have kissed the bone and in the darkest of moments I have envisioned those same things carved into my skin and it makes my skin quake. I have imagine gauging out my lips, scooping out my cheeks, tracing pools in the fat on my legs with the blades inside my disposable razors.... It is amazing how much skin we have.
• I have caressed my back while searching for scars, and have caught myself stroking my spinal cord fondly. I have dreamed of reaching in and ripping it out of my body. This, I could obviously not do. But I think of it.
• I've thought of drinking nail polish remover. About every time I use it. It would be quick and I'm guessing I would probably die. I don't usually think of ways to kill myself, only to cause minor injury (at least, that is most common). But if I were to ever be suicidal, I think I would probably drink nail polish remover. Jokes on me if it isn't lethal (though I doubt it isn't).
• Snow. Sticking my hands in snow was an easy transition when I got into burning during winter. Then my arms. I had always thought that the image of someone going into the snow without a coat to be romantic--I think somehow the image of keeping my limbs under the snow came off similarly. It never lasted long enough though, and I grew tired of it.
• Speaking of which: Burning. So many ways of burning. It started with boiling mugs of tea pressed into my skin. Then came my fear of lighters. Lighters plague my nightmares. Lighters haunt the halls of my home. Lighters keep my sneaking into the garage. It's become a sort of mania, burning. An obsession. Luckily, I have had no luck with lighters, since I have been blessed with an absolute inability to light them. Recently, my preference has been towards cigarettes. Everytime I smell smoke, I crave them. I want to smoke, but not just for the relaxing effects it is said to contain: I want the smoke to burn my eyes; I want the drags to burn my throat; I want the coughing and retching to burn my lungs; I want the ashes to burn my skin.
• Biting is another recent favorite that has been going on for months now. First it was just biting my knuckles to keep myself from thinking certain thoughts or actions... but then it became its own vice, and thus starting new fantasies. Like chewing my hands like gum. That tantalizing thought keeps me awake for hours. And by tantalizing I mean horrifying. And tantalizing.
• Pizza Cutter. Ha, I still laugh at that one. I friggin got triggered by a stupid pizza cutter. It was shiny and silver and not actually all that sharp but I thought it might be nice to roll it across the underside of my arm where the skin is thin. Goodness. I am stupid.
• Hot glue. This also has to do with burning. I'd like to get out my hot glue gun and make clear, burning trails over my arms and peel them off to expose red little rivers that sting. But I could only remove it once its dry. Not a long wait, but long enough when the substance is hot enough to melt. I wonder if my skin would melt as well. (I'm glad the hot glue gun is in a box, so that my laziness keeps me from grabbing it.)
• As of a few minutes ago: sticking my hand in the garbage disposal. 
• Have I mentioned boiling water? Burning is kind of a pattern.
• There was a time when I hit myself repeatedly with blunt objects. Such as can openers, and rocks of substantial weight.
• I have thin chains in the pocket of my jacket. Sometimes I wrap it around and around my fingers and hand, and then pull, very tightly. I also do this with ribbons. I hope that loss of circulation will make me feel better; I'm not quite sure where I came up with this logic.
• There is of course, scratching myself. Scratching my neck until it bleeds. Scratching my head until I feel potholes all over my skull. scratching into the scars until they enlarge, scratching into the open flesh, digging in. Thinking about this enough scares me tremendously.

 I think of little things, like pressing my finger to the rim of a can I opened and hoping for once that it's sharp; biting my tongue with my pointed teeth; thumbtacks and pins; even keeping my eyes open longer than I should to feel them sting. I have lost track of all the countless ideas that have entered my mind when it comes to hurting myself.

As I explained in the last entry, I often felt like I was afraid of everything. One can easily see anything. Practically anything found in ordinary life has some sort of value in terms of hurting me. How many days did I spend in Paula's house, putting my head through the loop in the shower head wire, where it hung just like I noose? I always thought of strangling myself with it, though I wasn't sure it was possible.

Now that I think about it, I have been having these fantasies since seventh grade: that's nearly five years. Five years of dreaming up different ways to damage myself. No wonder my mind is so messed up.

I am a psychological mess and it makes me feel miserable.

An Epiphany about Fear

 There was a time, a few months ago, when i made a list of all of the things I was afraid of. It went something like this:
Razors, sharp objects, thumbtacks, lighters, snow(occasionally), scissors, bruises, bite marks, bandages around my neck, open wounds, scratches, hot glue,  and my own hands and arms.

And really, I would still say that I am, by and large, afraid of these things, but on a deeper and more analytical level, I know that that's not true. I know because I have experiences irrational fear of inanimate objects before; I know phobias, and while some of these (such as razors) might have been very real in my past, I do not think they apply to me now.

Instead, I think it may be more accurate to say that I am scared of myself.

One big moment of realization for me was in Bri's car. Bri has two lighters in her car. A few months before, I had been at her house, and I had seen a lighter sitting in a remote area--I was afraid, deathly afraid, and actually asked her to hide it for me.  I could have grabbed it when no one was looking and done something bad, and I had been terrified of my own lack of self control and of the thoughts swirling about in my head.

In Bri's car a few months later, i saw two lighters in her car. At first I had a twang of nervousness, but it quickly passed; the lighters did not scare me. It was not because the lighters were any different than usual lighters. It was because Bri was right there in the car with me; there was absolutely no way I could get away with anything crazy, and with her right by my, I didn't have any dark thoughts.

So what I am actually afraid of is myself. I am scared of my lack of self control, and I am scared of what i will do if given the opportunity.  I am still awful at breaking habits. I do not seem to be getting much better.

On one hand, this is a good realization because it makes me realize that I am not a crazy person who is afraid of everything. It seemed as if I was able to somehow trigger myself with any ordinary object, and it felt as if I was practically afraid of everything. On the other hand, this makes it so much worse. I cannot escape from this fear. I cannot distance myself from it. Unlike lighters, I cannot have people hide them from me. Unlike my hands and arms, I cannot cover them with cloth. I can do nothing to save myself from me; I am always in the danger zone, and that is so, so terrifying.

And isn't it just typical of me, being afraid of myself. That is such an egotistical thing to do. It is always about me, huh?

But then, at the very least, I am getting help now. Soon I won't even have to fear myself.

(but can one live without an all encompassing fear to live with? I don't think I've ever known a life like that.)

Life is good.

Sexism and Fear

 

When I’m at my father’s house, I lock the bathroom door when I take a shower. This isn’t because I’m afraid of our male roommates coming in on me—I trust them fully. But I have been raised all my life to fear and hate men.

That is not to say that I hate men. I don’t. But I’ve been raised to. When I was little I was told to never go out at night, because I would be kidnapped by dangerous men prowling the streets. Of course, I was never told explicitly that it would be a man taking me, but it was heavily implied. I was shown videos as a kid, and all of the examples of rapists and kidnappers were men, always men. When I was young and asked my parents why we didn’t take the bus, they mentioned these ‘suspicious people’, which were of course characterized as men. The adults in the unmarked white vans were men. The homeless people with the cardboard signs on the street were men. The occasional passerby in the big, scary city I was hidden from were men, which meant I should fear them, even if they meant no harm. All the others, they were women, which meant they were like me: merely hapless would-be victims of men. We were all waiting to be attacked in an alley, snatched and harassed, kissed and abused. I was taught to fear the world from a young age, so that even boys in my class could be watched from my peripheral for signs of evil.

Now,  I like to call myself a humanitarian: I believe that people should be viewed as if they were moral human beings until judged otherwise. I’d like to believe the claims of the homeless with the cardboard signs, and trust the kindness of the occasional passerby in the city. I would want to talk to these people and learn their stories. I love the night air and want to go out at night any time I can. But I don’t.  

The ethics and warnings I was brought up with stick to me even when I try to resist them. They were meant to keep me safe as a child, but I fear they have made me judgmental and cruel as an adult. What have men done to me to make me fear and despise them? Absolutely nothing. I have been treated with care and honest kindness all my life. That is not to say that there aren’t horrible, terrible men out there prowling the streets, but there are also horrible, terrible women, and the vast majority of both parties are regular people with regular morals leading regular lives. But while I know and believe these things, it doesn’t stop those deeply rooted stigmas to disappear. I still can’t trust as openly as I’d like to. I still live fearfully of a large half of the population. Not in a way that I openly dislike them, but in a way that it is hard for me to coexist with them at an unconscious level. I hate that. I hate fearing people without reason. It is unfair, unfair to men and unfair to myself.

I lock my bathroom door when I’m at my father’s house, but at my mother’s house I do not, even though I live with an older man. But I don’t fear my step father walking in on me in the shower; I have no doubt that my body doesn’t interest him. Instead, I lock my bedroom door—I fear him talking to me and harassing me. I hide in my shower because I know he won’t bother me, because in the shower I can definitely avoid him, and because in the shower I can’t hear him argue with my mother about how terrible and narcissistic her children are.

I have realized there is a difference between a taught fear and true fear of a person.

Life is good.

Change is Strange

I have thought about what happened during my sophomore year when I started dating Rachel. I realize  in hindsight that while everyone saw us together, and both of us, in that way, came out together, Rachel was the only one to get teased and pushed around. I was not. She had harassment in class, was accused of messing around with all sorts of girls, made fun of, avoided, called names. I sat in my classes with my Bi Pride button and my incredibly blatant and loud talks about GLBTQIA+.

I think it was either because:
A) Honors students are a lot more open to stuff
Except for Rachel had a few of those classes and they still harassed her (although not as much, I believe). Also, on my bus most were non-honors students and all knew about me, but only two ever said anything, and while they made fun of her, they seemed to support me.

which means it is probably
B) I was liked and respected more.

And that is stupid. I hate how badly she was treated. It wasn't fair. It would be one thing if I was also getting talks. But it wasn't even that. They just hated her. And she was amazing. She IS amazing. I miss her. We haven't talked in forever.

Is the wedding still happening? Is everything okay? Is she out of the hospital? Is she okay? Is she happy? Is she still cutting? Is her workplace still terrible? Does she ever think about me? Will we ever talk again?

It used to be my meaning and way of life to take care of her and know everything about her and man I don't need that in my life anymore but I knew so much before and I still worry,

Sometimes I think about how after a while of being with Rachel, thinking and caring about her saved me from relapsing depressing that would have come after Julie and I felt emotionally stable enough to take off the finger ribbons I had been wearing for four years. That was a huge event for me, and I still remember it really fondly. She gave me new ribbons when I lost me special ones (I kept a few that I never used),  gave me our matching ductape rings after I had gotten rid of the ribbons, and then when the rings came off continued to support me until I didn't even rub my fingers anymore.

I want a day like that with my gloves. One day my gloves will come off and I will never need them again. I don't know how many years it will take this time. It hasn't even been one year yet. I'm taking them to college with me. I probably won't be able to get rid of them without someone to help me through again--I doubt it's something I can do alone. And so far I haven't gotten any comments on the gloves--not any mean ones, anyway--and that is only because I'm well liked still, probably, and I wonder if that will continue in college. I wonder if Rebbie will be the one to help me this time.

I wonder, will I lose track of my friends like I lost track of Rachel? It only took distance and time. Will I lose these people I love? Who will stay? They're a lot more connected to the internet, bit still. I've known these people since I began truly living. I don't want to lose them, even to make new friends. Losing Izzy already made me question so many things, and Kate and I have had so many ups and downs....

Change. things change. Things change differently for different people depending who they are and where they are and even how they are. That is weird. Change is weird.
Change takes away girlfriends and harasses them but change also takes away finger ribbons and heals wounds.

Change is strange.

Life is good.