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
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
Sunday, 24 July 2011
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
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
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
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
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
Sunday, 10 July 2011
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
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xEKfQsegpPw
Hang on,
Ness
Sunday, 3 July 2011
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
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
Sunday, 26 June 2011
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
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
Sunday, 19 June 2011
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
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
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