'Twas the night before Christmas...

...and all through the house, 
Not a creature was stirring,
Except for the girl who was wishing that she could skip the next day.

On Wednesday, I turned 22. I was pretty proud of myself for doing so. 

It's Christmas Eve. As I've said before, holidays are hard for me. I can already feel the depression setting in, and--while I'm trying hard to hide it--it's always a difficult thing when you know no one understands. Not one person in my house understands why I'd rather sleep than tear open the wrapping on my presents. But at least everyone I want to spend Christmas with is still here to see it. And at least I'm here to spend it with them. 

Merry Christmas, everybody. 

Hang on, 
Ness

Shiver

I have a long list of stupid bullshit.

Right now, I'm going to talk about the mental health ones. 
     I'm by no means a hypochondriac. I won't go to the doctor unless I'm literally dying, bleeding from my eyeballs, or shitting out my organs. One of the things that pisses me off the most is when people don't believe me about something because they can't see it. You can't see my kidneys, but I have. I KNOW they are covered in cysts. You can't see my depression, but I KNOW it's there. 

I have Seasonally Affected Depression, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Social Anxiety, and just general depression. It's not fun. My least favorite is probably the SAD. 
    PTSD I can usually deal with; I just don't watch certain movies and I'm learning to stand the bad word. The flashbacks are occurring less than they used to. I'm learning to better handle the fear. Social Anxiety takes some work, but I'm getting better at dealing with people outside of the safety of work and home. The other depression is the second-toughest...but writing sometimes helps. But there's nothing I can do about winter. I can't stop the rotation of the earth, and thus I can't control the fact that I get inexplicably depressed around this time of year. I hate it. It seems like a weakness to me. But--apart from drugging myself out of my mind or becoming a zombie/three-toed-sloth/turtle/crazy cat lady--there's nothing for it other than hanging on. 

I hope you do too. 

Hang on, 
    
Ness

If you don't have anything nice to say...

...start a blog so no one knows you're saying it.

I hate everyone. 

Hang on, 
Ness

I know that I don't.

I'm tired of holding my head up.

Day in and day out, I paste on this smile because that's what people expect to see. Lately, though, it feels like I'm running out of glue. 
     I fall apart. I don't know what to run to anymore. And I know it shouldn't be this way, but I don't know what to do. I'm holding on, but I'm not sure what I'm gripping is any more stable than I am.

     I don't know who to talk to about this. I always say, "It'll be ok. It will get better. Hold on." I don't know who's going to say these things to me. I don't even know why I need help. I don't know why I can't pick myself back up. 

     The fact is, right now I'm not sure of anything. I know I'm in pieces. But I don't know why. I know I'm lost. I know that I don't know how to get back. I know this isn't permanent. I don't know what it's going to take before I'm me again.  

Hang on, 
Ness

It's all fun and games...

...until it happens to you. 

I have to play mommy to myself and look up new movies before I see them to make sure they're ok. It often spoils the plot, but it's the only way to make sure I don't pass out in a movie theatre. 

     My question is this: why is my worst nightmare used consistently to sensationalize movies? 
     Think about it. American History X, The Usual Suspects, Pulp Fiction, The Book Of Eli, I Spit On Your Grave, Hard Candy, and A Clockwork Orange are all movies that I either can't watch, or contain parts that I have to leave the room for. Why? Because what happened to me is condensed and trivialized into a five-minute montage of sensationalism to raise the ratings or make it 'more interesting'. There is absolutely nothing interesting to me about passing out, throwing up, and shaking for hours afterward. There's nothing sensational about being afraid to walk out to my car or having to deal with flashbacks like it's happening all over again. 
    
      It's insensitive, it's rude, it's wrong. This is something that ruined two years of my life and scarred all the rest of them. This is something that damages people for years. It destroys relationships, it destroys souls. It sure as hell didn't improve me like it's improving your movie. It didn't make me more interesting. As a matter of fact, it fucking destroyed me. 

     I'm of the opinion that if you've never experienced it, you shouldn't write about it, sing about it, or act it out. I still can't say that word. 

     Hang on, 
Ness

"Maybe I should cry for help...

...maybe I should kill myself. Blame it on my ADD, baby."

I fucked up.

I'm writing about it here because this blog is what I do to understand myself sometimes. I don't understand myself right now. 

Something is wrong, and I'm not sure what it is. I know I'm deeply upset, but I'm not sure why. So I did something bad. 
     It's been awhile. 

I'm not sure who to talk to anymore. I feel selfish when I go to someone else, because everyone has their own shit to deal with. And in the grand scheme of things, my first-world problems are on the minuscule and largely unimportant side of the spectrum. Right next door to having no problems at all.
     
      I don't like myself lately. I'm not as nice a person as I used to be. I'm not as happy. I know whatever it is won't last forever, that this is a phase and not a change. But it's still disconcerting and it's still very lonely. 

     I am alone. I let myself down, this time. And even if no one finds out, I know. And it is enough. 

     Hang on, 
    Ness

Clear Eyes

Well, it wasn't as bad as I thought.


The house, I mean. The blood-per-square-inch factor was almost zero-to-none (if only crime scene investigators were so lucky). I took away all of the memories I could find, though. I checked on her hermit crab (he's doing fine) and took all the empty alcohol bottles (including MY gin that somebody consumed). I went through everything she owns to make sure that she's not bombarded by unnecessary memories the moment she walks through the door. She'll thank me for it someday (I hope). 
     The hospital was a new experience, though. I'd never been to a mental hospital until now. They're not as scary as the movies make them seem, and not as nice as the advertisements lead us to believe. It is referred to as a 'behavioral health science center', which scared the shit out of me at first. But there were no experiments by mad scientists or nazi-type indoctrinations. Just hopeless, disoriented people shuffling around in their gently-colored, grey-blue robes. 
     I feel a little better and a little worse. I think she's going to be ok, with a lot of loving and some good, hard pushes in the right direction.  But I've been where she is and farther, and I know how hard it is. Waking up will make you cry, because you were praying not to. Actually getting up is near-impossible. Putting on your war paint and dressing yourself, eating, moving, making conversation, working, breathing takes superhuman strength. The future seems a horrible place. Hope has fucking left the building. The mirror is your worst enemy, only serving to remind you of your failures. You can't even look yourself in the eye. 
     However, if she chooses to let her friends help her, if she decides that she IS going to get better, she will be fine. Maybe she'll be even better than she ever was before. 

     I've had a headache since I cleaned her apartment. I think it's from crying. It feels like some kind of burning, toxic substance has conglomerated on the left side of my head. It's not nice. 

     I'm not sure what to do now. I'm exhausted. That doesn't mean I'm going to stop, though. 

      I won't lie. I saw the lacerated mess on her arm and suddenly I wanted to do the same thing. I wanted to wreck myself, wanted to watch my blood drip onto the floor, wanted to feel like I was finally leaving this shitty life behind. And I know that for awhile, just being around her is going to drag up all of my own pain, and I'm going to want to let go. I'm going to do my best to stand strong, though, because I can't help her if I'm bleeding out. 

Hang on, 
Ness

Sick

I'm going to clean out my friend's house today. She tried to kill herself two nights ago. 

     I'm bracing myself. When I talk to someone like me, I start to feel everything I felt when I was at my lowest. This is going to be really, really hard. I don't know how I'm going to act when I see her in the hospital, I don't know how I'm going to act when I'm alone. I don't know what the sight of her blood on the carpet is going to do to me, because I know it's going to look just like mine. 

Could I have prevented this? No. None of us knew until it was too late to keep her from trying. Do I still feel guilty? Yes. 
     Not guilty enough, though. I haven't cried yet, and I'm starting to beat myself up over it. That's a bad sign. 
     My skin hurts.

I don't want to sound insensitive, but I think this was ridiculous. This never should have happened, and I think the reason it did happen was pretty damn stupid. I know, I'm a big fucking hypocrite and I'm going to regret my words. But I'm so angry right now. 
     
     I'm a horrible person. 

     Fuck this. I'm the worst kind of person. And all my hard work just went out the fucking window. 

Hang the fuck on, or else you'll end up like my friend, or worse...like me,
Ness

She's still around.

Seven months today.

Well, folks, it's been a hell of a ride. Seven months ago today, I didn't think I'd be where I am. I didn't think I'd be anywhere other than a wooden box, to tell you the truth. Fucking look at me now. 
     I'd have missed out on a hell of a lot if things had gone according to plan.  In the past seven months alone, I have gotten promoted, discovered the sound of my own voice, and fallen more deeply in love than I could have ever imagined (hey, you knew this was coming...I am a girl, after all). I started a blog and actually kept up with it, I saw my natural hair color for the first time in 9 years, made lots of new friends, beat a few demons, drank too much, stayed up too late a thousand times, smoked way too many cigarettes, made some kick-ass muffins, said 'fuck' in front of my mother (it's the little things...), hit a very high F, fixed my car, built shelves, painted walls, wrote music, adopted a kitten, put down my first dog, butchered a cow, threw up in a fire station parking lot, learned how to kiss properly, sang in Italian, and finally told my story. 

     Life is what you make it. Mine's still a little convoluted, a little reckless, and a little short. It's definitely worth the ride, though. 

     
Hang on, 
Ness

Teeth

Today, I'm going to the dentist.

I. Hate. Dentists. 

I hate them as much as I hate church. And shopping for jeans. And car problems. And bitches. And the inability to hit that elusive high G. 

But I have finally accepted defeat. Today, I ate a sandwich. And my broken molar hurt so bad, I almost punched a baby in the face. The only thing that stopped me was the lack of a baby to punch. So, I set up a dentist appointment, and at 2:30 today, some bitch-ass dentist is going to look inside my mouth, exclaim,  "Good God, how long has it been since you've been here!?" and proceed to cause me excruciating pain by ripping out my tooth. Or send me home with an, "I'm sorry. There is nothing we can do. I hope you have a good life insurance policy and are at peace with your Maker."

I'm going to need a stiff drink and a gallon of morphine to get through this. 

Hang on, 
Ness

Any Way You Slice It...

Today, I butchered a cow.

For the realz. There was a dead cow and I cut it up. I came across my first fresh bones, and to my surprise, they are a perfect, shiny white. I always thought they looked like they did in my steak...marinade brown and marrow-holed. I took a kneecap home. I'm going to carve it into something. 
     I loved seeing where the muscles and tendons came together. I played with the joints, checked out the tendons and ligaments came out. Saw the layers of fat and muscle, fat and muscle. I saw the kidneys. Beautiful, perfect cow-kidneys. Mine don't work...they're all covered with cysts and I can't get them to go away. I can't get the ugly out of me. Ugly, ugly cysts on ugly, ugly kidneys. I am jealous of the cow. 

     The body--animal or human--is an amazing thing. Absolutely stunning. And (animal) bodies taste GREAT. 

     Anyway, I need to go clean the dead cow out from under my nails and get some sleep. I just wanted to write down my thoughts on chopping the shit out of a cow. 

Hang on,
Ness

Lolwut?

Life is fucking hilarious.

No, really. Think about it. Almost every part of everyday life can be thought of as funny. 
     Let's start with food. Like a pop tart. You unwrap it, stick it in your mouth, and chew the shit out of it like it's the soul of your mortal enemy. From there, your conquered sustenance rumbles and gurgles through your slimy insides in a masticated mess until it comes out. Through your ass. I find this HILARIOUS. You put things in your mouth so that they will come out of your ass. And if they don't, you get all worried and make haste to the nearest physician. All because something doesn't come out of your butt. 
     You don't think that's funny? Well, then, as Kurt Kobain said, you must be a closet pedophile. No, really. He said it. Look up the history of the baby on the cover of Nevermind. 

     On to the next one: sex. 
     There's a small animal attached to your man. If you touch it, or take off your clothes, or bend over, or walk three steps, or cock your head, or raise an eyebrow, or touch your hair, or eat a Popsicle, or dance, or cook, or clean or have a PHD or go to the bathroom or drive a car or have a job or like The Band Perry or watch tv or do ANYTHING, it gets hard. 
     Then, between your  legs, those two tree-trunks of flesh and bone and hair that we hate so much, there's a hole. This small animal wants to go in the hole because it is dark and warm and small animal can hide in it. And if you move around enough, weird noises are made, and small animal named Penis throws up all over. 
     Think about it, but not too much. This is pure comedic gold. Sex is the funniest thing on the whole damn planet, when it doesn't make you sick. Buttsex is even funnier, but we'll save that for another time because I don't know anything about it other than what my gay friends tell me.
      Sex is also a great way to make money: all you gotta do is find some rich old bastard who will do anything to make his small animal throw up. He'll pay whatever you want, because guys can't survive without that shit. That's the funniest part! 
  
     How about coffee? That's a riot. 
     You arrive at Scarfucks during Morning Rush. You're in a hurry to get to work, because you forgot for a second that billions of other people want their coffee too, and you--yes, the Almighty You--must wait in line. Damn it. Damn it all to hell. These fuckholes are going to ruin your day. You wait, and wait, and wait in the crush of business-clad bodies reeking of last night's beer until (FINALLY) it's your turn at the register. You order a mochaccino machinati with extra vanilla, three pumps of espresso, no foam, light foam, whipped cream, skim, soy, and toasted almond. 
     Holy shit. This upstart barista says no such drink exists. You were SURE it did, you saw it on The Colbert Report. And she has the balls to ask you what SIZE. The fuck. You say your order again. You scream it. YOU'VE GOT A FUCKING GOLD CARD! DOESN'T THAT MEAN ANYTHING!? You bellow, you put up your dukes, you demand to speak with the manager. Of course. She is the manager. 
 Enraged, you order a small coffee instead. Holy shit, it's a dollar and a half. Don't these assholes know that you need the Nectar of the Gods to function?! The nerve. Think about it: 97.666% of the world can't function without a cup of brown water. Or brown water thrown into half a gallon of milk and syrup. I think it's funny. 

     Boobs! Breasts are two big bags of fat welded to your chest. Fat! We hate fat! But guys love them! Why? We'll never know, but it sure is funny! I made good use of mine by paying somebody to put metal bars into them. Now they're pierced and I am cool. 

     Asses! There's a song that my boyfriend's friend made up to remind herself what guys like. It goes like this: "ass and titties, ass ass and titties!" Guys like ass, and it's yet another Mystery Of The Universe that we will never figure out. An ass is another bag of fat, with a crack down the middle. It's also the location of the Ass-Hole (see my second paragraph). 
     
     Dentists! They make money by sticking their hands in your mouth and causing you pain! I think it's funny! 

     Oatmeal! Who eats that shit!?

     Nudists! Hilarious! 

     Dictators! They think they're the shit, we think they're humorous! 

     Testicles! WHAT THE FUCK!?

     Ok, so do you see my point now? Life is funny. Everything in life is funny. Especially YouTube. But also things like sex and food and oatmeal. 

Hang on, 
Ness

Artificial Sunshine

Well, here I am, six months later.

It's been six months to the day. I'm still here and much the better for it. 

My six-month anniversary of life is heralded by iron skies and dubious weather. The clouds can't hold it in, so my hair's a wreck. I have a voice lesson today. I spent all last night getting drunk off my ass and trolling around Allentown looking for Starbucks and lost cigarettes. 

     Nobody knows what day it is, except me. But that's enough. 

     There is no sunshine today unless I make it. Whether or not a smile still holds power when it's forced remains to be seen. But I'm feeling ok today, and I wonder what the next six months will be like. The next six years. Will I buy a new car? Will I get married? Will I write the song that's going to make me famous? Or will I still be fucking around at Starbucks? Will I ever move out of my parents' house (please, please, please)? Will I go somewhere really neat on vacation? Will I hit that fucking jump on my snowboard and actually land it? Will I feel pretty? Will I take dance classes? Will anybody dance with ME? Will I start drawing again? Will I hit a high A without sounding like a drowning cat in a toaster being steamrolled by a hippopotamus?

     I have gained 20lbs since January...taking me from 98 to 118. I have a BMI of 15. My hair isn't blonde anymore...it's the sub-standard shit-brown I was born with. I have changed. 
     My kidneys are still fucked. My legs are still shot. I still like tshirts with pictures of food on them. I am the same. 

     No matter what happens, though, I'm still Ness. And I'm still alive. 

Hang on, 
Ness

For No Reason At All.

They say everything happens for a reason. I don't believe them anymore.

That's a load of bullshit. Everything happens and we find reasons for it. "I lost my job, but I had to in order to get a better one." Lies. A better job can be found by looking. "My car died...but I think this is God's way of showing me to save for the future." Lies. God doesn't need to kill your car for you...cars die on their own (at least mine do). 
     The truth is, stuff happens and if we're optimists, we look for ways to learn from it or grow from it. If we're pessimists, we decide that life just wants to shit on us. 
      My question is, which one am I? 

Hang on, 
Ness

Stupid, Girly Post

A wise man once said never to trust anything that bleeds for a whole week every month and doesn't die.

I'm a girl. It is as much a curse as anything I know. Why? 
     •I'm not pretty, but somehow I find myself as the everlasting gobstopper of eye-candy for the sick fucks who come into my store. They think that just because I was born with a pair of tits and an ass that I'm not smart enough to realize that they're staring, or simply that I'm too vain to care. 
     •Everybody thinks I'm automatically a feminist. Ok, so I can handle myself in a fair fight, I can argue circles around most people, I can drink with the best of them and I can make an asshole feel like complete shit when I want to. But just because I'm not a typical damsel in distress doesn't mean I don't want to be rescued. 
     •I have the misfortune to bleed out for a whole week every single month of my life and not die. 
     •I inherently feel too much. 

     This last one is what gets me. It would be nice (who am I kidding...it would be fucking superb) if I could take note of what I feel and put it into a little box to save for later, and then decide never to open the box because what's in there might hurt me and other people will see me being hurt and might hurt me more because of it. But when I'm sad, or I'm happy, or I feel special, or loved, or scared, or ugly, or stupid, or protective, or infuriated, everyone in the whole world immediately knows it. Whether it's in my words, or the way I slam the steaming pitchers down on the counter, or the way I get that stupid fucking grin on my face, or the way I curl up as small as I can and hide my face, everyone knows what I'm feeling. 

     Bullshit. 

     Yesterday, I felt loved. And it was, without a doubt, one of the best moments of my life. And I loved back: and at that moment, I knew it could destroy me. I stood there with my hands open and empty, eyes wide and inside I'm as vulnerable as I've ever been. Because that's what happens when you love: you drop all of your weapons and your armor and you can't see the thousands dying on your battlefield because you're focusing on something you don't recognize. And you can't tell if it's going to heal you or kill you, but either way you know that whatever happens is going to change everything. It's either going to be exactly what you need to fill the bleeding hole under your chain mail, or it's going to rip you a new one in the most painful way possible. But to find out, you have to take off your mail and stand there and let it get close enough to kill you. 
     And after all this revelation, I got in my car and cried all the way home. 
     
     And this is why I should have been a boy. Or something without a gender. Or a three-toed sloth. My point is, I wish things were different. But they're not. I'm going to be female for the rest of my life. I'm going to be stuck like this...seemingly strong and fierce and lethal and impenetrable and I-will-slaughter-you-if-you-touch-me, but really I'm just a soft, confused, vulnerable mess with a tendency for self-hatred. I have made myself into someone you don't want to mess with, but I can't change who I am at my core: Ness. Small and weak and looking for what scares me the most: love. 

     Boy, do I feel stupid as fuck after writing this. I should go break a chicken's neck or shoot holes in a cow or beat the shit out of someone to offset the insane girliness that just happened.

     Instead, I'm just gonna finish this post. 

Hang on, 
     Ness

Why Me?

I write for myself, because I don't know how to speak for myself.

I wonder why I'm still alive. I mean, think about it. People kill themselves every day. People hurt the same way I do, go through the same things, say, think and do the same things. In the end, they do what I was about to. They succeed with their plans. 
     The dead, they were just like me. They had friends and family who loved them, like I do. Like me, they didn't fit in anywhere. Like me, they hurt more than they knew how to say. Like me, suicide seemed like a perfect answer. 
     My question is this: why aren't I just a name on a stone right now? Why aren't I a body in an box in the cemetery? Why isn't my name spoken in hushed tones when it seems like an appropriate time to let the dark things in? 
     I have nothing more to give this world than they did. I have no more love, no more insight, no more wisdom, no more comfort to give than any of them. Maybe I have less. 

     Marie-Charlotte was a girl I met online years ago. I was looking up YouTube videos when I saw a comment of hers that said something like, " I'm going to kill myself on Saturday." I sent her an email to ask if she was still alive, she responded that she was putting it off for a week. I forget why. 
      Over the next 6 days, I begged her not to do it. She lived in Canada, and I sent her reason after reason to stay. I couldn't stop thinking about it...I just knew I had to save her somehow. 
     Finally, the end of the week came, and I didn't hear from her. I cried my fucking eyes out. I had failed her. 
     About three days later, I checked my email, just in case. And there was an email from Marie. She had attempted suicide by downing an entire bottle of pills. She failed. 

     I don't tell that story often...failing to save Marie still hurts me a little bit. I didn't know her at all other than what I learned from those emails and I don't talk to her anymore. 

     Why didn't Marie have friends like mine? They could have saved her. But maybe not. Maybe sometimes, despite the best efforts, the best intentions, we still get what we think we want. I guess it depends on your determination, your situation. 

     Anyway. I still don't know why I'm alive. But maybe alive is good enough. 
     Tonight, I know I hurt alot. But I can't feel it. I'm numb and I want to feel that pain I know is just below the surface so I can deal with it. Tonight, I feel like hurting myself. But I know I can't. I want to feel some kind of pain, because I know that once I feel it, I can identify the cause and I can repair whatever in me is broken. But there's really nothing I can do but wait. 
     I want to talk to someone, but I know what I'll sound like. "I hurt. I don't know why. I need you." This will be read as, "I want attention." I won't be taken seriously, and that will just make me feel worse about myself than I already do. So, I'll do this the only way I know how. I'll wait. Hopefully, the people like Marie can wait too. Even though I feel so bad right now, I know I can't hold the sun down. It's going to come up tomorrow. And it'll keep coming up. And things will work out, and I'll feel better. 
     
     Hang on, 
     Ness

Four

It's been four months. 

Yesterday, I thought about where I'd be today if I had gone through with my original plan. I'd be in a box in the  Rauch-Hertzog cemetery, somewhere near the back. I'd be a skeleton, surrounded by the decaying remains of whatever pretty dress my mom picked out to bury me in. My headstone would say [name], Dec 21 1989 - Mar 20, 2011. 

     Instead, I'm sitting in my car, smoking a cigarette and writing today's post. I'm waiting til 1:00, when I go to work to start my first day of shift supervisor training. I'm thinking about how I don't make enough money. And how I wish my hair would grow. And how much I love Jimmy Eat World. 

It's a nice thing to be alive. 

Hang on,
Ness

Copy And Paste, Rinse And Repeat

I uploaded a cover to YouTube today. I think this link works, but I'm not sure. iPhone hates flash. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xEKfQsegpPw

Hang on,
Ness

Misery Loves Company

It's dress-up time.

I'm heading into church after a crappy morning. I hate church to begin with, and especially today. I look shitty in every single outfit I own. I gained weight. My face is extra-super-zitty today. Fuck. 

      I'm miserable. And angry. Planet Earth, beware. 

     Anyway, that's what I have for today. 

Hang on,
Ness

Black Gives Way To Blue

I'm at it again.

I'm playing the church game. I got up early, put on my pretty dress, pulled some cash out of my (sadly depleted) savings account, and in 15 minutes, I will be walking in the front door of the place that strikes more fear and trepidation into my heart than any dentist ever could. 

     Why, you ask? I'm not sure. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I drive all the way up here to go somewhere when I know it's just going to make me into a depressed mess all day? Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment. Maybe I'm waiting to get struck by lightening. Maybe I'm hoping for change. 

Wish me luck!

Hang on,
Ness

Three Months Later

I am alive.

Tomorrow, it will be 3 months to the day since the day I almost killed myself. 3 months of near-constant changing. I am the same, but I am completely different.
I am grateful to be here, and I am indebted beyond words to the people who have been--and still are--there for me.

I'm not really sure what to write. It's been a long fucking time since I've had much to write about. These days, I mostly just wake up and go to work, then hang out with someone or go to sleep.
Despite the fact that so much has changed, I still deal with depression. I don't take anything for it, but I'm trying to handle it better. I know how to get through without hurting myself, and now I am working on not letting it affect me at all. It's tough.
I'm still working on alot of other things, too. There are times when what happened comes back to bite me. I still feel damaged sometimes, I still feel like I'm not as good as everybody else because of what happened. This gets especially bad when I've had a few drinks, and I'm not sure why. I'm trying to challenge these feelings as they come because otherwise I'll go stagnant and then start slipping again.
I'm up to about 106 lbs now and eating almost regularly. I am still my own biggest critic, and that won't change for awhile.
Voice lessons are going well. I am a straight-up soprano now, and this is fucking awesome.
I guess that's all I have for now.

Hang on,
Ness

Barbie Doll

I am finding it more difficult than ever to fit in my own skin.

I'm not sure what caused this, but recently, I find my image disgusting. I'm probably about 105lbs now, but none of it is muscle. I have stretch marks all over from when I was a kid and I got fat. My skin is the color of elmer's glue. I hate my fucking smile. I hate my hair, I hate my fingers, I hate my nose, I hate everything. 

      I don't know what to do about it. Sure, I can burn twice as many calories as I take in...I can avoid taking in any at all. That's not going to help me get better, though. It won't do anything to make my hair grow, or get rid of the snarl that appears on my face every time I try to smile. 

     For once, I don't feel disgusting because I know I'm fucked up on the inside. This time, it's purely superficial and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. 

     There's this woman, this foreign trophy wife who comes into my store sometimes. She's totally fake--long, blonde extensions, huge boobs, a perfect ass, good lips, good nose, all that shit. She's always been very nice to me. All my coworkers make fun of her because she's fucking plastic, but every time I see her, I get sad because I want to look like her. 

     Anyway, since I am in the business of getting better, I need to find a way to change what I'm seeing now. I mean, I'm not massive, so why do I feel like I am? A good friend of mine told me that my perspective has to change in order for me to feel better about myself, but I'm not quite sure how to do that. Is it a repetition thing--like repeating to myself when I look in the mirror that I'm fine the way I am? Is it one of those deals where you slap yourself on the wrist when you find yourself thinking that you're ugly? I don't know. 

     Something's gotta give, though, because I can't do this to myself again. I destroyed myself last time, and I'm pretty sure I'm trying to stop that. 

     This was a dumb post, I know. I sound like such a high-school anorexic. "Wah, Wah, Wah. I'm all ugly and fat, woe is me, I'm gonna go puke in the toilet now and then pick on some math geeks." This is, however, my blog and I'll put in here what's on my mind. (This is what's on my mind, if you missed that the first time.)

    I found Pumas for $40.00 yesterday. Can you say 'score'? I sure did! 

Hang on,
Ness

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry...

...for tomorrow, apparently, we're all getting raptured.

That's a total load of horse shit. Just thought you all should know. 

Anyway, it has been two months to the day since The Day I Was Supposed To Die. This has been the best two months of my life so far, and I'm thrilled that I'm here to have lived them. 

     I know this isn't important, but I'm recapping for my own benefit the events of the past two months. Btw, 'recap' comes from the word 'recapitulation'. It's a term used in music. No one knows that except us.

Let's see. Over the past two months, I have stopped cutting myself. This is good. I haven't really felt the need to, which means I'm getting better. 
     I have stopped hating myself as much as I used to. In fact, I am beginning to like myself a little bit. 
     I have acquired a spifftacular boyfriend. No explanation needed: just know he's a good kid. 
     I started singing lessons on Thursday. This is a good fucking plan, I think. 
     I've resurrected my music endeavors. 
     I dropped off my first (shitty) demo cd. 
     I learned to use a lawnmower that ISN'T a tractor.
     I saw a Ferrari in my drive-through. 
     I figured out how to get through the day without wanting to die. 
     I started and maintained a blog. 
     I was around for 61 sunrises and 61 sunsets. 
     I survived. No...I lived. 

     There's a lot more, but I can't really remember it all right now. I'm too tired. 
     Goodnight, world. 

Hang on, 
Ness

Be Somebody

"With one hand high, you'll show them your progress. You'll take your time, but no one cares."

I've always felt like a bottom-of-the-barrel type of person. I've always been the last one picked, the one with nowhere to sit at lunchtime, the one nobody cared enough about to hate but nobody liked enough to leave alone when they ran out of cannon-fodder in their cliques. I don't fit in with the smart people, the hipsters, the athletes, the emos, the goths, the artsy-people, the preppy people, the happy people, the sad people, the fat people, the perfect people, or the 'normal' people. I can interact with all of them, I have chameleonism down to a science, but I don't fit and I know it. 

     The reason for this? I'm not sure. It seems like no matter what I wear or how much weight I've lost (I was a fat kid) or whether I ditch the glasses or how my makeup looks or what I do to my hair or how much I talk or don't talk or even what I say, it's still not right. Even among my own friends, I don't completely fit. Maybe everybody feels like this. 

     Anyway, the only time growing up when most people would listen to me, or talk to me, or bother to even notice me, was right after a performance. I may have been a mousy-haired nobody with glasses and braces and zits and about 4,257 extra lbs, but as soon as I opened my mouth to sing, I became SOMEBODY. And then EVERYBODY cared. 

     That's not to say that nobody ever in my entire life cared about me...my family did, and I had a few friends, and I had this one music teacher who really went out of her way to teach me all sorts of stuff, and random people in random places were all there for me too. And those people I want to thank profusely. Nothing you've done has been taken for granted. All is remembered and treasured. 

     The reason for this blog post is because I still feel like nobody. I'm still bottom-of-the-barrel and I know it. I'm still the last one picked sometimes, I'm still forgotten about sometimes. But over the years, I have become so much. I SURVIVED. I'm getting better. I'm fighting my battles instead of running away.  I have become so much more than even I thought I would, and you know what? I'm proud of that. And even if nobody cares what's going on in my little world, and even if all my friends go to the bar without me, and even if I travel across 2 states to see somebody and she spends the whole time talking to somebody else, and even if I'm the last one told when something important happens or if they forget to even tell me at all, it's ok. Because I know that somewhere in me is SOMEBODY. And whether or not anybody cares about that fact doesn't matter. I'll just sing until everybody knows it. 

     The quote at the beginning of this song is from 'My Sundown' by Jimmy Eat World. Look that song up too. 

    Also: I sang a fucking opera song in Italian. I don't even know Italian, and I've never sang opera before. Aaand I'm getting voice lessons. You all just look for me when I'm famous. 

Hang on, 
Ness

Fuckin' Perfect

Another song on my playlist of Random Shit That Makes Me Feel Better is Pink's 'Fuckin' Perfect'.

I'll post the lyrics at the end of all this, but the general idea is that even though you've fucked up, you're still 'fucking perfect to me'. This is epic, people. Epic. 

I'm currently hovering around 103lbs and fighting on-and-off anorexia. I'm not sure what you'd call that. Anyway, this whole thing started when I lost control of my life and needed to have a handle on something. So I decided that I was going to control my image. At one point, if I had to eat something one day to appease somebody, I'd work off 150% of my total caloric intake. I could see all of my ribs and all of my vertebrae and I loved it. 
     Another fantastic thing about starving myself to control things was that it allowed me to punish myself at the same time. I was addicted to hurting myself for a really long time. I'd cut myself, force myself to not sleep, and now starve myself because this was punishment for every bad thing I'd ever done, said, or thought. Hell, I still fucking kick myself for things I did when I was like 4. It's not right, but that's the way things are. 
    Anyway, I've done a lot of shit in my time. Alot of weird, fucked up shit that has hurt me and other people. But that's the past. I'm trying to get better now. I'm having trouble getting back to eating normally, but I'll get there. The point is this: we're all human, we all make fucked up mistakes. But just so long as we're trying, we're fucking perfect. And we're gonna be fucking ok. 

Pink- Fuckin' Perfect

Made a wrong turn
Once or twice
Dug my way out
Blood and fire
Bad decisions
That's alright
Welcome to my silly life

Mistreated 
Misplaced 
Misunderstood
Miss knowing it's all good
It didnt slow me down.

Mistaking
Always second guessing
Underestimating
Look I'm still around

Pretty, pretty please
Dont you ever, ever feel
Like you're less than
Fucking perfect

Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing
You're fucking perfect to me

You're so mean
When you talk
About yourself, you were wrong
Change the voices in your head

Make them like you instead
So complicated
Look how we all make it
Filled with so much hatred
Such a tired game

It's enough
I've done all I can think of
Chased down all my demons
I've seen you do the same

Pretty, pretty please
Dont you ever, ever feel
Like you're less than
Fucking perfect

Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing
You're fucking perfect to me

The whole worlds scared
So I swallow the fear
The only thing I should be drinking
Is an ice cold beer

So cool in line
And we try, try, try
But we try too hard
And it's a waste of my time

Done looking for the critics
Cause they're everywhere
They don't like my jeans
They don't get my hair

Exchange ourselves
And we do it all the time
Why do we do that?
Why do I do that?

Why do I do that?

Pretty, pretty please
Dont you ever feel
Like you're less than
Fucking perfect

Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing
You're fucking perfect to me

You're perfect, you're perfect

Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing
You're fucking perfect to me

Hang on,
Ness

Oh My God

Lots of people like to put the saying 'Faith, Hope and Love' onto fancy little wall decorations.

I understand hope, and I know love. Faith I'm a little unsure about. 

Faith in what? What even is faith anyway? Is faith the same as belief? I don't fucking know. This is not a post full of answers, this is a post about a question: what do I believe?

A little backstory...
I was raised in a thoroughly Christian household by a drug-dealer-turned-around father and a raised-Christian-under-the-worst-of-circumstances mother. Every Sunday, we went to church. Every morning we read the bible. Every evening we said our prayers. But I never felt any of it. As much as I wanted to, I never felt a thing. 
     Inspirational music, heart-wrenching testimonies, and fantastic, too-good-to-be-true stories are the hallmarks of Christianity. All this stuff, it's supposed to make you feel things deep inside. But I feel nothing.
      Not the right things, anyway. All growing up, the other kids at church treated my family different...like we weren't as good as they were because we were poor. Later on, when dad made more money, they just treated me differently because I was ugly and socially awkward. So I felt alone in church, I felt angry in church, I felt sad in church. 
     After I had started cutting myself, I went to my 'youth pastor' to ask for help because I wanted to kill myself. He made me tell my parents, promising me that he'd help me get better. Instead, he treated me like shit and did nothing to help me. So I felt hatred in church. 
     Now, I am old enough to choose my own churches. But I still feel alone. Like I'm so horribly different from everyone there that I don't have the right to be in a church. Sometimes it's so bad that I can't make it through the service and I have to leave. 
     I read my bible sometimes, I go to church sometimes, I drop my hard-earned money into the plate, I sing the songs, I pray as hard as I can to feel something but I CAN'T. 
     I believe in God. I do. I just don't see any other explanation for the world around me and how it works. I pray sometimes...and I think God hears me. I THINK. But I want know how to do this whole 'Christian' thing. At least, I think I do. 
     It says in the bible that God can harden your heart against feeling things...is that what happened? Have I missed my chance? Am I going to hell now?

     Yepp. I'm fucking confused as shit. The basic question I'm trying to pose here is, how do I believe in this? How do I 'have faith'? And HOW THE HELL DO I FEEL SOMETHING ABOUT IT? 

Anyway. Now that I feel like shit and have a hundred questions to sort through in my head, I'm gonna go smoke. 

Hang on,
Ness

Light Blue

Go look at the Argentinian flag.

I'm pretty sure its one of my favorites, because a work friend of mine told me a story about it.

That light blue on the flag there, that's a hard color to produce. So the Argentinians came up with a neat-o phrase: "If you want light blue, you have to work for it." Meaning, anything beautiful (like that color) or necessary (like getting better) or just generally worth having must be worked for. Worked for and fought for. Things worth having don't just happen, usually. So, next time you're breaking and you don't think you want to get back up, remember that phrase. Then get the fuck back up. Start over. Get better. 

Hang on,
Ness

Happy Easter?

Holidays, for some reason, are harder for me than normal days are.

Why? Probably because on holidays, it is especially apparent that I am not as I should be. I see my family, happy and laughing, enjoying each other's company. Then I look at myself, putting on a pretty face for the benefit of others. Always depressed, always alone. Every year, several times a year, it's always the same. 

     Today is Easter. Today, I will once again be surrounded by my family, but I'm going to make this holiday different. Instead of wondering why I'm not the same, I'm going to remind myself that this is my first-ever holiday being better. I'm going to do my best to put to use all the shit I've learned over the past month. Hopefully, I'll be just like they are...comfortable in their own skin, holding their own instead of running away. If I can't do it today, I'll keep trying until I fucking get it. I am blessed to have these crazy Italian bastards...and today I'm going to remember that. 

Today, I will also remember the people who can't be with their families, either because they're away on business (like my brother fighting in Afghanistan last year), or they live far away and can't afford to make the trip (like my aunt Roe) or because they've gone away somewhere to get better. 

Today, remember hope. 

Happy Easter, you people. 

Hang on, 
Ness

Break And Breathe

Tonight, I feel small.

     The sky is clear, and the moon is full. Well, I lied. There are a few small clouds, and they are beautiful. Absolutely fucking beautiful. This is an amazing night. When something is this perfect, it makes me hurt inside. I have no idea why, but I've always felt an almost physical pain in my chest when I see something beautiful that I know I can't hold on to. 

     Tonight, I feel small. Not just physically small, though...I feel young. Like I'm just a kid who needs someone to hold her and tell her everything will be ok, and tell her that she is beautiful and wonderful, just like this sky I'm sitting under. I don't know why I feel so sad and small tonight, but I do. Its frustrating to feel this way when I don't know why I do...I guess this is depression? Either way, I can't figure it out and it hurts. 
     I guess I'm not all better yet. But I am getting there. On a night like this before I started getting better, I would have looked at the sky and thought about how I don't deserve to be alive to see it. Then I'd think of all the things in my life that I don't deserve. Then I'd cut myself as punishment for being alive, and I'd lie awake all night berating myself for not being dead yet. And to tell you the truth, tonight I kind of feel like slipping back into what I know. But I can't, because if I don't fight these battles, I will never get better. And I will never be able to look at the sky when it's all black and silvery and beautiful and feel anything but sadness. 

     I sure hope this shit gets read by somebody who needs to hear it, somehow. Because while writing this stuff down is helping me by allowing me to sort out my thoughts and see my progress and remember what I came from, it's pointless to put all this out there if it's helping no one. 

My thoughts are so scattered tonight, can you tell? This post doesn't even really have a purpose other than for me to try and understand what's in my fucking head. Three posts today, what the fuck.

     Anyway, tonight I will make a conscious decision to be ok. I will not fall. I will not fall. 

Hopefully, somebody else out there is making the same decision. Hopefully somebody who hurts is making a decision to turn things around, to be better tomorrow than they were today and to be better next year than they were this year and to actually be around to see next year. 

Hang on,
Ness

And The Greatest Of These...

...Is Love.

One of my favorite sayings goes like this: "Love me when I least deserve it, because that's when I really need it."

Being broken isn't easy. Healing is even harder. I have found that three things make this possible: hope, hard work, and love. 

     Hope is a huge fucking deal, and I've written about it before. Hard work is obviously a given and I'll talk about that another day. Today, we discuss love. 

     By love, I don't mean that gushy, white-picket-fence, buy-me-a-fucking-ring-already shit they like to force-feed my tv. I mean the kind that my friends had when push came to shove and I was checking out. The kind of love that fucking breaks everything into pieces like legos so you can start rebuilding. The kind of love that strips you fucking raw and leaves you on your knees, broken a thousand different ways and encountering a strange feeling called hope. The kind of love that it takes to look at the darkest side of someone, kiss her fucking scars, and be able to look her in the eye and say you're not giving up. I think to be loved like that is what we're all really looking for in life. I think that love is sacrifice, and I think that love hurts. I think that it cuts you sometimes, I think that it breaks you sometimes, I think that sometimes you don't think you want it. I sure as hell didn't want it when it interfered with my end. But in the end, it saved me. 
     
     And if I can have nothing else in my life, I want to have that kind of love. I want to find the ones like me and I want to be to them what my friends were to me. What they still are, what they always will be. I want to say, "I have been there. And this is going to hurt you. But it's for your own good and in the end, you'll be here to thank me." I want to have that kind of love when the ones like me are kicking and screaming and pushing me away and begging me to let them die, because that is what was done for me. After they're through the worst, I want to take their hands and say how proud I am of their progress, how glad I am that they're still here.  And they, in turn, can go and do the same for others. And in the end, with this kind of love, I think we can save the ones like us. 


     Now, for those of you who want a happy ending fit for a chick-flick: I have found a song that I want played at my wedding. I can't get married for 19 more years or I'll lose a long-standing bet, but when that time is up, they will be playing this song either for the first dance, or at the end of the ceremony when the fucking wedding party gets the fuck out of the church (provided The Mr. in question approves). 

Forever - Fireflight

Sometimes, I feel so cold
Like I'm waiting around all by myself
Loneliness gets so old
I'm in the lost and found sitting on the shelf
Been stuck for way too long
But I hear Your voice
You're who I'm counting on

Oh, tell me You're here
That You will watch over me forever
Oh, take hold of my heart
Show me You'll love me forever

I know that You can tell
When I start to let my hope fade away
I need to catch myself
Open my ears to hear You calling my name
Been fighting way too long
But I hear Your voice
You had me all along

When I'm starting to drown
You jump in to save me
When my world's upside down
Your hands, they shake me and wake me

Oh, tell me You're here
That You will watch over me forever
Oh, take hold of my heart
Show me You'll love me forever

Listen to that shit, people. It's fucking golden. 

Hang on, 
Ness

Scar Tissue

Sometimes, as we all know, the scars are invisible.

[This post is written for a friend. Hopefully you know who you are...this is what I'd say to her if I could. I don't know what to say to you because I've only been on the wrong side of this track. But I hope maybe it helps a little bit.]

Sure, we all have scars. I know at least three people (myself included) who have a scar above their eyebrow from running into something as a little kid. We all fall down, get scraped knees, and have something to show for it for the rest of our lives. Some, like me, have thin white lines all over their ribcages and legs from a razorblade, like a roadmap of the horrible places you've been. 

     And we all know that not all scars are visible. These are the marks left on us from the cutting words people say when they don't understand us. They're what's left of the formerly perfect skin surrounding your sanity, before somebody ruined it with an action that left you torn into pieces. 

     I know there are others like me. I know there are people out there, wearing these invisible scars. And if I could tell them anything, it would be to have hope. There is healing. 

     There are some things that people will never understand just by looking at the surface of things. Like why a girl like me, with a perfect life, would want to ruin her skin with a razorblade, would want to kill herself. And to tell you the truth, people like my parents will never know unless I tell them. I can keep a secret so well. I live with my parents and younger siblings, and day in and day out they have failed to see that I was dying...because I hid it so well that it was impossible to tell that I was someone completely different than who they thought I was. Scar tissue, it seems, is fucking heavy, but people like me can carry it like we were born with it. You'll never know. 

    I guess the point of this post is to say that people aren't what they seem at all. And when everything they've been hiding becomes too much to hold inside anymore, everyone around them gets blindsided and broadsided by these terrifying realizations. Things happen. Solid people fall. Sane people lose it. You can know someone for years and never know until it's too late that they feel too far gone to save. 
     But they can be saved. 
     I could. 
     I was. 
   
     Healing can be accomplished. Hope is still fucking there, you've just got to see it. 

      Scars don't define you. They never, ever will. You need to choose, however, and choose wisely: are they going to be your shame, another reason to hide? Or are your scars--both visible and invisible--going to make you into something?

     I don't love my scars. I hate that my ribcage looks the way it does, I hate that my left leg has the words 'fuck up' carved into it. I hate my invisible ones even more...but I'm learning to deal. None of this will stop me from living. Don't let it stop you. There is much yet to finish before you give in. There is love, to be given and accepted. There are people who need us. Don't let your past determine your future. Don't fucking give in yet. 
   
Hang on,
Ness

Cake Pops

Today is my little sister's birthday.

And I almost wasn't here for it. But that doesn't matter as much as the fact that I AM here for it. 

She requested a "bouquet of Starbucks birthday cake pops". And that is exactly what I got her. 

Today, I feel especially grateful to those who saved me. 

Thank you. 

Hang on,
Ness

Set Apart This Dream

There are some songs out there that I think everyone should hear.

Yes, we could all do without Rebecca Black's 'Friday', and I'd be just fine if I never heard anything by Miley Cyrus ever again in my life. But 'Set Apart This Dream' by Flyleaf is one of those songs that I think every girl should add to their 'I feel ugly today so I listen to this' playlist. 

Set Apart This Dream - Flyleaf

Close your eyes little girl
You're a princess now, you own this world
Twirling in your twirly dress
You're the loveliest far above the rest

You build your castles in the skies
Stars reflecting off your eyes
And angels sing on silver clouds
And no one cries, screams or shouts

Oh, set apart this dream
Oh, set apart this dream for me
Set apart this dream for me

Close your eyes pretty girl
'Cause it's easier when you brace yourself
Set your thoughts on a world far off
Where we only cry from joy

Oh, set apart this dream
Oh, set apart this dream for me
Set apart this dream for me

Oh, lovely and beautiful, precious and priceless
You're so much more than you know, heart of the purest gold
Pure clean and white as snow clothed in such splendor
Oh, what a beauty for me

Set apart this dream
Set apart this dream

Oh, set apart this dream
Oh, set apart this dream for me
Set apart this dream for me

For someone like me, this song says everything I wished someone would say. Perfect? Priceless? Lovely? None of those words crossed my mind in reference to myself. But it's true: no matter the damage done, we as people are still all of these things. Sometimes when I feel like I'm nothing at all to anyone anywhere, I'll listen to this shit, or I'll scream it in my car, and then I feel better. Because it's true. 

I wish I could explain to you people what this stuff means. What it does to you when you hear it. It's hard finding a reason to go on when all you know about yourself is that you don't deserve to. Then you hear something like this, and if you let yourself believe it, it's just like, "Holydumbfuck!" 

Anyway. Listen to this song. 

Hang on,
Ness

I Did It Again.

Today was a good day.

Today, I confronted some of my more physically painful memories...the ones that made me run away and black out and throw up.  And guess what? I fucking won. 

     I am beginning to do things I thought I never would. I am allowing myself to trust again. To be vulnerable. To be open. To be me. 

     I once read that freedom has a taste that the protected will never know. It's true. You never really value things like dignity, safety, and innocence to their fullest extent until you lose them. My innocence is gone. But my dignity and the feeling of finally being safe are coming back. I understand these things on a deeper level. I hold on to them with everything I've got. Because I'm free now...I'm fucking done being hog-tied by my fears and my past and my hatred for myself and the little raped girl and the man who ruined her. I can look anybody in the eye and know that I am just as human as they are. I can look myself in the eye and know that even though sometimes I don't see it, I do deserve to live, and I do deserve the chance to grow up to be somebody, and I do deserve to feel just as alive as anyone else. And it is so fucking good. This is what I should have had all along, only sweeter: because I had to work for it. 

     My past doesn't define me. My name isn't Victim. I am not a fucking statistic. And I will face my days one by one, and I will take my memories by their throats and I will make it all mine again. I can't change the beginning of my story. But I am sure as hell going to give it a better ending. 

Hang on,
Ness


    

I Did It.

Today, I could not get out of bed.

I spent literally two hours trying to get up but I just couldn't do it. Here's the backstory. 

Last night, I had a moderately severe panic attack right before bed. I went right to sleep as soon as I could. I kept waking up in a cold sweat. This morning, I woke up scared and I could not, no matter how hard I tried, get my ass out of my bed. 
     It's been weeks since I've done that. I knew it would happen eventually, but I had kinda hoped that MAYBE it wouldn't. MAYBE I could just go from broken to fixed without all the fighting in between. Silly me. =] Anyway, after getting up, I was all different sorts of depressed. So I told myself to fucking knock it off and listened to some music and smoked a couple cigarettes, and believe it or not, I feel much better. 
     I guess this is how it's going to be: some days you gotta fight for your sanity. Some days, the mundane things that everybody else does with no fucking problem become a battle. But that's ok. I'll fight as hard as I have to. And one day, all this shit will be just as easy for me as it is for everybody else. I can do this shit. 

Hang on,
Ness

Life After Death 101

I'm not going to lie...I got lucky.

I still can't tell you what happened, entirely. All I know is that I was trying to die, and then I wasn't. For 21 years, there's been this underlying self-hatred in me that I couldn't figure out. Two years ago, I saw the demise of my dignity, my innocence, my self-respect, and all that I counted safe. My will to live had gone to shit. And then, I started getting better. What the dripping fuck. 
     
      I do know this: that on Sunday 2 weeks ago, I was driving around looking for a place to die. I was resigned and determined. I was numb and I was going to end it. And I know something else, too: without a select group of my friends, I would without a doubt be fucking dead right now. 
     So thank you guys, you friends of mine who got me here. Holydumbfuck. I wish I had words and actions enough to show you what you've done. I'm fucking happy to be alive now. I feel safe again. I LIKE myself. I wish I could fucking thank you properly for this. 

     Healing is a confusing territory. You look at your eyes in the mirror and start to say what you've always said, "You're fucking worthless." You look at your body, "You're fucking damaged." You look at your friends and family and think, "I don't fucking deserve you." You look at your life and say, "I don't deserve that either." But then you stop yourself, because you can't say that shit with any conviction anymore. It's so strange opening your eyes and looking at the same ceiling you've been staring at for years and not thinking, "Why the hell did I wake up?" It feels ok to laugh, and to smile. When people say, "You're beautiful," it doesn't hurt anymore. And you can look yourself in the eye for quite possibly the first time and know that somewhere in there is a kid who deserves a fucking chance. 

    Yes, there will be bad days, days where what you knew before seems safer than what you know now. There will be days for me where I will want to hide, there will be times when the memories are too much and I throw up or pass out. There will be moments when I look at myself and don't like what I see. I will still get scared around people who are angry because I'm waiting for them to hit me.  It will seem safer for me to become the sick girl I was before. But you and I, we just have to remember that nothing good ever comes easy. Healing doesn't. I hit the fucking bottom before I got where I am now. But that makes it all the sweeter when you look back. And in the end, it's so much better not to be afraid. It's so much better. 

I have to remember to keep working. Keep moving on. Keep getting better. After all, I'm still alive, right? Where there's life, there's hope. 


Hang on,
Ness

Crystal Stair

This guy knew his shit.

I was introduced to this poem by one of my favorite drive-through customers. I don't know who wrote it, but this dude knew his shit.

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor --
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now --
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.


This is life, people. Don't you dare sit down, don't you dare quit climbing, or it will never get better. 

Hang on,
Ness

Proceed With Caution. [This is a graphic post. It will be difficult for some of you to read. You can skip this one.]

Today's post isn't easy to write.

This is all the stuff that I've tried not to think about. These are the memories they tell me that I have to face in order to heal.  And to tell you the truth, I'm terrified to go back there. But I don't want to carry this forever. 

     Where to begin? I guess the beginning...you've already seen the end. 

     Back in 2008 and 2009, I was seeing this guy. I'm not going to give him a name, but we were kind of dating, I guess you could say. I say 'kind of' because he kept saying we were, then we weren't, then we were, and so on. Fuck that shit. Anyway, he was the first guy to say 'I love you' to me, I was naive, he was such a rebel, blah blah blah. Fact of the matter is, I should have listened to my friends when they said to stay away from him. 
     One day, he pulls out his stash of weed and says, "I'm not taking you home unless you smoke this with me." What the fucking point of that was, I'm not sure, but I smoked it. I now know that I'm allergic to marijuana. I also know that I was stupid to put myself in that position. 
     A few weeks later, he decided that I was going to start playing games with him. In order to be able to get home, I had to do whatever he had in mind that day. This usually involved taking off all my clothes, letting him touch me everywhere he wanted to, performing oral sex, and unfortunately letting him do the same. When it was time to stop playing games, he'd take me home and I would take a shower and usually throw up. I kinda feel like throwing up now, actually. 
     The sad thing was that part of me thought that this was how love went. Part of me was pretty damn sure that everybody did this and that sooner or later I'd get used to it. 
     He liked mind games too. He'd ask me questions, all sorts of questions that I didn't want to answer, or he'd ask questions to see how I would react to whatever game he wanted to play next. It made me fucking sick. One day he asked me what I'd do if I got raped and if I'd blame myself and I fucking wish I'd answered differently. But I didn't really know that this wasnt how love worked. So I told myself I'd get used to it just like all the other girls did.
     Sometimes, I just couldn't handle it. I created Baby to handle it for me. Baby was strong, Baby couldn't feel sick like Ness did. Baby played some of the games because Ness couldn't do it anymore. 
     On february 8th of 2009, playing this particular game wasn't enough anymore. I had told him countless times before to please never make me have sex with him but this time that was the game we were gonna play. I feel sick writing this, I feel so fucking sick right now but I have to do this or I'll never be rid of it. Anyway. I didn't have time for Baby to take over. I was there, helpless the whole fucking time. He made these awful noises, these horrible noises that I can't get out of my head sometimes. It hurt. It hurt real bad. I was so fucking scared. His fucking skin. He was everywhere and I tried to fight but I just couldn't get him off of me. I can remember the room, I can remember his hands, how he smelled, I can remember everything and i fucking hate it.  I was sick and I still get sick. 
     I was saving that. I was fucking saving myself for someone who loved me. I wanted to decide when my 'first time' was, I wanted to decide who to share that with. And I didn't get to. I didn't get to do it. He just fucking took it. He fucking made me worthless. Made me afraid. Made me want to hide. 
     He told me that I was damaged now.
     When I got home, I rubbed my skin raw trying to get the filth off. It didn't come off and I realized then that this was permanent. This was rape, and it wasn't going to go away. 
     He was right. Damaged. 

     I wanted die. The voices in my head told me to because I was worthless now. I'd been violated, ripped to shreds and I'd never be worth anything.

     It took a really, really long time to come back from that. I'm hoping this blog helps somebody out there because this shit isn't easy to write. I have what I'm pretty sure is PTSD now...I throw up, pass out, get flashbacks, nightmares. I'm terrified of feeling trapped. If somebody touches me and I'm not expecting it, I freak the fuck out. I'm afraid of the dark, I'm afraid of the fucking city that it happened in. If I hear the word 'rape' or they put it in a book or I see it in a movie, I freak out inside. Everything comes back and I have to run as fast as I can or get in my car and drive really fast. I used to straight up pass out but I'm getting better with that one. 

     Anyway. The reason for this post is that for the first time, I feel like I'll be ok if I write it. I have revisited all of these horrible, sickening memories and for the first time, they haven't gotten the better of me. I hope this helps me get better. I hope if you read this and this shit happened to you, then reading the rest of the shit I've posted on this blog can help you see that just because somebody took what wasn't theirs and made you afraid and fucked you up and called you damaged and ruined your life and broke you into pieces...you're still worth it. And if you try hard and you do what needs doing and you remind yourself that you're worth it, that you're still special and you're still the same person you were before he broke you, you're gonna be ok. You're the same little girl who used to dream of wearing a big white dress on your wedding day. And guess what? You can still fucking wear white. It wasn't your fault. Your innocence may be fucking gone for good, but you are innocent of this crime. You're the same girl who was ok before this and one day you'll be ok again.  I am. And god help the ones who taught us what it is to fear...but hold out for the one who will teach you what it is to love. 
     
     You're fucking perfect. And so am I. 

        
Hang on,
Ness

Proceed To The Nearest Exit

Fucking jump.

I like to bitchcliff jump. Meaning that several times during the summer, I drive all the way out to my cliff jumping spot, climb to the top of the biggest rock, stare down at the water for 45 minutes, and retreat to the bitch rock. The bitch rock is a substantially smaller outcropping with a substantially smaller risk of imminent belly-flopping injury.
This year, though, I reeeeally want to jump off the hard-ass rock. Every time I think about it, I get this nice little adrenaline rush. Then I remember that I'm making plans for the near future and I get an even better rush because I'm going to fucking be around this summer to see these plans through. Holy fucking hell, people. This is so cool.
This time last month, the only reason I would have considered planning a jump would be to ensure that my head smashed into the side of the rock on my way down. THAT would have been the reason for any and all subsequent adrenaline rushes. Holy fucking hell, who does that.

To date, I have had only 2 panic attacks since Sunday. I used to get at least 2 panic attacks almost every fucking day. I haven't tried to hurt myself once. I've stopped starving myself and have been controlling something else instead: my music. I have felt something along the lines of happiness every day just because I'm alive. I'm making plans with every intention to see them fulfilled. This has got to be the greatest thing in the world.

Hang on,
Ness

What To Do In The Event Of An Emergency

Sometimes, it helps to remember.

So, when I feel the need to remind myself that everything has changed and that I am getting better and that I don't need to be afraid, I look through texts my friends have sent me. Here's one of my favorites.

"The strongest materials are formed in the harshest environments and far outlast and outshine all others. You may have gone through Hell but you made it out."

Hang on,
Ness

Happy Is A Yuppie Word

I just want to point this out...

Right now, at this moment in time, I am happy.
I am not afraid. I am not depressed. I am not angry. I do not want to die.

It's such a clean feeling. It's so new. And I don't know how I lived without it. But I'll tell you this: I don't want to go back to the familiarity of being dead inside. No matter how foreign the territory of 'being ok' may get, I'll take it any day.

Fuck yes.

Hang on,
Ness

Hope Is A Phoenix

Hope is something that I won't trade for anything.

Hope — n
1.	( sometimes plural ) a feeling of desire for something and confidence in the possibility of its fulfilment: his hope for peace was justified ; their hopes were dashed
2.	a reasonable ground for this feeling: there is still hope
3.	a person or thing that gives cause for hope
4.	a thing, situation, or event that is desired: my hope is that prices will fall

Life, without hope, is totally pointless. This I know.
Somehow I lost my hope...maybe I lost it when I lost my innocence, or my dignity, or my self-respect, or my will to live, or any of the other things I've misplaced in my 21 years. Wherever it went, my life went to shit without it. I stopped hoping that one day, my ass would be worth saving. I stopped trying to get better. I started begging my friends to let me go, to give me their permission to die. I didn't want to live with myself anymore...with no hope, you can't get better. And I will be the first to say that I was sick.
Let's play a game: I like games. Visualize whatever you hate most in this world. What makes you fucking sick to your stomach? What makes your skin crawl? What do you hate so much, you wish you could just smash it to death with your bare hands? Now imagine that thing inside you. Imagine that thing inside your mind. That's how I felt every day. I didn't want to be saved because that meant whatever I hated would survive too. I wanted to kill us both. Because hope had abandoned me, and that meant that I could never get better. Which means that I had to die.
I'm not sure what brought my hope back. All I really know is that over the course of my life, there have been people who have cut through the bullshit I like to use as a smokescreen and they have seen me for what I really am. I couldn't even see me for what I was, but they could and they did. These people have shaped me, have broken me down into pieces and then built me back to what I am now. And it is to these people that I owe my life, because they made it worth something to me. I guess that's because it was worth something to them. I can't figure out just what it was on Sunday that made me feel like it was ok to stop hating myself, but something was said or done or something that just kind of changed my mind about killing what I hated, which was me.
Somebody pointed out to me that this was a decision. Yes, I had forgotten. Suicide became my 'hope' for awhile, then it became an expectation, then a reality. But it wasn't some impending event...it was my decision. And one's mind, when made up, can be changed.
Holy fucking shit, are you kidding me. Slapped in the motherfucking face.

Hope is a motherfucking phoenix, people. Sometimes, when things get real fucking dark, it dies. But it always comes back.


Hang on,
Ness

The End

Sunday, March 20th was supposed to be my last day alive.

Ever since I can remember, I have been depressed and I have hated myself. How a child who doesn't understand hate could hate herself, I'm not sure, but that's been the case all my life. Over the past few months, surviving was about all I could do.
I was obsessed with suicide. I knew it was coming, I just didn't know when or how. I did everything I could to destroy myself while waiting for the perfect time to end myself. A 21-year-old time bomb. I starved myself, I cut myself, I'd go without sleep, I'd go places where I knew I could get hurt. I was trying to die by a combination of methods that absolved me of any responsibility.
It all came to a head on Sunday. But things weren't ready. I had bills waiting to be paid and I didn't want to leave my family to pick up my pieces. So I decided to wait a week.
Fortunately for me, I have a couple friends that you'd probably envy. They've saved me before, but this time it was different. And without going into too much detail, I will tell you that one of my friends proved to me without a doubt that I am worth saving.
I can't really figure out how to describe it to you...it's like something snapped into place. I went from being the Ness that I had always known--a worthless piece of shit who didn't deserve to live--to somebody worth saving. I haven't tried to hurt myself once. I haven't thought about killing myself. For the first time in a really, really long time, I've been happy. And holy shit, it feels so good. It feels so good to feel like I deserve to live. It feels so fucking good to be alive.

Hang on,
Ness

The Beginning

Hello, my name is Ness. This is my blog.

I have been controlled for far too long by the things I fear. I am ready to come into my own.

This is the life story of an ugly duckling growing up to be a beautiful fucking swan.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

Hang on,
Ness