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
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
Monday, 24 October 2011
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
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
Thursday, 20 October 2011
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
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
Thursday, 6 October 2011
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
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
Monday, 3 October 2011
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
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
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
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
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
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
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
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
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