I Think I'm Dead

Considering the way my life's been going lately, is this even really a surprise? I feel like I'm on one of those prank shows, where a person's friends or family or whatever plays this really bad joke on them that's more sort of bullying, really. I feel like that, only instead of the prank being pulled by everyone I love, it's by Life. Destiny. Fate. Misery. Torment. All my favorite depression-inducing factors that seem to really enjoy making my every day life living hell. Why can't they just say hi and go--away? I want to be done with life! I want to done being a pawn in the metaphorical game of chess aka life.

 

I wish there was something else I could say, like something that hasn't been said in the past five posts already. But what more is there to say, really? What more can I say that hasn't been said? Oh God, I hate, hate, hate, HATE myself.

 

And now I'd better finish off this blog post before it becomes some fricking suicide letter. Hopefully there'll be another one after this, but who knows? And of course the tears fall, and everything is dark. Gets black and blacker until I'm swimming in a lake, drowning, really, midnight black...I'm drowning in a lake at midnight where no one will find me and I can't even find myself anymore.

 

Could my life get any more fucked up? I think not.

Shadows

 

"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."

--Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Seems like the darkness controlling the corners of my mind grows quicker and more deadly every time it decides to bless me with its presence. I can feel it's dramatic--albeit unwelcome--entrance every time I shut my eyes. I can't give in, I can't give in, I can't give in, I tell myself, like I can really decide that.

The shadows, like those devastating windstorms during the Dust Bowl period, ravage my soul, eating it from the inside out, until I can't feel anything. All I am is numb; not hearing, seeing, or feeling anything. Just a motionless rag doll tossed aside when declared useless.

Sitting in the semi-darkness of the living room, this is my most vulnerable time, when I am most susceptible to the destruction my demon's shadows cause. Whenever I think about my younger self, so oblivious and innocent and immune to sadness and illness and self-deprecation, it takes all of my willpower not to just fall back and let the darkness consume me.

Because once you know the general way the world works, you can't ever go back. You can't ever forget about that unlucky walk-in on those horny teenagers 'doing' it in the janitor's closet. You can't forget when your best friend cut herself and begged you not to tell a soul. And you certainly can't forget when all you have at the end of the day is an aching, endless loneliness that is sickness; it refuses to go away yet is always there, though benign sometimes.

I come home, hands clutching my hair like I want to rip it all out and toss it down the trash. To rid myself of all the imperfections, even if it means damaging what little left of my soul I have left. Because 97.9% of human beings value beauty over brains and bravery and kindness. They think being supermodel skinny, shiny, perpetually good-looking hair and equally flawless skin is the key to happiness. It's not.

And this is hubris, the fatal flaw of many people: we believe we can achieve anything, not just gorgeous looks. It's sort of the way I get sometimes when I've been off my medication and am going through that "Wheeee!" hyper/manic stage. It doesn't come as often as my depressive one does, although I like being cynical and sad and moody a lot more than manic and uncontrollable.

But during both periods I get that same feeling: I'm not driving the car that is metaphorically my life, my body, my nerve systems and mind. It's my evil twin, the one who likes to come in and throw stuff against the walls and take a hammer to my collection of mementos, the only connections I still carry with me as a way of being able to recall my past.

Because it seems, at least lately, that going back into my past would be the best thing I could ever ask for. When life was simple and I didn't have to make decisions that could make or break my character and who I was--and am--as a person. The past is so perfect, because you know everything you did wrong and now you have a chance to go back and fix it.

To go back and apologize to that girl who was being bullied by a douchebag and who you never bothered to save by stepping in and telling the boy to get the hell away. Or perhaps not picking up that piece of trash at the entrance to your town park. Little things like that.

They seem nondescript, but I bet if you could go back in your life and change every stupid little mistake you'd ever made, you not only would be a better person, you'd also be a happier person.

That said, it seems I've failed to get a time machine and fly back to my "tween" years. Nope. I'm stuck in 2013, the worst year of my life by far.

Oh, well. No one ever said life was fair. But it should be, and that's the ultimate truth.

The Differences Between Me...and Everyone Else

"There are people who are generic. They make generic responses and they expect generic answers. They live inside a box and they think people who don't fit into their box are weird. But I'll tell you what, generic people are the weird people. They are like genetically-mutilated plants growing inside a laboratory, like indistinguishable faces, like droids. Like ignorance."

-C. Joybell C.

 

 

True story.



Society.

Just another word for "fairness within America," which ultimately = LIES. Sugar-coating. Trying to pass something that is so clearly unfair as something that is "for the good of community."

To the government I say, you are all liars. Crooked politicians, is this what really defines America as "the greatest country?" Because this is all a bunch of bullshit (pardon my French), isn't it? Is there really any validation for our actions? Anything to justify the Bush Administration's shady and questionable actions regarding the War on Terror?  The government's continuous coverups of their horrifying acts that are, of course, kept invisible from the US's citizens?

I am in a cynical mood, but this is my view on America any day, even if I'm feeling like sunshine (which doesn't happen very often--go figure!) or I feel like curling up under a billion blankets and sleeping till I can no longer keep my eyes shut (this is how I feel most of the time). I think being on a debate team would be the best development for my strong and unwavering opinions, since my voiced objections usually fall silent on the so-called 'deaf' ears of my classmates. It's not their fault, I suppose; I CAN be very passionate when trying to make my point. But still.

Is that any excuse for ignoring a person's view on politics? I really don't think anyone could ever argue against the fact that politics in America are crooked. Dishonest. Thinly disguised promises later becoming lies; shady dealings during elections; sneaky people trying to sway the population's vote or fumble with the numbers to change the final outcome.

Although, in the scheme of things, I suppose nothing I say actually counts for anything--I can't vote, am still in school (not even in college, so there you go), lack opinions that anyone cares about or at least listens to...

So really, all this really comes down to is a place to complain. To whine about the unfairness of society (oh, you think this is bad? You haven't seen anything, my friend) and lament what a wonderful place the world would be if there were no politicians, and instead Santa Claus ran the government or was the president.

That'd be a dream come true. Presents for the world whenever a new law was passed; yearly visits to all states in the US via upgraded reindeer-led sleigh; a peacefulness that could only be broken by the uprising of everyone's favorite gift-giver.

Hmm. Somehow I really don't think this would go down too well. But it would be funny. Although sometimes it does makes me wonder whether America would be in better hands should we be ruled by Old Saint Nick.

And now that I've gone on one of my infamous psychopath rants, I have but one thing left to say:

The best way for an American citizen to live their life is to do everything, always watch your back, cry into a pillow if you need to, and crack a really bad joke if the time calls for it.

But mostly, do not put all your trust in the ones who rule you. Because the ones who do don't always have your best interests in mind. It's depressing, but it's the way of society.

Pfft. Society. Besides government, the other thing never to trust is the use of that word.

The Worst Way to Start Your Day

A history teacher lecturing you. On the War on Terror. On bin Laden plotting against the US. Of all sorts of lovely things, things that in reality, really screw up my day. It's school, yes, I can get through it. But for a kid with Bipolar, it was an unwelcome event.

So the idea of going to my internship and talking to rude and bratty kids is not all that appealing. Kids are great! When, that is, they are not in a 20-mile radius of me and I'm not being forced to talk to them or interact with them or, God forbid, listen to them! Arrggghh! They drive me up the wall...the metaphorical, about to strangle myself wall.

And yet my day is still going...I'm going to be here until 3 PM--the joy. But it's okay, 'cause catch-up time is an ASAP item on my 'To Do' list, one that's been overlooked for far too long. Everyone I know says, "Summer school? That sucks. Glad I'm not you!"

Now. My question: what is that statement meant to be? A sympathetic string of words to make me feel better? A comparison of their 'great' life compared to mine? Or, perhaps, something that sounds like sympathy but is really sugarcoated and in reality just means, "Ha ha, boy am I glad I'm not having to be in your situation!"

But even if it is, it's okay. It sort of has to be. I can't change my life--at least, not at this very minute, very second) so I might as well adjust myself and get it over with.

So, in order to convince myself that I'm actually on a cruise in the middle of the Bahamas, far away from pestering teachers and homework, and early morning wakeups, I have to find Zen. Pfft. 'Zen' is not something that exists in my life. Why? Well, because in my fabulous life, there is nothing calming or the least bit relaxing on a daily basis.

Okay, I'm sounding like an absolute babbling idiot, especially since I'm just talking. No purpose. No sole direction or solid train of thought. Just words.

But I guess my point here is: I wish I was in my bed; I wish I was curled up on a sofa, eyes boring into the TV screen while me and my family watch Season 4 of Castle. But that's not how it is, so I suck it up and deal. Maybe I can take a nap when  I get home. Maybe not. But hopefully, maybe, I just might be able to sit in a comfy chair for 5 consecutive minutes.

Well. I can hope.

That Joke That Just Isn't Funny

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."

-Robert Frost

UGH, how awkward! Even the word awkward is awkward! My sister came home today, and will probably only BE home for under five days, and within the first half an hour, I made a huge blunder.

Well, perhaps should I explain. My Aspy brain takes everything and dramatizes it about 100,000,000 kilowatts, so this probably wasn't really a huge blunder, but...it was a joke; unfortunately one of those jokes that was sort of like inside to the insider who the joke was supposed to be on. 

And trust me, nothing is ever funny when you find that uncomfortable silence when someone's either trying to figure out the joke, or trying to know whether to label you as 'crazy,' 'slightly off-balance,' or just as someone with a really bad sense of humor.

So my 'joke' was that here was my sister, coming back from a summer college-like camp, and how was I too identify her as being my own flesh and blood? I hardly even noticed her!

To try to discern whether I had an alien impostor or not, I got out a piece of white printer paper, and wrote something along the lines of:

 

Welcome to the Doolittle Family Bathrooms, Inc.

No one other than Katie may operate the uses of this bathroom until you answer this question:

(In complete sentences, please!)

Oops! Your tongue is now a magnet! However will you eat without silverware?

QUESTION: What would you do in this hypothetical situation?

Please write your answer to this question on the back of this sheet with a freshly-sharpened #2 Ticonderoga pencil, and, when done, hand it to Missus Katie for approval.

 

And taped it to my bathroom door, the one I share with my sister if and when she's home for break.

 

Ha! Talk about not being well-received! Granted, it wasn't like insulting to her, or anything, but I was undeniably mortified when it just sort of fell flat...and didn't get picked back up. So, being the person I am, I just squared my shoulders and moved on.

 

Oh, well. Not the end of the world. I hope.

 

 

 

 

 



Everything I Want, I Imagine

"Everything you can imagine is real."-Pablo Picasso

 

 

Honestly, when everything else in your life is spinning down the metaphorical drain, I, personally, shut my eyes and whisk myself back off to my favorite made-up place: Rivera, Dreamland, the town in which I honestly believe myself to have been born in.

 

Sounding like a raving lunatic in this post isn't all that concerning to me. Indeed, any thoughts a reader may or may not have reading this post is not going to shake me up. I've been down that garden path quite a few times, and let me tell you, I'm in absolutely no mood to go back.

 

But when I've had a rotten day, I go home, scream into my pillow, and then daydream. Having my head in the clouds 24/7 isn't exactly a new development, believe it or not. I imagine myself in a colorful alternate universe, a paradise. One where everything you see is everything you don't see, and where everything you don't see is everything you do see.

 

In my life, my miserable, cloudy-at-best life, Rivera's the place I go to escape reality. People's skin shimmers and changes color in the 'round-the-clock sunshine, some bearing wings or perhaps a King Tut beard; but all going about their business, a miraculous community where everyone is different and unique and not one person is ever singled out for ridicule. Where individuality is treasured as human ingenuity, and imagination rules over wisdom.

 

Where no one's brain is considered to be 'stupid,' or does not have a good 'IQ' to be considered intelligent. Everyone is who they are, and everyone else in Rivera is okay with that. And it's in Dreamland where I feel most at home. People are so accepting...and yes, this is inevitably because it's not the actual world, but it's refreshing losing yourself in a universe where everyone's differences only make the population closer.

 

In Rivera, I dream about everything I've ever wanted: becoming a movie star, being a millionaire, having Zac Efron as my boyfriend (fifth grade), yadda, yadda, yadda

 

But these dreams give way to other things, more compassionate wishes; dreams with a purpose. My desire to once be a movie star gives way to being a cancer doctor, writing Young Adult novels on the side (because the life of a cancer doctor is no picnic, I know this firsthand). And where I'd once wanted to be a millionaire, I now want to be a person who WAS a millionaire but who gave all their money away except just enough to get them through life, to gift the general population's unlucky percentage of homeless, or orphanage-d, or other victimized people a chance at a new life. A new slate. Because some people just need that clean sheet of paper to start living their life again...and I can't say that I disagree with it, let alone haven't experienced that feeling.

 

And...as for my horrid Zac Efron obsession phase, I find myself looking back on it, and saying, what in the world was I thinking?! Boys are a**holes; obnoxious, inappropriate, loud male specimens that make a woman's life a living hell.

 

Side Note: I apologize to any male readers I may or may not have, this might not apply to you, depending on the type of guy you are.

 

And in Rivera, Dreamland, I'm a different person. One that, yeah, screws up a whole lot, but doesn't have any scars to show the world how much life and other human beings have destroyed their faith in the world. In this universe, I'm just one in the same. Everyone's been down that road, yet no one wants to revisit it, so we're all just a happy bunch of Crazies who don't really belong anywhere but in reality belong everywhere.

 

So when life pisses me off, I disappear into my birthplace, letting myself have everything I've ever wanted, even just for an hour...so that, when I float back to reality, I have something to hold onto; just something to tide me over until my next visit to Rivera.

 

My advice? When life kicks you in the shin, go to Dreamland. Dare to dream, to make things up--IMAGINE! Many people don't realize it, but that's a main purpose of living, isn't it? To imagine, to think of things that don't exist?

 

Because when all else fails, even just making yourself believe that the bitch who'd ordered the rest of the Pompom Squad to spray paint your car got swallowed up in a sinkhole eliminates the pain, the anger, of reality. So really, I invite you to join me. You won't regret it.

A Post in Pictures

To display my affinity for anything cute:

OMG, fluffiness! Fluffy things are TOO cute! <3

Okay, how can you NOT think this is the cutest thing ever?

My Inner Demon

"I'm selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."-Marilyn Monroe

How many times I've been asked, "What's wrong? Are you okay? How've you been doing?"

Funny, though, they ask, but are they really, truly asking? Or do they just want to make conversation and feel that they have to 'check in' first? There are many ways I could respond to this, though:

"My life sucks, thanks for asking."

Or maybe, "What do you mean, 'are you okay?' I'M NOT OKAY! I get criticized on every little thing I do, every single minute of every single day, and do you even know what's going on inside my head? Do you know?! NO! You don't! People try and understand me, but they don't, and they never will."

But what I end up saying: "I'm great. How're you?" Mainly because people don't really give a damn how you're feeling; what's going on in your life. Oh, maybe your parents do, don't get me wrong, but who else? Therapists, maybe, unless yours feeds you all that bullshit about how "you'll be fine," and how "embracing change" makes everything easier.

Tell me something, though...I don't know if you've ever felt the way I've felt, but if you have, did you ever just want to punch someone's face out when they asked you something like that? Or did you just swallow up the blunt words and say you were fine like I do?

I think the problem in today's society is not the amount of people who get depressed, or who get stressed-out, but the amount of people who don't care; who don't even try to understand. It's like the population who has my sort of issues are freaks and are to be avoided because God forbid we get emotional sometimes.

I spend every single minute of my life trying to silence the demon lying luxuriously in my mind, feeding me insults and whispering things to try to kill my happiness. Boy I try, but I just can never completely ignore it.

"You're so unloved," it rasps, the words echoing, reverberating in my skull, slowly, brick by brick (or cell by cell, I suppose, since I'm talking about my body) desecrating my strength to keep my head up and stay in the present; to not get slugged down my past. But yet it haunts me, everything stupid I've ever done: taking on that idiotic fifth-grade dare, just to get bitchy girls to like me; lying about my family and our 'stature in society' just to impress a girl who was the Queen of the School (so frickin' stereotypical!); and getting blind-sided by the one person I thought would always be by my side.

So, yes, in a way I DID feel the Monster was right. Being loved is something I've always struggled with in my life, since most times I've attempted trying to get everyone to like me it usually ends with me getting metaphorically burned. Like, hmm, the time I did that 'favor' for my so-called best friend and she humiliated me in front of the whole school (long story). Needless to say, not only did I fail in getting my 'friend' to respect me, I lost every single good thing in that school as well.

Walking down halls, hearing, "Look at her! She's such a slut...can you believe she did that? That poor, poor boy!" it sort of got to me. I did the ole college try on my parents: "Mom, I feel really sick. Can I stay home?" My mom's response (she's too smart; she could always see right through it): "Have you been vomiting? Coughing up a lung? Perhaps sneezing?"

Of course, my answer would always be, "Um...no." So I'd get dressed, sling my backpack over my shoulder and toughen up enough to get through the day. But in classes, working on a report for a book in English class or doing a complex division problem, my inner demon would say, "Trying to ignore what's staring you in the face, are you? Can't you see the gazes of everyone who knows your secret? You can't escape what's right in front of you!"

Gritting my teeth, I'd tell it to shut up, to take a nap and wake up again when I was home, cuddled safely in the arms of my mother. Where I could deal with it; make it no so bad, not so hard to ignore.

Eventually, though, I was exhausted. There's only so much devestating comments one's brain can take before the skull cracks (metaphorically, of course; thus far I've been lucky enough to avoid stitches) and they collapse from the weight of depression. My mother, besides knowing when I was giving her crap, also knew when I was really struggling emotionally. It was at that period in my life when I had my first admittance to the hospital.

Now in case you thought it was, being admitted to a mental hospital is no great, admirable feat. No, it's more like a brand on your forehead: "This girl is insane and mentally unstable, so she's staying here until she can be released back into the general population!"

And I hated it. I hated that feeling of being a 'freak,' someone who couldn't possibly blend in with the 'Normals,' who just had issues.

Why was I so different? I yelled into my pillow each night, honestly wishing I could get an answer in return. Anything!

Didn't 'normal people' get mad, too? Have a good cry? Hug people who love them, people who cared about their well-being? And yet, these types of people weren't at all like me.

Well, maybe I was a bit extreme, more than most. Maybe I WAS unstable sometimes. But did that really make me so out of the ordinary? You can't honestly tell me life doesn't suck sometimes, 'cause it does, majorly.

Since that horrid period in my life, I've had two more. I sure as hell don't want more, but I sure as hell can't promise myself that, either. So instead, I get through each day, trying to act 'normal.' Luckily, at my school, I don't have that issue. No one is truly, 100% sane, but that's perfectly okay to me. I like seeing others who aren't picture-perfect; who have insecurities; who make mistakes and screw up horribly sometimes.

And, well...people who, for the most part, are like me.

And maybe, even, have their own inner demons.