Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
pardon my English.
pardon my English.
I’m in full swing of soul-crunching, heart-shattering depression.
Read: sleeping all day. Not eating. Opting for a glass of wine and a plate of cheese instead of life-sustaining nutrients.
Read: Not knowing if I hate sleeping or being awake more. They both have their disadvantages. When I sleep, I dream. Enough said.
What I’m awake, I think. Enough said. I think and stare at the computer for honestly six hours at a time. And I’m not blogging. So I’m truly just staring at the screen.
This isn’t the kind of depressed where I can just double a dose of medication and feel better. I don’t want to feel better. I don’t want to wallow either. I just want to feel:
less bored
less unloved
less unappreciated
less alone
less lonely
less uncreative
nothing is sacred in my priorities anymore. Classes? Forget ‘em. Photos? I’m terrible at taking pictures. Work? Only getting one shift a week. Kwagala? I can’t stay awake long enough to do anything. Friends? Ha! What friends? Well, that’s not entirely fair to say. I have one or two in Montreal, but only one who I can really talk to, and I feel so bad. We have known each other for about six weeks, so all she has known me as is depressedasfuck Katie. And that’s so unfair. Not that she’s making it difficult. She has watched/listened to me bawl my eyes out and always just followed up with simple, practical yet sagely wisdom. She clearly gets me on some deep, deep level. Even hearing her talk about leaving Montreal some day in the very distant future gets me nervous. As far as I’m concerned she’s irreplaceable – as a person, and certainly as a friend.
Read: sleeping all day. Not eating. Opting for a glass of wine and a plate of cheese instead of life-sustaining nutrients.
Read: Not knowing if I hate sleeping or being awake more. They both have their disadvantages. When I sleep, I dream. Enough said.
What I’m awake, I think. Enough said. I think and stare at the computer for honestly six hours at a time. And I’m not blogging. So I’m truly just staring at the screen.
This isn’t the kind of depressed where I can just double a dose of medication and feel better. I don’t want to feel better. I don’t want to wallow either. I just want to feel:
less bored
less unloved
less unappreciated
less alone
less lonely
less uncreative
nothing is sacred in my priorities anymore. Classes? Forget ‘em. Photos? I’m terrible at taking pictures. Work? Only getting one shift a week. Kwagala? I can’t stay awake long enough to do anything. Friends? Ha! What friends? Well, that’s not entirely fair to say. I have one or two in Montreal, but only one who I can really talk to, and I feel so bad. We have known each other for about six weeks, so all she has known me as is depressedasfuck Katie. And that’s so unfair. Not that she’s making it difficult. She has watched/listened to me bawl my eyes out and always just followed up with simple, practical yet sagely wisdom. She clearly gets me on some deep, deep level. Even hearing her talk about leaving Montreal some day in the very distant future gets me nervous. As far as I’m concerned she’s irreplaceable – as a person, and certainly as a friend.
Anyway, the issue with only having one friend is that it makes it difficult when she is busy, or just wants her own life. So, the friends department still feels barren. And so hard.
What else is hard you ask? Going from shocked to numb to hurt to missing. I am in mourning. And, typical me, I fight to the death and then crumble when I lose (what am I really losing at that point? I don’t know…but something). Number of times I have uttered “please take me back” (from asking enthusiastically to downtrodden to screaming my face off). And it is always the same response. I remember growing up if I wanted to go to a friend’s place and my parents said no, my friends would encourage me to keep asking. I never understood that approach – if they said no the first time, no amount of asking (to wear them down, or come up with a different bargain) was going to work. They’d just get more annoyed with me. So why don’t I do the same in my relationships? Why don’t I accept a clean break? Voila, c’est tout. I guess because now I’m stubborn. More stubborn. Unaccepting of the things I can not control.
What else is hard you ask? Going from shocked to numb to hurt to missing. I am in mourning. And, typical me, I fight to the death and then crumble when I lose (what am I really losing at that point? I don’t know…but something). Number of times I have uttered “please take me back” (from asking enthusiastically to downtrodden to screaming my face off). And it is always the same response. I remember growing up if I wanted to go to a friend’s place and my parents said no, my friends would encourage me to keep asking. I never understood that approach – if they said no the first time, no amount of asking (to wear them down, or come up with a different bargain) was going to work. They’d just get more annoyed with me. So why don’t I do the same in my relationships? Why don’t I accept a clean break? Voila, c’est tout. I guess because now I’m stubborn. More stubborn. Unaccepting of the things I can not control.
Maybe it’s the idea that people find such fundamental flaws in me and it absolutely *kills* when they simply say they can’t handle it. Of course rejection hurts. It’s scathing. But it’s a theme now. It’s a pattern. For the forty-five minutes I bothered going to class yesterday I stared at the teacher; afraid that if I looked peripherally I would see people in the room, and it would remind me that I am in fact, entirely alone. I tried to focus on myself, my education. It didn’t work. I came home and lay in bed.
My last three relationships have ended with the citing of my mental issues. Mental problems. Mental incapacities. Someone has actually said “well you said you were once diagnosed with borderline personality so…” to me. I WAS THIRTEEN! DIFFERENT DECADE! DIFFERENT FREAKIN CENTURY! (almost).
Someone has said “I can’t take how much you sleep. You never want to go out”.
Someone has said “You’re too hot and then too cold.”
Someone has said “You have abandonment issues.”
My stepmum says someone will love me for- and regardless of- these things. I’m not so certain. Look, I know I’m “only 24”. I recognize that. But, bear this in mind: All around me I see success and failure and age doesn’t play into it. Age is a number. Attitude is everything. And as far as I’m concerned, this is the oldest I’ve ever been, and I don’t know how things change after. I have more in common with someone in their 30s than someone in their teens. Not to mention, every single thing that has happened in my life has stitched itself into my heartmindsoulbody. No spaces because there are no spaces in my head when I think of it. It looks like this:
Betrayal.abandonment.disloyalty.faithlessness.death.drugabuse.alcoholism.divorce.separation.familyissues.depression.anxiety.phobia.death.death.death.abuse.breakups.denial.lies.cheating.failure.stress.breakdowns.letdowns.unplannedpregnancies.mentalinstitutions.jealousy.pain.drugs.suicide.abandonment.abandonment.abandonment.
it’s all still in there and I don’t let go of it. I grow away from it, but I revisit it frequently and too easily. So take those experiences (or if that is my life, than take that experience) and bundle it altogether and of course I’ve lived. I’ve lived and experienced more than anyone, even if that experiences is blindingly dark.
It’s not that I want to change it even if I could. My pain is my only channel for empathy. Happy people don’t empathize with happy people and events. No. I feel others’ pain. I still would take their pain and bring it on myself because I’m certain I can handle it. That’s not my problem. I can handle this. But the way I handle it is my very own. And if it means sitting cross-legged on the floor screaming into my arms, crying my eyes out and pounding the hardwood floor and hitting my face with my hands until I collapse into exhaustion…well then I guess so be it? I don’t know what else my options are. I don’t want to hurt. This isn’t masochistic. I want love and in love. Breathlessness from ecstatic encounters. Something will change soon right? I won’t always think about everything I’ve lost and miss it and need it? I won’t keep taking sleeping pills just so I can ensure I fall asleep?
it’s all still in there and I don’t let go of it. I grow away from it, but I revisit it frequently and too easily. So take those experiences (or if that is my life, than take that experience) and bundle it altogether and of course I’ve lived. I’ve lived and experienced more than anyone, even if that experiences is blindingly dark.
It’s not that I want to change it even if I could. My pain is my only channel for empathy. Happy people don’t empathize with happy people and events. No. I feel others’ pain. I still would take their pain and bring it on myself because I’m certain I can handle it. That’s not my problem. I can handle this. But the way I handle it is my very own. And if it means sitting cross-legged on the floor screaming into my arms, crying my eyes out and pounding the hardwood floor and hitting my face with my hands until I collapse into exhaustion…well then I guess so be it? I don’t know what else my options are. I don’t want to hurt. This isn’t masochistic. I want love and in love. Breathlessness from ecstatic encounters. Something will change soon right? I won’t always think about everything I’ve lost and miss it and need it? I won’t keep taking sleeping pills just so I can ensure I fall asleep?
God…change is romanticized. Let me tell you. A new city, a new life, new friends, new circles, new people, new languages, new province, new challenges…before they’re exciting, they suck. You need the self-regard of a pharaoh to make it.
owww. My heart hurts. Make me feel better.
owww. My heart hurts. Make me feel better.
I miss:
Scrabble.wine.theshowercurtain.thebalcony.theoffice.thesun.heroes.polaroids.adventures.dinners.theduvet.thepillows.thealarmclock.thewardrobe.theredtoolbox.thefuton.thewhitesidetable.thesaranwrapdrawer.ouryellowwalls.yourbikes.yourart.ourtodolist.yoursmell.yourradioshow.yourjeans.you.you.you.us.us.us.
I’m going to vomit. i think. What the hell do I do?
“take me back?”
“my decision is final.”
I know. I knew that. Why the fuck did I bring it up? FUCK
“take me back?”
“my decision is final.”
I know. I knew that. Why the fuck did I bring it up? FUCK
“He can’t rescue you; can’t pull the demons from your head. Can’t lull you from your sleepy bed. He can’t rescue you”
A year ago I was arriving for the birthday into a new city, checking out the university of my dreams. Now I’m alone, broken. Which means today is his birthday. Even if you read this and we have our differences, the simple humanness in you would see the pain this conjures.
I leave this open-ended. I simply wish…
xox
k.
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