One Day

When I pick up that blade, it’s a ritual.

I have a lovely poster that is the center of my wall decorations right across from my bed. “Life is Beautiful”.

I turn away from it.

I sit cross-legged, my body facing my pillows and turn on my bedside lamp. My left arm has more cuts than the right since that’s the arm that faces the light. The cuts on that arm are also much deeper. I’m also right-handed, so I feel more comfortable cutting my left arm. 

I turn my large floor fan on high and the music up louder on my computer, so that my roommates won’t hear my tears. My sobs. 

I cut.

I sob.

I breathe.

I repeat.

There are so many used tissues on my bedside table. Some are wet with tears, others dried with blood.

My blood.

A lot of my blood. 

I cried myself to sleep last night. I cried when I woke up this morning.

I haven’t picked up the blade yet today. I used it a lot last night. So much that I got a new one since the old one wasn’t cutting as well anymore.

I’m just so tired right now.

I don’t want to go to any of my classes looking the way I do. My eyes red and puffy with dark circles underneath. 

But I just have to get through today.

I just have to.

One day.

Chasm

Flyleaf- one of my favorite old bands. My love for them is resurfacing full-force.

I feel so disgusting right now.

I ate nothing good today.

I went out to eat last night.

Why can’t I do anything fucking right.

Like- my lessons with my saxophone instructor. He forgot to send me the email that he sent to everyone else in our studio. So, I still don’t have a lesson time. Every time he gives me I have a class conflict. I know it’s stupid, but I feel like it’s my fault. Like I’m such a hassel. Like I’m a burden. 

I hate this so much.

Then for Concert Band this semester, my professor emailed us with our chair placement results. As a saxophonist here, I don’t have to audition. So, I was ready to see myself under the list some where under Alto Sax with my friends. Instead, I’m the very last chair for Clarinet.

I hadn’t auditioned for clarinet…. I am and was very confused. 

I emailed the professor and it’s all very confusing. He asked what I wanted to play and was confused when I didn’t sign up for an audition for clarinet. He thought I wanted to play clarinet. While I’d be alright with playing clarinet if that’s what he needs me on, I’d rather play saxophone.

I’m getting very, very tired of people… just… not understanding or assuming or something that I’m not in the saxophone studio here anymore.

I don’t even feel like I am anymore since people ask me about it all the time.

Even my own professor forgets about me.

I just don’t know what to make of my life anymore. 

Cutting is becoming more of an addiction now. It’s bad. 

I know a few friends know.

I have a bad habit of blabbing about everything in my life to people when I feel like… I don’t know. I wish I could have just kept my mouth shut. I can’t do that though.

I fucking hate myself on so many levels right now.

I don’t like the pills I take. They don’t do anything. I hate my skin. I hate my hair. I hate my eyebrows. I hate my stomach. I hate my arms. I hate my legs. I hate my nails. I hate my fingers. I hate my chin. I hate my neck. I hate my immune system. I hate my mind most of all. My mind- the stupid, bitchy, controlling, awkward, public, messed up, stinking pit, needy, festering, broken piece of shit it is.

I hate that I can’t follow through with anything. I’m the girl that starts something and never follows through with it. 

Maybe that’s why nobody believes me. Nobody wants me. Nobody includes me. 

I hate myself so much. 

I’m not sure if I hate people for not believing me or myself more for my inability to have anybody believe me.

I just want it to go away.

Everything. Go. Away.

These thoughts, the razor blades, my body, my mind, everything.

I’m just a failure.

I’m trapped in my own Chasm.

Make This Worthy: A long, slightly intoxicated rant

Alright kids.

This is my very first xanga drunk post.

No… I’m not of age, but I go to a very big party school. It’s expected (judge me bitches.)

I’m not too terribly drunk (I hope.) I have made myself throw up (yippie!) and have been drinking (some) water.

Today, though, was a pretty good day.

Classes were alright. Learned some things in my religion Gen-Ed class. Had a nice break time where I was at our Newman Center studying. I made some fun acronyms (as you may find out, my favorite study device) and drank some good coffee.

Then I went to Chemistry. Nothing too serious.

Then Music History Discussion.

For some reason I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering once we got to the real discussion section.

We had split up into small groups to talk about the assigned reading for the class. All was good in my group of 4 (including me and someone I’m good friends with) so it was easy. Then the class discussion started.

And my anxiety hiked through the roof.

In high school, I was “one of those people” that answered all the questions that I knew, raised my hand to read out loud to the class, and proposed questions based on my own notes/the assigned reading (a.k.a. the girl some people hated but loved because she would help them study for the tests.)

College has been a little different for me.

It was fine first semester. My music classes were small, I knew what I was doing in Music Theory… but I guess things didn’t work out there.

Obviously.

Now, I’m a struggling student with severe anxiety and depression (though few believe the depression part) that gets nervous when I answer questions asked by the teacher/professor that I know are right answers.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Well, right now I’m slightly tipsy.

I’m not sure of everything I’ve written.

I’m tired.

I’m about to fall asleep.

But my mind is like “asdfghjkl; nope” so here I am. Writing on Xanga because that is my life.

One great big “I don’t know” and “What the fuck am I doing/going on?”

Tonight, a friend of mine stole my bell necklace (it was Saxmas, which is our celebration of Christmas even though it’s a month after the holiday…)

He was ringing it when it was around my neck saying that I had to make out with him.

If I didn’t hate myself and care for him as much, I might have done it. But I’m too disgusting as a person and I love him (friend-wise) and I know he can do much better than me.

So I want him to.

I would really love it if he followed through on asking one of my friends out. She’s gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. I’m honestly not just saying that because she’s my friend and all, but seriously. I wish I had her body and mind and spirit and light-hearted personality. She has been going through some rough times, but people (like me and my friends and my roommate) care about her so much (seriously, I love her so much. She’s one of my closest friends) and she should be with someone handsome, talented, funny, and good like my friend. They would be so adorable together, it would be cuter than the cat I will (hopefully) purchase and adopt next year.

Let me say and let you know that is a lot since I have an addiction and severe love to cats. Especially Lenny. He’s SO CUTE.

But at this time, I find myself only accepting the “love” of two people/kinds of people.

One is guys I don’t know/have emotional attachment to at all.

I feel guilty for this one since New Years didn’t follow the whole “emotional attachment” thing.

I kissed a good number of people I really care about that are some close friends to me that evening.

I’m pretty sure that most of them know that “hey, it was New Years, fuck it,” but one of them… I’m pretty sure he knows, but at the same time, I worry, regret my drunken decisions and hope that they don’t hate me for it later.

But I’d be okay with hooking up with a guy that I know well enough to be comfortable around, but not so much that I’d feel like I’d have to be friends with him and talk to him afterwards.

#peebreak #Iamstilldrunk #brb

Feeling slightly better. I hadn’t starting peeing until late into the night. Although, now many things are much clearer now, I can still admit that I am drunk after peeing and drinking two cups of water.

It isn’t enough.

I can’t wash my face twice a day otherwise my skin will dry out too much even with moisturizer. My acne won’t go away because I guess my face sucks, I touch my face too often (even though I have been trying to avoid it) and I hate my skin. My fingers are fat. My belly is big. My thighs are twice as big as my roommates. I’m so hard to live with. I honestly don’t know why I exist. Maybe I’m here to make people feel better about themselves because my life is so fucked up, I’m ugly, and I’m stupid and untalented.

Seriously though.

People think I’m “so great” because I made it into the saxophone studio here.

Honestly, there are two reasons why I got in.

I had a trial lesson with the professor here before my audition. It cost me $100 (fuuuuuck.) By the time I came back for my audition, the professor here saw how I had improved and taken his teachings to heart and grown over the past month. He saw that I could be taught. That’s probably the main reason why I got in.

And luck.

Not because of talent. I’m a good musician, but not saxophonist. I suck at saxophone. I can play piano and sing my heart out, but saxophone… it’s a respectable outlet since I didn’t continue receiving classical training on piano.

I wish I had.

I was a piano prodigy as a child. My teachers told me and my parents again and again. Then my mom died and everything fell apart.

I’m just not meant for this earth.

Not in a good way. I’m to be the stepping stone for others. But that’s good too.

I’m alright with that. I would rather know that my peers and more importantly friends were happy, successful, and feeling fulfilled with their lives.

Life moves on with death.

In some ways, I’m already dead.

It isn’t sad. It isn’t heart-breaking.

I would never want people to think, “Oh, she was so young and had so much to live for,” or “It’s such a shame.”

It could be a shame to my family, but to me, it would be so much more than that.

On my tumblr, I made post during “suicide awareness week” about my “struggle” with suicide.

I talked about how it wasn’t a way to escape uncomfortable feelings, life, things that make you sad, and so on.

It’s a way to take away the pain.

To me, though, I’ve come to realize that it’s so much more than that.

I like the fact that I’m a cutter, I take anti-depressants, that I struggle, that (literal) puzzles help me to stay focused on life, that I contemplate on taking my own life.

It’s not to escape. It’s not that I’m “just sad”. It’s not something most people would understand.

I want my friends and those I care about to succeed more than anything. More than the value I place on my life. I want my friends to achieve their dreams: become doctors, music therapists, professional musicians, pharmacists, psychologists, astronomers, businessmen/women, anything. I want their happiness. I would be so incredibly happy dying for their happiness, it makes me cry from joy.

I would readily give my life for someone else’s, whether I knew them or not.

I often think about those who have the misfortune or unluckiness (however you wish to interpret fate) of being diagnosed or put in a dire situation. I think about all of us who are suicidal. I wonder how many of us that are suicidal would give our lives, our healthiness, to those who are less fortunate, in place of our own lives. I would readily give my life to someone, old or young, so that they may live this life that I can’t seem to be happy with.

That would give me the greatest joy.

Dying knowing that I saved someone’s life.

That makes me think of that Will Smith movie: Seven Pounds.

I remember watching that for the first time spring break of my freshman year with my now roommate Avery.

I cried so hard.

She did too.

At the time, I cried for many reasons. Most of them for the same reasons she was crying. At the same time, there were other reasons I was crying that I don’t think she would be able to understand.

She’s beautiful. She has a wonderful bond and connection with her family that I envy.

I wanted to be in Will Smith’s place.

Giving up my life so that my body could be used to help save someone else’s life.

Would I do the kind of research Will Smith’s character did?

Probably, knowing my perfectionist personality, my desire to let my God-given blessings live on through those that were just and moral, and being so OCD over the whole situation.

Only one person knows and UNDERSTANDS my OCD.

Most laugh at me when I tell them that I have minor OCD.

“You’re room is messy, how can you be OCD?” and “You’re not as organized as some people that I’ve met/known. You don’t have OCD.”

… Fuck you assholes that don’t know me or OCD.

Explain my color-coded, alphabetized closet. My bookshelf. My pictures. My medication shelf. My bed. My hygiene routine. My shoes. My outfits. My techniques for my musical instruments. My driving style. So many other aspects of my life.

… Fuck you assholes that don’t know me or OCD.

I wish I could give my life to someone. Especially someone with a loving family. Tell them, “Here, take my healthy heart/lungs/blood cells/brain/anything. Take it. I love my family, but the love you have for life and for your family far exceeds mine and you deserve life more than I do.”

If I could give my life to someone else, I would do it faster than a heart beat.

I think about this everyday.

Every. Day.

I’ll be walking to class.

Some people say “if you’re suicidal, why do you look both ways before crossing the street?”

I don’t.

I just hope someday, I will seriously not hear or see a car, the car will not hear or see me, then they’ll hit me, I’ll be in critical condition, and my organs (those that are usable) will benefit the life of someone else.

That’s what I really want.

It’s also why I hate myself so much.

Why do I get 2 roofs over my head? Why do I get a nice bed? Why do I get not only a good Catholic Education but also a good college education? Why do I get to study something to some people as arbitrary as music? Why do I have clothes, a fan, shoes, band-aids, soap? Why do I get food?

I don’t deserve this.

I don’t deserve this life my parents have given me. I don’t deserve anything my father bought me for Christmas. I don’t deserve this new bed with sheets. I don’t deserve this apartment that I barely pay for. I don’t deserve the clothes on my back.

I hate my life.

I can’t believe I can function.

Someone else should have this.

Make this worthy.

Apparently Not

I am a horrible liar.

Today, I went to Thursday Night Mass at our university Newman Center.

I felt like an outsider trying to be religious. It was pretty horrible.

I know I have been avoiding church this past year. I have just felt that a person who doesn’t value their self worth… what are they doing in a church where we are supposed to be giving thanks? How am I supposed to love God and myself because he created me when I violate and harm my body? 

What hurt more was one of my friends. She was so happy that I was there. So happy. I felt fake.

And of course during the homily, I opened up my fat mouth and started talking about my “faith conversion”.

Once upon a time that happened.

Then I broke.

I can’t really say if I know I’ve been close to God. I feel so objective and frightened by it. I have been raised my whole life Catholic- mass, school, everything. Family. Then when my mom passed, my family just kind of feel apart in a lot of ways. I don’t even know. I can’t explain it at all. There are no words that can explain the pain and stupidity that kept us apart and still keeps us at an arms length. 

But if God isn’t real… then what?

Is there eternal life? If not… then what? 

I thought when I returned to the church in high school that… something would happen I guess. I got involved in the music at my church and that was really the only reason why I went. I would tune out during the readings and homilies for the most part. I went through the motions. I was on and off with the Newman Singers. With as many masses we did as a group, you’d think something in me would change. 

Maybe I’m just not ready. I don’t know.

I doubt everything now. 

I doubt my relationships with people.

I really just want to hole myself up, not go out and see people unless I’m going out to party (a.k.a. I don’t want to see people sober), and stop telling people things. 

Talking to my dad last night… I’m getting so frustrated with people.

He refuses to accept that I could be suicidal, that I self-harm, and that I’m depressed. He just won’t listen.

Even one night when I called him during a suicidal episode, he was yelling at me over the phone. He gets so personally offended about me talking about it.

I know what it could do to him. I know what it could do to others. But then, who am I living for?

Yes, bible teaches us, live for others and most importantly god… yup, uh-huh.

But if I’m only keeping myself alive just for people to not be upset with my passing, then I’m already dead.

It’s not cowardly.

It’s not running away.

It’s helping the numbness.

That’s all I felt during mass today.

 

Numbness.

 

I just don’t feel like I can get someone to listen to me and then help me. Everyone is offering opinions. 

Opinions are very different from answers.

No one knows. Literally. There isn’t really anything that can just take this away. It’s a fact, a fact that I’m well aware of. I’m tired of people reminding me that as if I didn’t know that and I was some angst-y, ignorant teen that doesn’t know shit about what I’m going through.

I read.

I’m interested in the health field, you really think I’d be stupid enough to not read into this?

I am my own greatest nightmare. 

But still, isn’t there something to help with the constant stomach ache, the rapidly changing heartbeat, the overwhelming sadness, the disappointment, the self-loathing, the anger, the helplessness?

Apparently not.

To Sleep

Tonight is the last night of winter break.

But it’s 11:11, so I need to make a wish.

Wish made.

I think I’m nervous. I don’t really know what I’m feeling to be honest.

I don’t even know all the classes I have tomorrow.

Now I do after checking my schedule. I’ve got 2 classes. Score.

I have 2 classes Tuesday and Thursday then 4 Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (ish.)

(ish.) because I have 4 classes every other Friday. 

This semester should be so much better than last. Going from 5 classes a day every day starting at 8:30 every day.

So. Much. Better. 

What’s not better are the drunk girls singing very poorly and very loudly outside my apartment. And wooing. They’re woo girls. 

The worst. 

But today was very productive. I cleaned my room extensively. It’s cleaner than when I sorted everything when I moved in. My problem is I have a lot of one thing (like, a lot of reeds for saxophone, gear, etc.) and I need just one box for it. For now, a crate that holds all my music plus some books and notebooks has some random saxophone stuff.

Speaking of saxophone…

My professor forgot to email me about lesson times this semester. I emailed him about it asking who I would be with and what the times were if I was to be with him. Of course, the only time he had left for me I have a class. 

Naturally. 

To say I’m frustrated with him would be an understatement, but there isn’t anything I can do in the situation. And I just don’t give too much of a damn.

I don’t give too much of a damn about anything right now really.

Apathetic. That’s how I feel about tomorrow.

Disgustingly apathetic. 

There’s a small edge of panic there which is to be expected. But since I had such a hard time opening my university email over winter break due to panic attacks, I think I’ve moved past the so-anxious-I-can’t-breathe-what-is-my-life phase and am breeching on the don’t-give-any-fucks-total-apathy phase. 

My anxiety tends to have pretty predictable stages. Finding them out was a real help. Save for the fact that my apathy stage cost me my chemistry grade last semester. 

Bah.

I just want this week to be over with.

Or to sleep.

To sleep forever.

The worst part is I’m not even a little bit tired. I was when I was working on my puzzle, but now I’m not.

Maybe I’ll give that a shot before bed.

That’s one of the worst parts about all of this. 

I can’t ever sleep. And it’s one of the few things I want.

To sleep. 

My Life Is Pathetic

I just feel so frustrated or upset all the time.

I was frustrated at my doctors appointment. I feel like I couldn’t say what was on my mind. As soon as I would start, she would come up with some explanation along the lines of ‘it’s expected’ or ‘not anything new’. 

When I feel like she isn’t listening to me, I just get upset. I don’t feel anything from the Zoloft at all. I haven’t since I’ve started it. Now my depression is worsening and I don’t know what to do. 

Then, I always hope when I come home, my dad will sit down with me and have an intervention. He never brings it up though. He will on the phone, but never in person. I’ll even try to coax something out of him like talking about my last doctors appointment. He doesn’t even look at me when I talk about it and when he does comment on it, he says I’m over reacting and to just let the doctor do what she thinks is best.

My friends are totally lost on this subject. Either a few of them are going through the same thing so it does little good for us to go to each other and talk about what’s bothering us or they simply don’t know what to do so they do nothing. Sometimes, they joke and say things like ‘I think about killing myself too because blah blah blah… let’s do it together!’ or ‘I’m here and you wouldn’t want to leave me ever, so you wouldn’t kill yourself.’

Well, I think I’ve gotten past the suicide stage. I don’t know. I don’t feel like I’ve lost my will to live necessarily, but I just feel like the life I have here isn’t worth living anymore. I want to get out, pack my shit and just go.

There’s several reasons why I don’t though.

A major one being the fact that I am without a car. I don’t have a means of taking a car and going where I want. I could save up to buy my own, but that would take a long time and then there would have to be extra money for repairs and insurance and other things. 

Then I think about what I would do as a job.

I wouldn’t go back to school. At least not for a while. Maybe I’d go to a community college and get an Associates Degree and then work at a bank or something like that. There I would get health insurance and benefits of some kind. I thought about being a waitress since I’m familiar with it and I loved it and I’d make good money, but the benefits suck at most places or there aren’t any. 

I feel so trapped by life and by the boundaries our society puts out there. I’m expected to graduate from a university, at some point in my life attend graduate school, get married, have kids, send them off to college, work until I’m old and grey and ready to retire, then die peacefully at home with my family.

Then why is this “American Dream” so hard for me to complete?

My life in college really isn’t that much time in the long run. It just feels like it doesn’t end and I can’t see the end of the tunnel. 

Besides, I’ve never thought I would live out until I’m old and grey.

Since my mom died at a young age of breast cancer, I’ve always kind of expected that I would be the one between my sister and I to have the same happen to me. It isn’t necessarily that either my sister or I will have it, but I’ve always hoped it was me instead of her. 

She’s the smart one. She’s the one that’s always had her life figured out. She’s never had problems or at least been public about them. She’s compassionate. She’s patient. Sure, she and my dad got in fights when she was younger, but she’s never openly had problems with him and our stepmom. 

I’m the problem child. I was the one who threw temper tantrums when I didn’t get my way. I fought with my dad constantly. I’m the one who has to see the doctor for mental issues. I’m not that smart. I don’t know what I want. I’m constantly frustrated, upset, or angry. I party. I smoke. I drink. I have sex. I’ve been having sex since high school. I’m bad. It’s not a plea for attention. It’s not a cry for help. It’s a coping mechanism since no one else knows what to do with me. 

I don’t know what to do with myself. Should I keep with the grind? Should I leave? 

My dreams are strange. Sometimes they’re funny, I’ve been remembering them since the Zoloft. They’re very vivid, but at least I’m not dreaming of people getting killed like I was on Prozac. Now, I’m questioning my sanity. Each dream get weirder and weirder and I’m not sure where my mind is going.

Dreams are such fickle things. Maybe I should get a new dreamcatcher. 

For now, my dreams consist of moving on and the relief I get from cutting. My life is pathetic.

So Then They’ll Know

I have it good.

I have 2 homes, a very nice bed and another bed plus couches that are extremely comfortable. I have a lot of food and things to cook it with. I have a beautiful saxophone, lots of momentos, movies, books, a big fan, clothes, shoes, coats, a bike, and many other things.

I hate my scissors right now.

I love them, for they’re helping me now, but they (like most scissors) are dull. They aren’t really getting the job done.

I just have bumps on my arm.

Long, white bumps. 

More so just on my shoulder. So I can wear t-shirts and not have to worry about it.

I had a doctors appointment today.

She’s keeping me on Zoloft, even though I’m not feeling anything from it at all. 

But I feel my scissors, as shitty as they are.

I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to just tell her how my life is falling apart and I can’t tell what side she’s on. My anxiety is on high now since school’s starting soon. 

Normal she said.

Just like being unable to open my university email all break.

Normal she said.

Due to my rough last semester.

I just want to scream.

What is normal about that? How am I normal? What is “normal” anymore? I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

She asked me for my goals.

I didn’t understand that question. So I asked her what she meant.

We didn’t end up talking about it any further. 

I don’t know what my goals are. What should I be shooting for? Love? Happiness? Success? From what? They sound so arbitrary. 

This life is miserable. 

I want to go. Go some place else. Break ties with those here except my family. Become a waitress some place warm, where the sun shines most of the year. I’m alright with rain, but I need warmth because this cold devours and has been devouring every year from the first chill until spring for 7 years.

People don’t believe me when I tell them what goes on in my mind.

I told a good friend last night. He thought I was joking about my past suicide attempts. He was saying we could do it together sometime because he feels that way too when he’s stressed. He joked that we could stand out in the cold and he’d die. I told him there were easier ways, trust me. 

I think he gets it now.

Most just nod and look the other way, some apologize and say I don’t deserve it, some pour out what makes them upset.

I just don’t understand.

Maybe it’s time to show people how broken I am. So then they’ll know.

Where Does The Ground Start?

It is official. I am becoming nocturnal (hoot-hoot.)

I was kinda-sorta sleepy at around midnight (fact), tried falling asleep about an hour and a half ago (ish), decided that wasn’t working and started writing.

Not on here, although this is where I am now (obviously.)

And it’s 3:31 AM and I’m not even tired.

I have insomnia issues.

Which is for real.

My doctor just doesn’t like to prescribe things to me (which I can’t really blame her.) I suffer from clinical depression and severe anxiety. I have increased my dosage recently and while I haven’t really noticed anything too different, I do feel like in some ways I am feeling better.

I don’t find myself having periods of extreme self-loathing sessions where I pick apart every single flaw I have very often. My thoughts of suicide are becoming fewer and fewer.

My anxiety is what the real problem is though.

I know that my depression stemmed from my anxiety issues. Pulling up my bank records today made me have a panic attack since I hadn’t checked them in a long time. Everything looks pretty good though. After that, though, I still couldn’t shake the feeling. My arms felt like they were rubber but twitching at the same time, my chest was about to fly away from my body, and my legs just wanted to run like crazy.

I know restlessness is a side effect from the medication I’m on, especially in the legs. But this was something I was trying to get away from. With my anxiety, I feel restless all the time. It’s as if I were constantly drinking coffee (which is why I can’t drink that much of it which is really sad.) I went up in dosage because I was having problems with the anxiety.

THIS. ISN’T. WORKING. DAMNIT.

I like my psychiatrist, I really do, and I know she is an intelligent woman. I still don’t feel like I’m myself though. But at this point, I don’t even know who ‘myself’ is. I don’t know where my roots are, where the ground starts.

Where does the ground start?