I keep thinking that I should at least try to write something, if at least for the sake of attempting to organize my thoughts or what’s going on; but it’s as though I would rather do anything else, So that I may continue to grossly dissociate as means to get by at the expense of my seemingly deteriorating cognitive and emotional coherence… So here goes nothing, something new because I don’t give two shits about poetry lately, And have probably spoken in veiled riddles, symbolism, and not-so-fictitious characters and analogy for long enough; To the ironic end that really nobody knows precisely what I’m talking about other than an exhaustive anthology of bitching, complaining, and telling parts of the truth that despite its validity still sound melodramatic.
But by no new occurrence, I’ve come to a place in my life where I have quit therapy after over three years, and essentially lost or cut out every person that I even casually associated with. Though partly for the reason that I’ve been living staring down the precipice of non-specific irrational freak outs, which I don’t want any person to bear the brunt of, trigger, or even really witness. So here I find myself with a blog that I have many times of late considered deleting entirely, and a bunch of strangers that I suppose I could talk at for the sake of attempting to keep myself at least emotionally afloat on the driftwood that I’ve been lost down this fucking river on for years and years now. I had a dream that it ended; the floating, the waiting- everyone thought I was dead, including myself. But that relief never really came, Not after so much waiting and so much hoping to find hope to hope for.
So who am I? Other then some lady whose mind thanks in fragments of disastrous sentiments arranged in such semblance as to feign rationality..?
I just turned 26, so just shyly no longer in my early 20s – basically at the point that I thought that I would have some of my shit sorted out by now or at least created some kind of system to work for myself to get by. I live with my parents who patiently house and support me financially, though I do contribute a small sum via disability that I was able to obtain a year ago after three or four years of fighting for it. I have been unable to work since November of 2012, For idiopathic petite mal seizures; and not long after that time did I find that my entire life began to dismantle right down to the very health of my bones and mind, as though it were some written curse. Since that time in the events that occurred soon after, I have maintained a life of near complete solitude from any person but said therapist once or twice a week- Of which I felt that I was honestly paying just to listen to me as I have no hope that they could offer any solution or anything that I haven’t myself realized or tried, even risking sounding arrogant. I’ve done many, many years of therapy, with multiple intensive inpatient hospitalizations lasting months at a time. And I found these things to be of no help either, eventually developing a proclivity for finding more interest in a psychotherapist’s personal life than my own. I eventually came to the conclusion that I would have to find my own answers, make my own way, create my own solutions that had never been done before for a constellation of problems that I have yet to hear of another having before. And perhaps I did find some of those answers after all those years of denial and kicking against the goads, And they definitely were not the answers I had hoped to find, though it was of no surprise.
Beside mental health issues- namely major depression and anxiety disorder since the age of 14- I’ve seen hundreds of doctors and accumulated tens of thousands of dollars of debt for persistent, mysterious health crises that have also contributed to my not living in the world; for the past five or six years now I have had no part in it because I rarely feel well enough to leave the house. I’ve had problems with my heart, my liver, kidneys, stomach, digestive system, endocrine system, And most other organs to varying degrees. One particular instance, going into the first stages of liver failure, and top LA endocrinologists could not tell me why. That was some five years ago, back before I could’ve ever imagined what my life would become today, back before I wanted to die and actively sought the means for it. So I prayed to God, I asked him to spare my life, and that I would do what it was He wanted me to do on this planet. Well God did spontaneously heal my liver, to the surprise of the doctors who basically told me to get out of their office because they don’t believe in God. Well that was all fine and great except for the fact that later I felt like I got tricked because I had no idea what the future held, Or that I would so deeply long that God had let me die. Sparing the details of a daunting history, it has only been proposed time and time again that these endless maladies and other enigmatic phenomena could be related to an abdominal surgery I had as a young kid- oddly enough the first memory I have in life, my brother handing me this plushy red ladybug and then the nauseating bubblegum anesthesia.
Now for one of the many facets that is a bit more humbling to admit, that I have struggled with anorexia since I was 15 years old and still do to this day- to a much more severe degree than anyone in my life is knowledgeable of. People knew this about me in essentially my past life, when I was surprisingly functional- but now it is a less obvious secret of mine as the development of hypothyroid in my early 20s has kept me at a more normal weight without having to eat. People don’t worry about me anymore for reason of my outward appearance, and that’s exactly how it should be; I think telling anyone that I am so tormented by an eating disorder to be quite embarrassing as the words typically bring to mind much more alarmingly gaunt figures than the reality of the many other people walking around who too have this demon. In over a decade of dealing with this every single day, it’s worse than when I started and honestly the foremost reason why I seek to die; Like an inescapable hell personalized just for you or a nightmare that can never be woken up from. I am fully aware of the countless people who have recovered- having seen, known, and been in treatment with- But don’t frankly prescribe to the notion that “anyone can recover”, Because as fanfuckingtastical And magical that sounds, if it were actually true, no one would ever die of an eating disorder. And this is terrible to say but this is my space and my only allowance to be egotistical-I sometimes wonder If anyone would be surprised if I was one of them, Because I’ve been basically starving myself for a few years now, This year still even worse. And yes I’ve been in treatment. Again and again and again and again. And I feel fucking pathetic.
So there, I said it. I’m not better in that respect, or with depression or with managing to acquire a more positive attitude. Now I realize that common sense would immediately suggest that perhaps an eating disorder is the reason why I have all these health issues- granted I’ll give you this as at least contributory, but in my experience I have found these issues unrelated and have no patience for wasting time defending myself on such grounds.
So where am I going with all of this other than just blindly ranting… All this to say that It’s been a very very long time, an equally toilsome road, and for all of it I feel now even further away from where I need to be than when I started all those years ago. The last remaining parts of the little girl me for so long subconsciously held onto the belief that somehow God would make it all OK in the end, that things would get better, or that there would be a reason for the loss of my young life or for my I’ll just call immense suffering- but ultimately I fear that the free will granted to each of us has and shall continue to impede my ability to correct whatever mistakes I am making again and again to end up where I have in life or what I am evidently deserving of- All for reason that I realize I am simply not strong enough. Not anymore. I’ve been Strong, but I’m tired. And in more pain than I’ll bother trying to convey.
So what prompted me to even write or rant about any of this in the first place as opposed to the usual vague poetry; that after some time of getting into one of my dark dark places, having been in chronic pain of a long “fibromyalgia” flare up, knowing that I’ve been in pain every single day for a couple years now, in the middle of an chemically abysmal depression, riddled with anxious terrors, And ultimately hopeless that any of these or undisclosed matters will ever improve – I had come to the place of more seriously contemplating another suicide attempt. I had planned to get some Nembutal, at least for insomnia, and knowing my abnormal metabolism of medications, at least try and work up the courage to take too much. Confessedly I’ve already been misusing various prescriptions and whatnot for a while now, for various needs, but rather hoping that I’ll give myself a heart attack, but somehow always being fine. Like I’m a coward and keep thinking that perhaps if I can get a drug with high enough risk factors that something bad will happen and I won’t be charged for suicide. Foolish thoughts like that. Every day, all the time.
And looking at everything I’ve emotionally vomited here just rather pisses me off because it does absolutely no justice to expressing the half of it or just how fucking done I’ve been with life for a while now. I’m done with being sick and in chronic physical pain, dealing with irrational and unpredictable mental illness, and I’ve come to the point that I can’t live one more god-forsaken stupid fucking shit day in a cage of a body that kills me everyday for reason of the emotional suppression of its not being dead. My choices and freedom lost to me- and all this useless wasted time, the only reason I have not more firmly pursued the means of my quietus is that I have learned much enough to know that there is no rest in death, that we indeed walk in the Lesser Darkness, and that that which is to follow for some is unspeakable and who has visited it and remained the same?
I do believe that I have had the taste of the kind of suffering that few will understand and cannot be explained with words. I have known the company of demons. I have been to insanity and back and now, all I want is rest. Quiet forever. A refuge away from myself and all the clamorous nonsense of doing and fretting over stupid, stupid shit that has frayed my nervous system to a complete breakdown. But life never stops coming, it never stops taking, it never stops draining, I never refill, I’ve been on empty for so long a time; the longer I stay here, the more sure it seems to be my fate, perhaps even in the next life if I can’t feign some kind of fucking gratitude that I was given breath in this world to suffer with most of them somewhere thereafter a young age that’s already gone by forever.
So this is me here to be so bold as to say that this world is full of good things, good people, and opportunities for those with the strength to get them; but it’s also full of misfortune, suffering unquenchable and so deep no words can express, full of disconnect, isolation, and torture; such that the good is nowhere near frequent nor enduring enough- if you can even feel such pleasures- that the suffering is worth enduring just to stay and hope something good will happen some day and be your fucking needle in a haystack of the innumerable hopes fallen through. And I’m no fool to wait around for that shit anymore.
I never could have seen any of this coming. I never could have imagined all that I would lose and how everything I held dear would change, taken from me. I never could have fathomed what it feels like to practically rather put a bullet in your head than wake up in the morning; or that my own body would become the inescapable prison of my torment. But here I am- funny how that works- by now perhaps the most tough, cynical, bitter bitch around… And it’s ironic… I am my shadow now, because I wasn’t always what I am today. Now I’m just another sad calling crow.