Tuesday 22 November 2011

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

Wednesday 9 November 2011

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

Sunday 6 November 2011

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

Thursday 3 November 2011

"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