Day One, Step One

Well, I just got home from my first psychology appointment. She was a nice, middle-aged lady. Nicely dressed. Cursed once, which made me feel better about the fact that I had just said 'fucking'. She wants me to see a psychiatrist who will evaluate me to see just how messed up I am and how many meds I need to be taking to feel like a normal person. Excuse me, but how is doping supposed to make me feel 'normal'? I don't want to take meds. I just want to find out why I am the way I am, and put some real, solid names to the demons that have been sucking the life out of me for as long as I can remember. Whatever, I'll go see the psychiatrist lady, as long as it means that someone can help me find out who the hell I am when I finally get past all of the shit to the real core of Ness. Who is Ness, and why is she going to kill herself? Why is Ness always alone in her head? Why does Ness always act like somebody else, and why are there so many specific somebodies for every single situation? Why does Ness's skin hurt every time she does something wrong? Why does Ness think every angry man she meets is going to hit her? Why does Ness hate yelling so much? Why can't Ness get out of bed sometimes? Why does music make Ness's chest hurt? Why does Ness hurt herself? Why can't Ness say the bad word? Why does Ness get sick when she thinks about men? Is there really any point in Ness remaining alive? Yes, Mrs. Psychologist, Ness is bat-shit crazy.

Down And Out

I'm pretty much right back where I started.

     I'm scheduling an appointment with a psychologist. Depression is winning again, and I've reached the point where I just don't care. I know I'm in a dangerous place when I stop caring. All the fight has gone out of me. I just want to lay down in a quiet place and die with no one watching me.

     Anyone who doesn't have depression will never understand this. I've been depressed my entire life, and most days, I've kept a good handle on it. But all my life, I've had this feeling that I'm going to end up killing myself. It's not a fear...its not something I'm afraid of. It's more like a knowledge that someday, I am going to pull the trigger and actually hit myself. Or take the pills and not throw them up. Or starve myself and not be forced to consume something. Or tie a rope around my neck and not be interrupted. Or have the guts to actually cut my wrists instead of everywhere else because I know that this time, there won't be consequences tomorrow to worry about. So this time, I'm going to a professional to find out why my first memory is feeling alone in a room full of people. To find out why that feeling never went away. To find out why there's that underlying--sometimes overwhelming--feeling of hopeless despondency no matter how good my life is. To find out why I've been so convinced all my life that someday, I'll stop being able to handle myself and take care of my own biggest problem: myself.
     I thank God that none of my wonderful, concerned friends read what has become my online journal. This is a chronicle of my descent into madness. Of the labyrinth of sickness that is my mind. Because I am sick. This is a terminal illness, and this is every day inside my head.
    
     For anyone out there who wonders if there is hope: as surely as you breathe. If there is help: without a doubt. But to get help, you've got to care. To see hope, you've got to care. Today: I don't care. But I hope you do, because life is beautiful, and you are worthy. There is enough oxygen and sunshine for everyone. There is no selfishness in owning what is yours: your own life. Take it. It's yours. Yepp, I definitely need help.
     Hang on,
            Ness

One

I started this blog as a way to get my past off my chest and hopefully help some poor soul with a story like mine, but now it's become a journal of sorts...a way to order my thoughts, confront my pain, and hopefully find answers to the seemingly worthless anguish in this life.
     It's been one month today since I lost my child. The pain has lessened somewhat, but it's still there. Dull and throbbing or piercing like a knife, I can't seem to forget that for a month (one short, beautiful month) I was a mother and now I never will be again.
     I was thinking today and came to the conclusion that my body is not a temple...it's a death trap. And most days, I hate it. I despise myself for whatever I did. I loathe whatever imperfect part of me made it impossible to carry my son or daughter, whatever hidden piece of me isn't safe. I'd like to cut it out, to lacerate it in the same careless, mindless manner that it did my heart. I'd like to kill it, like it did my baby. Because it isn't safe. Because it is guilty. Because I need something to blame for this. Something to punish for this.
     I sound like one crazy-ass motherfucker, don't I? I feel guilty when I'm happy. Is that bad?

It's A Girl!

Congrafuckinglations.
     Eat shit and die. This isn't getting much better. I'm not crying much anymore, but there's still a massive hole inside of me, and honestly, nothing's going to fill it. How do you replace a child? With another one? Oh sure, that's a great idea. Let me get right on that. A small part of me tells myself I'm being ridiculous...after all, I wasn't trying to get pregnant, and I wasn't pregnant for very long at all. Most of me, however, says that I'm a terrible person because I couldn't keep my child safe. Every time I see pictures or posts on Facebook about my friends' offspring, I find myself falling down into my usual pit of sadness. One of my friends is about to pop one out, and I envy her. I envy her ability to keep her child safe and alive. I envy her luck of the draw. I envy the fact that she isn't tormented every night by what if's and regrets. I can't even talk to anyone, because everyone thinks I'm crazy for dragging this out so long. Every time my boyfriend (religiously) puts on a condom (too much info? Too damn bad.), every time I don't have to per excessively, every time I look at my waistline; every time I pass a maternity store, or the baby aisle; every time I see a magazine about pregnancy, or an article on the internet, or a Facebook post, or change my tampon; or realize that my boyfriend isn't in any rush to marry me anymore, I sink back into my quiet little hole and die a little bit again. I still say goodnight to my baby every time I go to sleep. Fuck life, and death, and whatever the hell is in between.

In Support Of Gay Marriage: An Extraordinarily Verbose, Two-Part Look Into The Institution Of Marriage, The Book Known As 'The Bible', The Constitution, The DOMA And My Mind.

Part One: Wrestling with a backflush 2,000 years long.

In light of the recent Chick-Fil-A scandal, I have decided that it's time to 'come out' with my stance on gay marriage.     
     And coming out is exactly what it is; In any question of nationwide morals, the individual is always guilty by association. Let me explain where I'm coming from.     
     I was raised as a fundamental Baptist...meaning that I was raised in a religion which believes that most, if not all, of the Bible is literal and the Absolute Truth, end of story, no questions asked, the end. To question the Bible was to tread treacherous and heretical waters and usually made Mom worry for your soul and Dad jump down your throat. This wasn't intended to be detrimental or harsh, it was simply the way life was as long as we had known it. This is how my parents were raised, and their parents before them, and so on, et cetera, the end.    
     When the question of homosexuality came up, it was referred to our resident expert, the Lord Jesus Christ and his Holy Word.     
      The King James Version (the only version for a proper fundamental Baptist) referred to homosexuality as an 'abomination' (Leviticus 18:22, "Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: it is an abomination."), and that was the end of the line. Homosexuality was evil, and those people were going to hell. Do not associate with them, for 'you are known by the company you keep' (Psalm 1:1). Problem solved, right? No. Somewhere along the line, I decided that organized religion was not for me and that it was time to rethink my worldviews to better suit my new lifestyle. Yes, the best parts of that religion have stayed with me, but 'because the Bible says so' makes more enemies than friends, especially when you somehow forgot to memorize all the verses to back up your argument. In addition, growing up on a mountain in the middle of nowhere and having the social savvy of an alligator purse, I decided that there was a possibility that some of my worldly education had fallen by the wayside in the name of Jesus. I was ignorant. And ignorance isn't bliss...ignorance breeds hate. I'll explain: I hate aliens. I hate them because I fear them. I fear them because I do not understand them. And man will always fear what he does not understand, and inevitably hate that which he fears. A large part of the Christian community physically cannot understand how anyone could just decide not to follow the Bible. This is evil. Most Christians fear evil. All Christians hate it.     
     One of the things I decided to think long and hard about was gay marriage. I have several very wonderful, very gay friends, and there is absolutely no way that those people are evil. 'Hate the sin, not the sinner' is one of the Baptist church's favorite catchphrases, and one that I find increasingly aggravating. It's an enormous cop-out; a Biblical way to pat oneself on the back for following Jesus's law to love without compromising the Baptist Way Of Life.     
     Bullshit.     
     Baptists cannot physically separate the sin from the sinner, just like they cannot separate the sin from themselves. My parents--God bless them--try very hard to love everyone as Jesus loves them, but 'Love thy neighbor as thyself' (Mark 12:31) is like trying to dig the 2x4 out of your own eye (Matthew 7:3) before picking on somebody else's mascara specks...it's almost impossible. Thus, the sin becomes the sinner. 'I am my sin' has always been one of my favorite artistically emo phrases, and I think it works quite well here.      However, since I left the Baptist church, I have had the presence of mind and the lack of guilt to properly look into what Jesus REALLY says about homosexuality: absolutely nothing. Nothing that was recorded, at least. Oh Gourd, this must be the end of the line. God must really hard homosexuality. I shouldn't even play with this.     
      Again, bullshit. As we all know, Jesus had some pivotal conversations with and caused some unprecedented changes for sluts, money-grubbers, system-feeders, and general assholes from all walks of life. He also took the time to call out the people who were 'doing it right' and take them down a notch or two, and to find the under-the-radar-flyers who were just trying to get by and help them out too. Jesus loved EVERYBODY, and that in itself is a miracle unachieved by any other human being--real or fictitious--in history.     
     If Jesus didn't judge, then who are you to try (Matthew 7: 1-5)? If Jesus didn't cast that first stone (John 8:7,"Let him who is without sin cast the first stone."), then what do you think you're doing?     

Part Two: Land of the Free, the Separation of Church and State, and my moral compass--at war.     

     My father served in the Navy. My grandfather was a Marine. My older brother served as Army Special Forces for two tours in the Middle East during the worst war we've ever had. My family has a long military heritage, so I don't take my rights lightly.     
     My first amendment right is guaranteed as follows:
     "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."      
     I think that's pretty badass. That means I can say what I want and nobody can do anything about it.      This is true, to an extent. However, there are some things you just shouldn't say: for example, I don't consider the 'N-word' acceptable for use in everyday conversation. Not because I'm black, but because I'm human, and I don't think that it's a nice word to say. That doesn't mean that other people can't say it, but it does mean that I don't use it and that may cause physical harm to come to you if you employ it in the wrong company.      
     Chick-Fil-A time! Dan Cathy, the CEO of CFA recently had the nerve to give an honest answer to the question of the institution of marriage. All hell broke loose.     
How dare this man?! This is hate! This is bigotry! This is...     
     ...guaranteed by the First Amendment? You bet your sweet ass it is.     
     Dan Cathy did nothing wrong. He merely exercised his rights, just as the LGBT community does with its 'Get Over It' campaigns and Pride Parades. It's not hate speech, it's an answer to a question.     
     So, get over it.     
     Separation of church and state is defined as, 'the distance between organized religion and the nation state'. Thomas Jefferson said it best in his 1802 letter to the Danbury Baptist Association:  "Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between Man & his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legitimate powers of government reach actions only, & not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should 'make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,' thus building a wall of separation between Church and State." The grey area here is that marriage is considered a 'governmental institution', (Wikipedia defines it as follows: Civil marriage is the legal concept of marriage as a governmental institution irrespective of religious affiliation, in accordance with marriage laws of the jurisdiction.") and that's why we have citizens of the homosexual orientation petitioning and fighting for the U.S. government to legalize gay marriage. The reason this isn't legal yet is because basically all of the people in the whole damn country need to call their representatives and request that they either vote for or vote against gay marriage. Unfortunately, a little thing called DOMA stands in the way.     
     The Defense of Marriage Act was voted into law on Sept. 21, 1996 and defines marriage as the legal union of one man and one woman. Why? Because Bill Clinton and a bunch of other politicians said so.      Someone explain to me how this is constitutional. Someone explain to me how the government can regulate marriage between two citizens of the United States. Because I am unable to find anything, anywhere, that makes any sense to me explaining why the government has their hands in this cookie jar. My pocket? I don't like it, but I get it. Marriage? To use the colloquialism, "Aw heeeeeyyyyullll nah!"     
     And here we are wearing our freedoms on our chest as if we're some kind of democracy or something. Tell me, how is it freedom to require the government to recognize a marriage between two people? And how is it freedom to tell two tax-paying, law-abiding citizens that they can't partake of one of their rights because they love a person of the wrong sex?     
     My moral compass says let the citizens of the United States; be they gay, straight, white, black, or of the Illustrious Italian descent, marry whomever they will. After all, if we're really the land of the free, shouldn't ALL of us be free?

Everything.

This has been the most painful week I've had in years. I've reached the point where I can almost talk about what happened without crying, though there are still times that I can't breathe because of the pain. I know I'm not ready to have a kid. I know I'm still a kid myself. But I wanted that one and now I'll never get to have it. I miss my child, if you can call it that. These days, the term 'fetus' would be considered more politically correct, though I believe that that was a person in its own right. Who he or she would have been, I'll never know. And that still kills me. Every time I see a woman with her kids, I get this sense of utter loss that I don't think I can handle. I know I should just get over it, but I can't right now. That could've been me, if something didn't go wrong. Everyone tells me there will be others, but no one seems to understand that I don't WANT another. I want mine. I want that one. I want the one I'll never get to see, never get to hold, never get to love properly. I would have given that child everything. So I guess that's it. I'll never be a mother, because the only way I would want to be one is if somehow, I could have what I had. I'll never love anything like I love what I lost, because I don't think I CAN love anything like I love what I can't have. I don't think it's fair that people like James Holmes and Hitler got to live when my child, who would have had all the love in the world, didn't even get to make it through the first trimester. I don't think it's fair that people like Casey Anthony (whether she killed her daughter or not), who clearly didn't care about her child, get to give birth and I don't. I don't think it's fair that women can just decide they don't want to accept the consequences of their actions and have abortions and I'll never get the chance to hold my child in my arms. Life isn't fair, is it? No. Life fucking sucks. And then you die. Hang on, Ness

Safe Places

My car has become the only place where I can mourn. As usual, at work and at home, I have to pretend that I'm not being ripped apart so that I can continue to make enough money to survive and to perpetuate the permanent lie that has become my entire existence: that nothing is wrong. Because in my house, you don't cry. It's like stealing or kicking old people: you just don't. So, I can cry twice a day: on the way to work, and on the way home. Would this kid have been a singer like me? Or smart like its father? Would it have my eyes? Would it be an optimist, like he is, or a pessimist like me? I'm killing myself asking these questions, but I can't stop. Just like I can't breathe. Is this some kind of punishment for something I did? Everybody says that this doesn't mean I can't have kids when I grow up...but I don't want others. I want that one. I want the one I couldn't keep safe the first time. I want the one I can't stop thinking about now. I don't want to live anymore.

Chemical

I probably shouldn't be posting this online, because someone may see it, but I need to write it out. Earlier this month, I found out I was pregnant. Then, I had what they call a 'chemical pregnancy', which is when you miscarry very early. I am devastated. I didn't even want kids until I knew I had one. And now, I don't know how to take this. Should I just get over it, because I wasn't even really expecting it? Because I didn't have time to get to know what would have been my child? Should I continue to feel like a piece of me died? Because that's exactly what it was. I'll never get to take this kid to school. Or hold it's hand while we cross the street. Or find out if it looked like me or him, and it's killing me inside. I'm sorry I couldn't keep you alive. I'm sorry I'll never know your name, get to hold you, or tell you you'll be alright. I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe. I love you.

The Times, They Are A-Changing...

...and I don't know what to make of it. I'm transferring to a new store...this one is at least an hour away. I say 'at least' because the commute could take God knows how long with traffic. I'm getting a raise with this transfer, which is nice. I'm also getting bumped up in line for promotion, which is nicer. But I'm still worried...this company, like all companies, has a tendency to screw people over. Fuck this shit. In addition to my new location, I've encountered a new and particularly uncomfortable bout of depression, and I don't know what to do about it. I'm extra lonely right now. And extra sad. I don't know what else in my life is going to change soon, but I feel like something is coming. And I don't know if it's good or bad. I need a big fat hug. Hang on, Ness

All I Want For Christmas Is...

...is something I can't put on my wishlist, because I'm afraid someone will find out. Everybody wants something. Ask anyone; gay, straight, male, female, black, white, rich, poor, priest, pariah, famous, or relatively alone...and they'll name at least one thing they want. I really, really, really want something, and I can't say what the hell it is. Fuck this shit. Hang on, Ness

Can't Pay My Rent, 'Cause All My Money's Spent...

...but that's ok, 'cause I'm still fly.

I have been spending a ridiculous amount of money lately on things that promise to make me pretty and perfect, and none of them live up to their claims. No matter what I do, I still feel ugly. And I still feel hollow inside.
I am desperate to feel something other than ugly, and nothing I do makes me feel any better. I'm obsessed with my appearance and I'm sick of it. I'm sick of constantly looking at myself. I'm sick of feeling like I look like I feel. I spent over $800 this month on cosmetics, clothes, and various and sundry appliances to hide the way I feel and its really getting out of hand.
Everyone I talk to says the same thing. That I am pretty. This doesn't help. The boob job I'm saving up for won't help. The $200 hair extensions I'm saving up for won't help. Whitening my teeth, losing weight, tanning, new clothes, new shoes, plastic surgery, hair color, jewelry, a total fucking rebuild won't help. Because no matter what, I'm still me, and I'm still going to feel this way.

Hang on,
Ness

All My Love...

...is yours to waste.

Yesterday, I had the curious experience of laughing and crying at the same time. Crying and I are bitter enemies; in myself, I see it as a sign of weakness. Laughing is one of those things I do nearly as often as I breathe, because my life is so fucking funny. Sometimes it's a cosmic joke. Sometimes it's a punchline.
The problem with me is that love is always accompanied by pain. When I love, I love with every single cell, and that hurts sometimes. I'm still not sure why. So I laughed and cried and was ecstatically happy and in bitter pain at the same time. Damn confusing.
I have had the unbelievable honor of spending the past year with the most amazing man ever created. He's not perfect, but he's perfect for me and I am completely dumbfounded at this turn my life has taken. I must be the luckiest person alive. He makes everything that happened to me ok.

I hope every girl finds a guy like him.

Hang on,
Ness

One Year Later...

...and all I've got to show for it is a blog post.

Ok, that's not really true. I'm alive, I'm happier, I'm healthier now. I'm in a better place mentally. I got promoted. I bought a new car. I wrote some new songs, got some new stuff, and can honestly say, "I've been there" to my hurting friends. I grew up. I 'got better'. I made some new friends, had some new experiences, and met the love of my life who held me up when I wanted to fall down and made me see that there's more to life than just me.

In all, it's been a pretty good year. I'm very lucky. And to the ones who saved me, who held me, who led me, who taught me, who loved me,
Thank you so much. I will return the favor.

Hang on, because one day you'll be sitting where I am.
Ness

Ahdidnrkwifmdlaa)$8@+@)@8@+1)!%

I couldn't think of a title, so I just hit my phone a bunch of times and that's what came out.

I guess the only way to stop hurting is to forgive, right? But I'll never forget. I wish I could, but there's just no way. Maybe its better if I don't.
The thing is, every single fucking time I open myself up, I take off my oh-so-carefully built armor, I make myself vulnerable, however you want to say it; I get hurt. And I'm not talking about normal hurts that you can just slap a bandaid over and off you go. I mean the kind that stay with you forever. The kind that make you afraid, the kind that prove to you once and for all that you'll never be good enough.
I won't lie--I am one fucked-up individual. But its not fucking fair that this keeps happening to me. I don't know if everyone else is just weak, or if I attract people like this, or what; but let's get this straight once and fucking for all.
I. Am. A. Human. Being. I. Deserve. To. Be. Respected.
And if I'm not enough, then guess what--that's not my fault. I have done my best to be everything I can be. The rest is up to you...let's hope you can get it right next time. Because as soon as the words, "I love you" leave your face, you had better mean them.
Hang on,
Ness

All These Things I Hate...

...Revolve Around You.

For days, I haven't been eating or sleeping properly. I cant sleep because I'm sick and I'm hurt. I can't eat because somehow, this all comes back to me and if I were perfect, maybe this wouldn't keep happening to me.

All I want is to be enough. But I am never enough. There's always something wrong, something you can get elsewhere. I'm so tired of not being enough. It hurts. And I'm tired of hurting.
I'm afraid again. And I hurt so much. And I can't talk to anyone about it. And I'm never, never enough.
Sorry for being so cryptic. But like I said, I can't talk to anyone about it.

Hang on,
Ness

What Hurts The Most...

...is not being able to explain why or how much it hurts.

There are things I hate, and lots of them. Broken promises are at the top. The inability to thoroughly and effectively communicate a point is right below broken promises on my list.

I am deeply hurt, and I can't explain why.

This same thing that hurts me now has hurt me several times before, and every single time, I find myself unable to explain why it hurts me so badly. Which makes the original hurt that much worse. And the worst part of all is that I can't talk about it. To anyone.

When nobody knows, it feels like nobody cares. And every time this happens, I die a little inside. I just want it to stop, and now I understand that it never will.

Hang on,
Ness

Chevelle, among other things.

I haven't posted anything in awhile.

There's really nothing going on. I'm going see Chevelle soon, in a city I've never been to. That's exciting. I'm getting my ass whooped in Words With Friends. Sudoku is difficult for my brain to comprehend today. I'm cold. Sonar still remains in the realm of Astrophysics. I feel really stupid today. I'm pretty bored. I haven't been hungry for three days, so I haven't really eaten anything...maybe that's why I feel so stupid. Actually, most days, I feel like Celia Foote from The Help; unbelievably stupid and pretty much unwanted in any company besides that of my faithful and saintlike significant other.

I guess that's it.

Hang on,
Ness

Three

It's been three years since The Day The Bad Thing Happened.

Well, three years and almost a week. And you know what? I think I've almost got this beat.

The Day itself was almost a good one. I never thought I'd say that. I went about life as usual, and thanks to the amazing people in my life, I was totally ok.

Life is good.

Hang on,
Ness

Lick And Stick

My lungs like me better now.

Well, I'm quitting smoking. And doing all right. 

I bought some nicotine patches and they're a lot easier than going cold turkey. They're like happy stickers for your arms, so everybody can tell that you fucked up and you're trying to erase yourself from the stigma. 

I don't understand the phrase 'cold turkey'. What the hell. I love leftovers. 

I'm not quitting because I want to, mind you. I *like* smoking. I like the way I feel with a cigarette in my hand. I like being the bitch with the Marlborough that you don't want to mess with. But some important people in my life don't like me being the Marlborough Bitch, so I'm quitting so they don't have to smell me anymore. 

I do smell a lot better. 

Anyway. It's 2012. I'm still around. In less than a month, it will be the three-year anniversary of the Day The Bad Thing Happened. If it's anything like last year, I'm going to be cowering in my room crying and blasting Chevelle and wishing I was dead. I hope it's better this year. 

Fuck. Smoking always helped on the Bad Day days. 

Anyway, that's my ass in a nutshell. Like usual, I have nothing interesting to say. My cat does, though. 

Hang on, 
Ness