...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
Saturday, 24 December 2011
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
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
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
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
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
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
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
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
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
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