The Best Damn Worrier

I just giggled.

I go to my tumblr to see a sparkling post saying “vagina”, each letter a different color. 

I’ve hit an “elation period” so people tell me.

An extreme high for no reason. I get really happy and hyper suddenly. It’s in response to being under extreme anxiety and duress. 

Great….

Sometimes it can last for a few hours. Most of the time, it’s just a few minutes.

Liiiiike now.

Done.

Over.

Boom.

I’m definitely going to have to take a boat load of drugs to help me sleep tonight.

Not something I’m particularly happy to admit either.

And the people above us are trolls hosting a rage-party-shindig isn’t helping.

Well, it was one of my friends telling me about his break-up that sobered me up pretty quickly.

More so brought me down from my anxiety-infested high.

Infested was not the word I was going to use, but then I got distracted…. oops.

Which reminds me of how I didn’t go to my plasma donation appointment earlier today either.

Damn.

I could have used the money…

And I was all happy last night because I didn’t have to do anything today…

Wrong.

I didn’t practice well either.

I’m a mess.

Things will probably only get messier with this new job.

I can’t tell my doctor about it without her pressuring me to quit. I don’t think she’s going to be happy about where my life’s heading anyway.

I can’t say I’m too thrilled either though.

I guess I should try to relax my mind. I won’t be doing anyone any good by stressing about things I can’t control. 

But that’s what I do best.

I’m the best damn worrier you’ll ever meet. 

Hollow

So, a bunch of my friends and roommates either got invited to this exclusive party or they are going to said party.

Or they have boyfriends that aren’t a part of this group.

I feel so incredibly disgusting.

I have a pretty good feeling as to why I didn’t get invited by anyone.

The last time I got drunk was he work I had ever gotten drunk. It was bad. It was messy. I was bad. I was messy. I was shit-faced-upset-throwing-up-unattractive. 

I feel so incredibly left out and so incredibly unwanted. 

Even my quartet has been weird around me lately.

Well, Calvin has been. Dennis and I have been getting closer and talking more. I can actually and confidently say we are friends now, which I don’t think I could have said at the beginning of the semester.

I feel so ugly, repulsive, and horrible.

Hollow. I feel hollow. 

Reproachful Glares

It’s crazy how one minute, your day can be going great, to shitty, to great again, to shitty. 

In luck, I have an interview for a restaurant tomorrow.

Bad luck, my mood swings are horrible. I have no control over them. They’re all over the place. One minute I’m great, the next, I read something and my day is ruined. Things that shouldn’t bother me destroy me.

I am destroyed.

Am I really ready for a job?

I don’t think I have a choice right now.

I need this job more than I need help.

I have to learn to shut myself down better. I need to learn how to mask my emotions. Dead pan everything.

I really hate this. I hate that I can’t feel relaxed. I hate that I feel like everything is my fault. I hate this life. It’s no life, it’s hell.

At least I’m more conscious of my failures. Then I can look mature in the eyes of others when I fail, again. 

Over and over again.

I’m tired of this. I’m just so tired. I don’t know who to talk to though. I need to talk to someone right now. I just want to talk.

I would call my dad, but I know he has a track meet. There are a few friends I could call, but then again, I can’t. Some have too great of problems on their own that I refuse. Some I know would only agree with me because they don’t know what to say and that would only drive me closer to the edge. Others have no idea what’s going on with me so this would just come as a complete shock to them. 

The past week has been pretty awful. 

That’s why I’m currently having a mental breakdown. 

This is so long overdue.

I don’t feel like I’m a part of my religion anymore. I am close to declaring myself agnostic. There are things that I don’t doubt – that Jesus existed, that he was a great man, that many people have been transformed by faith – but I don’t really know if I believe in any God. The idea of him and of an afterlife and of someone here to watch over you is very appealing, but I don’t feel like I can necessarily say I believe in it. There are too many flaws, too many misconceptions, and too much hate around religion. 

I can’t keep living a life of lies. I can’t keep appearing places I don’t feel like I belong. I don’t know where I do belong though. Trapped in books, living a full life of imagination and little interactions. Puzzles that sit unfinished because I don’t have the diligence to stick with something for so long. I get hungry, but I have no desire of feeling sick every single time I eat. 

I can’t keep living a life like this.

One of my roommates asked me how someone who doesn’t believe in God goes on, how they keep living without that hope.

I gave her an answer one of my friends told me – this is the only life we have so we better live it as damn well as we can.

My answer to her now – I don’t know, but I don’t think some of us last that long.

I don’t think I’ll last that long.

Everything cuts off at a distinct point. I can’t see next fall at all in my mind. It just goes dark during August and fades to nothingness. I don’t even care though. It worries part of me, but it doesn’t at the same time. I just don’t see anything. This summer I expect to be sort of like last summer. I hope it is. As close as possible.

I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know where I will be, where I will want to be, what I will want to be doing, I don’t know anything. 

All I’m saying is I wouldn’t be surprised if I tried to end my life sometime soon. Whether or not I’d be successful is a different question, but it doesn’t surprise me anymore. 

I would have potential to be successful. My roommates don’t give a damn. I was so upset a few weekends ago, I went home early Saturday morning and didn’t tell anyone. No one bothered to go into my room to check on me I guess. They texted me to see if I was okay, Facebook messaged me.

That doesn’t matter much to a dead girl.

It would be a few days I expect before they would check on me, only for them to find something completely wrong. 

It would be painful though. 

I mean, if I was planning it, I would probably get my hands on something lethal with as little pain possible. This is me though, and while I can feel a mental breakdown coming days ahead, it can be something so ridiculously small that will trigger it. Today, it was a note to clean up the stove (albeit, it was a rude message, rubbing it in my face that once again, I slipped up and disgusted those around me, but they had every right.) Tomorrow, it could be someone telling me about how fantastic their day is or that something I cooked wasn’t as good as last time.

I have so many pills, so many damned pills. 

So many friends, but I honestly don’t feel like I can really trust a single one of them with this.

I can’t trust anyone with this.

Shit hits the fan and I’m left with reproachful glares.

I can’t handle the glares.

But that’s how I feel everywhere I go.

All I can see are the reproachful glares.

My Should-be Twin Sized Bed

It has not stopped raining here. Not once.

Flash flooding, thunder, and… yeah, I didn’t set foot in it once today.

I am unable to afford my birth control and am also unable to obtain a car to drive clear out to between Coralville and North Liberty to get it. Lucky for me- tomorrow I will hopefully be giving plasma.

Because tomorrow I have an appointment with my psychiatrist. 

Tomorrow, I might just come completely clean about things.

Might.

I should.

I know it will help.

But knowing me, I’ll panic in the moment. 

The last time my doctor saw me, the first thing she noted was that I was carrying myself very carefully – as if I was deliberately thinking out each of my motions.

She was probably right.

It was… semi-conscious. 

I’ve been like that around a lot of people though. My dad. I went home a couple of weekends ago after an extremely bad night. I meant to show him my shoulder – what I do to myself – to see if maybe then he’d believe that I was truly in a rut here. I sincerely feel like I’m stuck in a pit and instead of climbing out, I dig it deeper.

No one else touches it. I dig it on my own.

I mark each lie. It’s a good thing I have a pretty decent memory, otherwise my string of lies with people would fall apart pretty catastrophically. 

And that would result in a lot of bad things.

Probably my hospitalization for one. 

Not something I really want to do right now.

There’s too much to do- too much to focus on. I can’t just check out.

Shit.

There’s so much to do.

I’m just going to fall asleep now. K? K.

Great.

Fuck.

And I can’t help but feel like I’m burdening people all the time. I cancelled our quartet rehearsal because while I was having cramps due to my birth control problem, but I felt horribly guilty.

Alright, the three other guys in my quartet are amazing. Simply put amazing. One of them was awarded a Yamaha Young Artist Award. That’s incredible. The other that did that competition? Honorable mention. They leave tomorrow to go participate in another competition. I’m blessed and proud and honored to say I know them, I’m in a quartet with them, and that they are my friends.

While my saxophone abilities aren’t quite up to their levels, I do know some of my strong points with my musicianship. When rehearsing, I don’t focus as much on my playing. It’s bad- it’s horrible- I know, but I can’t help it. I’m more focused on the sound, what others are doing, listening to things that are good and for things that need to be fixed. The notes are there. I can do the crescendoes (granted, not as loudly as most people. I’m a pretty quiet player.) I can think the lines. But I’m not 100% engaged in my music. I give more attention to other things.

While I may not practice as much as others, I know how to practice well. I know how to practice hard so that something is 100% perfect all the god damned time. Others have a way of practicing, but not everyone is a virtuoso. One guy in my quartet, while he’s just as amazing, I can definitely tell that he’s not quite a virtuoso. I know that he’s definitely amazing, but some parts come harder to others.

Tuesday’s rehearsal was grueling. There’s no other way to put it. The soprano player in our quartet was just getting frustrated. If he wasn’t actually, then he was doing a shitty job of showing otherwise. He was impatient, reluctant to woodshed parts that needed to be worked out, and his frustration was palpable. 

I understand, as a very talented musician, it’s frustrating to have to repeatedly go over a section over and over and over again with a player below your level. I’m very upset with his behavior though. Even if he had no intention of showing that, he didn’t mean to, or something along those lines- it doesn’t matter.

In the end, it doesn’t matter your intentions. It matters how people perceive your intentions. 

That brings me to two things I have learned in college.

One, that previous sentence. You don’t necessarily have to always be conscious of yourself, but you do have to be aware how your behavior and actions are affecting those around you. You can’t be insensitive in moments of distress. When everything falls to shit, every one looks to someone, and if you don’t have your shit together, say goodbye to all peace and serenity for chaos will ensue.

Second, I really hate how college brushes over things. Especially in my music classes. In band, we don’t take the time to work things out or work them out properly. That’s why our last concert sucked. For quartet, up until yesterday we never had a fulfilling rehearsal unless Dr. Tse was there. It’s because Dr. Tse stands there and nit-picks one little section and works it and works it until it’s perfect. And that’s what you have to do! At some point, you have to stop saying “oh, I’ll work it out on my own” and fix it there. You just have to. I’m a hypocrite here, and that’s why I absolutely hate myself (along with a plethora of other reasons.) 

I really do hate myself about 90% of the time.

I really do.

It’s disgusting. 

Then I hate myself more because it’s disgusting and… it’s just gross. 

I sincerely need help.

At this point though, I feel like I’ve exhausted all my options. I just feel like this is life and I need to get used to it.

I will be able to point out one or two physical and a couple of personality features about myself that I like, but continue to have low self-esteem, self-worth, and self-respect for the rest of my days. Of course I’m not idly waiting for this to be my demise. I’m eating better (or trying where I can), eating less, working out, taking more care in my physical appearance because that helps boost my confidence, I’m working hard on my classes to ensure I get the grade I want (all A’s of course. I’m too much of a perfectionist for anything lower), and I’m trying to think more positively about my life. 

I really am. I really am trying. 

And I think it’s great that I’m trying. Maybe there’s an answer out there for me, but I think it’s… not real.

I’m not upset over it. Okay, I mean that’s a lie, the fact that I really see no hope in anything anymore, it disturbs my mind and it upsets me that I think like that, but at the same time it comforts me? I don’t really know how to put it.

I’m not having suicidal urges all the time. Only at times. But, I won’t deny that I hope every single time I cross the damned street that a car will hit me. My mind practically begs every time I do. 

Hit me, please. 

Maybe these dark days will pass. 

Or maybe my faith in everything I thought I knew when I grew up is now blowing up in my face and all I can do is give it a little grin as my skin is peeled of by the blast.

How, how deserving am I?

One Good Week

Well, I just don’t know how I feel about today.

My lesson was… weird.

It was another talking lesson. I’m really good at keeping a conversation going. But then I had to play my etude and I wanted to play my solo more but I didn’t get to play that and ugh. It was just wrong. It was backwards and therefore wrong.

But I did get something out of it.

I don’t expect to be in a quartet with Calvin or Dennis next year. Or even Michael. From what it sounds like, I’d be with some freshmen. It’s a little bit of an insult, but I haven’t proven myself to be any better than that so… I guess that’s what I get.

I also know I shouldn’t take Dr. Tse’s advice too critically on terms of Marching Band. On the other hand… yeah.

I am.

I’m looking for excuses?

I don’t even know anymore. 

I’m still being overly cheery to people.

Dr. Tse even pointed it out that I don’t look like I have anxiety.

Most people are shocked to hear what I’m going through.

Most people don’t believe me when they hear that I was diagnosed with clinical depression. 

Granted, it is probably more mild than some cases, but I don’t deny that it’s there.

I think I’d be stupid to do that in looking at some of my previous posts here. 

But seriously. I’m pretty pissed off right now. I just feel this bubbling anger. I don’t know what to do with it. I know those around me don’t deserve my lashes of anger, so I’m being so very positive. Or at least I think I am. It feels pretty fake. 

Well… that’s because it is.

I don’t know. I do it because I know that they don’t deserve it and I don’t want the guilt of being angry at them. 

Then I have this weird appetite thing. I’m hungry because I haven’t eaten in almost 8 hours, but I don’t want to eat because the thought of eating and the action makes me feel sick to my stomach and it’s so frustrating. I’m so frustrated. I’m so frustrating. 

I do it out of obligation. I should. I don’t want people to think something about me is different.

I want so desperately to feel normal. People think I’m normal and then give me looks asking me why can’t I just be normal. I am normal. Why can’t I just act like it?

I don’t even know. I can’t answer that question at all.

I’m so tired, but my blood keeps pumping faster. I feel like I’m about to explode from being so wound up and so exhausted. I feel like I’m about to die if I stop.

I don’t know how to stop. I don’t want to keep doing this though. I’m tired.

I’m so very tired.

I want one good week. One good week. One good lesson. One good week of healthy appetites. One good week of feeling refreshed. One good week of good energy keeping me going instead of this fast-heart-can’t-stop-due-to-anxiety crap. One week without telling people lies. My life is surrounded by lies.

I want to quit. I want to stop. One good week.

One. Good. Week.

 

Everything Stings

It’s Friday night in Iowa City.

I have some beer.

I have my medication. 

I have my blades.

I wonder how this night’s going to turn out.

Not how many would normally expect.

I’m not a big beer fan.

I’ve got 4 beers left. 

I should have 9, but I have 4.

Not a big deal, but still.

I just want to have a good time tonight.

I should have known better.

I can feel the spikes from others.

I can feel myself wanting to crawl back into my hole.

Maybe tonight should just be a me night. This weekend be a me weekend.

God damnit am I selfish.

It’s never a me day. It’s never a me weekend.

I should have practiced more this week.

I should know better.

I shouldn’t have drank anything now.

I shouldn’t have.

Oh, why did I drink anything?

I really shouldn’t have.

I’m at that point where I’m not really tipsy or drunk. I don’t even know where I am. I’m just sad.

Either I stop here or I drink more and more people come out.

I left a party earlier than I expected last night.

I was getting uncomfortable. 

There weren’t a whole lot of people there. It was just… clique-y.

People were talking to others. Enjoying one another’s company and such. I felt so small.

I felt tired. I felt drained. So I left. I left once I finished my beer. 

I’m being overly positive on the phone now.

Why?

Because I don’t fucking know anymore.

I don’t want them thinking I’m all sad.

They don’t need to know about all that.

No one wants to know about that. It makes them feel uncomfortable. It makes them think twice about everything they’ve done or said to me. 

No one wants to see the cuts on my shoulders.

This brings me to something else.

So… I haven’t been perfectly honest with anyone lately. Except for this… I guess. This is the closest thing I have to a therapist (sad as that is.)

My dad…. we talk every morning and I still can’t tell him. I can’t tell him how much I hate myself. I can’t tell him how many blades I’ve picked up and cut into my skin.  I can’t tell him that he’s the only reason why I am still alive right now.

Here’s my list of people and what they don’t know:

Doctor: how much I hate talking with her because she doesn’t ask the right questions or misinterprets my answer. Doesn’t listen to what I have to say. She jumps to conclusions. She has her perspective on things and… I can’t disagree with her reasons, but I’m also a poor college student with limited options. That I cut myself. That I drink. That I haven’t been taking Zoloft now for at least a month if not longer. That I applied for waitressing jobs after she specifically told me not to. There’s probably more.

Dad: the cutting. The self abuse. The loathing. The thoughts. The thoughts that scream so loudly. The thoughts. How depressed I really am.

Friends: the truth about anything. I lie.

I lie about everything.

One phone call with my dad.

He asks me whether I want to go into the bathroom and slit my wrists.

My thoughts? No, I want to perform my ritual and cut my shoulders.

My answer? No.

He asks me whether I want to stab myself in the heart?

My thoughts? No, I want to take pills or get a belt or a gun or jump infront of a semi on the highway.

My answer? No.

He asks me whether I still feel joy in everyday life?

My thoughts? Hardly ever anymore. There are moments, but moments die.

My answer? Sure.

I am a horrible daughter.

Everyday I’m finding more flaws with my body.

Everyday I stare at that blade and wonder if I should pick it up or not.

Everyday I go through the motions of my life.

Do I even have real hope anymore? I don’t even know what that’d be like.

Everything stings.

All the people at my house left me tonight. Including my roommate.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I can talk to my roommates that just got home about it.

I don’t know if I should just go home home tomorrow and come clean.

I need serious help.

I don’t know what I am anymore.

I’ve once again broke. I’m tired of breaking over and over again. I’m scared next time I break I won’t be able to pick the pieces up again.

I don’t know anymore.

Everything stings.

It’s Back

I cut myself today.

6 times.

I cut myself 6 times today.

So long for my streak. 

I feel so incredibly worthless right now though. I can’t practice. I can’t do anything musical. I can’t. I can’t.

I’m not good enough.

I wonder why or how I got into the studio. What did I do to show that I was deserving? I’m no performance major and for good reason.

I don’t work hard.

I never did.

I’m really worthless.

I’m not even that smart.

I used to be in high school. I was a sponge for information. I took it all and soaked it in. I didn’t take a huge amount of pride in it or anything. Just when ever the teacher asked a question about what we had done in class previously, I could always answer. I always knew the answer. Only 1/20 did I not know the answer off the top of my head. 

It wasn’t a big deal to me though. I just knew things and that was that. I was prepared, never had to study or had to study very little. Even last year, things were like that. Music theory- the make or break for a lot of music majors- I just knew it. I didn’t have to be taught something over and over again. The homework was just applying what I learned. I got it. It made sense. A lot of my friends struggled and I was able to help them.

What’s happened to me?

What’s wrong with me?

Where’s me?

I’m totally lost right now.

Everything I once knew is now fiction. 

I used to swim, not float by, but swim at a comfortable pace with a good feeling in my heart.

Now my heart is so heavy I’m reaching with my fingertips for the surface.

It weighs me down.

I need help.

I need some serious help.

I know I wouldn’t care if something killed me.

I haven’t cared for too long.

But now, I want to seek it out again.

I’m active.

The dark impulses are active and I’m susceptible. 

It’s back.