3.83

Cum Laude

I worked so hard, and it wasn't enough.

I know that I suck at most things, but I thought school was different. It made me feel good.

But now, I realize that I suck at everything.

I know, cum laude isn't something to scoff at, but I feel like my identity was all wrapped up in my grades, and I failed.

I had been accidentally mixing up magna and summa, and so, I'd been talking about being summa cum laude this whole time (really meaning magna), but I'm not either. I just suck. I'm embarrassed and disappointed and feeling quite panicky. I don't deserve to graduate. I don't deserve this degree I made up for myself. I don't deserve any honors. I don't want to walk. I don't want my family to come see what I failure I am. I just want to stay in bed all day.

I know, I'm dramatic. Maybe that's what I'm best at. Is it possible for your faults to be your best qualities--best meaning what you're best at. There we go. I do excel at something: being a shitty person in all respects. Yay!

I have no future lined up. I don't want one. I can't stand another day of being absolutely worthless.

Ramblings

I haven't written anything in a while, because I have felt pretty empty. I didn't want to give up the few thoughts in my mind for fear of being entirely empty and hollowed out. But I realized that's it's best to put it somewhere if I'm not going to talk about it anymore. And why not talk? Because it is the same stupid thing over and over again. Nobody wants to hear that after 2 years of counseling, being surrounded by great friends and a solid church, having stellar grades, traveling more than a lot of people do in a lifetime, and being generally liked, I still feel empty.

I still feel totally incapable. I try to use my crystal ball mind and see where I want to be someday, and I see blackness. I see nothingness. I see disappointed people who expected much more from me. I appreciate that everyone believes in me, I do. It should give me even an ounce of confidence in myself, but it only makes me sick about disappointing those people. I am just so tired of being a disappointment. Not good enough. Not talented enough. Not selfless or strong or smart or ambitious enough. I don't know who these people think I am. I am not anybody. I just exist, that's all. And someday they will figure out that somehow I was wrapped in a facade. I am nobody, truly.

I don't feel much anymore. I feel the weight of my exhaustion, and I feel joy at moments with my friends. But mostly, I feel dead inside. My spring break was the first life I have felt in myself for ages, but it doesn't help any. I just go back to that dead place once the excitement and energy is gone. I can't live on vacation; I have to live in reality, where I die every morning. And dammit, I don't know why I am dead. Like I said before, I have no reason to feel this way. I used to, but I have healed. So, what is this self-hatred about now? I just keep thinking I could sleep forever. I can't think straight, not about school or about what to do after.

I flip between the suicide blog and Facebook, and both make me feel just as alone. You would think a blog full of depressed, suicidal people would come with some level of support, but no, it's just a bunch of bitching adults like me who can't figure out how to do life correctly. I would add to the madness, but no one ever reads what I write. No one cares about my fears and insecurities. And why would they? At least, when I post cutesy things on Facebook, no matter how fake the feeling behind them is, I get likes. I feel less invisible. I feel approved.

I don't know what I'm even saying. I used to write so eloquently, but that was when my brain worked. Now, I can't form coherent thoughts. I just know there's something gnawing at me, and if I keep writing, maybe I'll figure it out. It's probably my hopeless future. I am supposed to be somebody. All of these people invested in me so that I could be someone and something special. But I am such a fake. I have no ideas. I have no drive. I just want to sleep. I see nothing after school. I feel like I have to kill myself after that. I can't defer the inevitable, because then they'll know that I was never really meant for anything special and that they wasted so much on me. I have to do it before they figure out what I really am. But I don't really want to die. I just want to sleep and dream beautiful dreams and feel alive and rested and joyful. But that isn't an option. There's only one of those. And it sucks.

I Want to Kill Everything but Myself

I read an article today in my search for a reason to live (I am particularly low today) that made me think a bit differently. Do I really want to die? Like actually, do I want to be dead, gone, buried, no longer breathing, thinking, experiencing, existing? No. No no no no no. I don't want to be dead. Not really. There are a lot of things that I want to end but not my life. I just want to kill the things that stop me from living fully, the things that I feel that I cannot overcome.

Things I want to kill instead of myself:

1. My pain. That gnawing, aching, throbbing, stabbing pain in my heart from the past, present, and future that I can't seem to alleviate in any healthy way. I want to forgive those who have deeply hurt me and move on. I want to know how to soothe myself when it creeps up and tries to envelop me. I want to forgive myself for being in pain when I feel like I should be fine.

2. My self-hatred. I just want to look at myself and feel at peace. I can't stand another day of tearing myself down about every little thing that is wrong with me or every little mistake I make. I want to be able to forgive myself for not being perfect, for messing up in relationships, for saying the wrong thing, for having moments of anger and unkindness, for thinking terrible things, for ignoring injustice, for being knowingly sinful. I want to be kind to myself even though I am not skinny or beautiful or fashionable. I want to be ok with not being loved by everyone, whether it's a guy, a family member, a friend, or just anyone from whom I desperately seek approval.

3. My fear. I want to feel confident, like I have value and talent and options for the future. I want to stop being hindered by this perception that I cannot overcome obstacles even though, in reality, I have overcome so much in my life. Can I just stop being afraid of what people think or will think of me? Or of failure? Or even of the pressures that come with success? I am so afraid to just LIVE. I just want to live intelligently, of course, but without hindrance. Life is too freaking short (especially for the chronically suicidal) to be afraid of everything.

4. My selfishness. That huge piece of myself that can only seem to focus on myself. If I could just look past my struggles, my pain, and my fear, I could do so much to help those in need. And my heart aches for those in need. I want to kill that part of myself that refuses to see and do something about the pain of others.

5. My memories. I am so set back at times, because I can't let go of the past. Memories can be wonderful and helpful and beautiful but not always. Some of them are painful and shameful and terrifying, and reliving them stunts growth. I want not to forget but to get past them.

6. The lies. There is this evil, malicious voice in my head that keeps telling me terrible things about myself, about others, and about the world. I am so over listening to that bastard. I just want to hear truth in my mind instead of the slander. The lies tell me that my only option is to die, that I am worthless, revolting, and meaningless. I know, intellectually, that they are lies, but I need to know it much deeper, in my spirit. I am trying, but I need help with that. I need truth.

Now, how do I do this? I just need help, that's all.

Depressed.

I am legitimately depressed. I always am, but this isn't the same.

I don't mean my normal low-grade depression or the consistent suicidal thoughts. This isn't the depression I've learned to live with. This is something different.

I feel absolutely empty, like I've been drained of color, deflated like a Patriot's football, vacuum-sealed with no air left to breathe. Everything feels heavy. I move more slowly than usual. Nothing sparks pleasure--not music or food or television or friends. Honestly, the only reason I continue to do schoolwork is that I'm so damn bored, but I couldn't care less about my grades anymore. Actually, all I've done since I got back to GC is schoolwork, and I am already well ahead of the game. This should make me happy. But nothing does. I don't even sleep well anymore; it only gives me a headache.

I don't even want to die necessarily. I just want it to stop. This shitty nothingness, the negative thoughts that numb me to anything good. I can't stand it. I keep thinking that I will just "get over" this depression shit, because it was all made up in my head anyway, but the truth is that it's my reality, and I can't escape it. The problem is that nothing can help me. I've tried the therapy thing, and it helps with the trauma I've been through, but it does nothing for the worthlessness, the hopelessness, or the emptiness. I still have no purpose or meaning. I am still totally unnecessary and unbearably exhausted. And I can't even sleep. Is this an actual nightmare?

And I can't get medication, because I can't tell my parents or consequently, my doctors. I can't tell my church family. They suck as a support system in the way that I need right now, but dammit, they are some of the few people who have never left me. I can't forfeit that, because who the fuck would I be all alone? I wouldn't survive for a second, because this darkness in my mind makes me virtually useless to life. Unfortunately, this just means my mom thinks I'm lazy and don't want a job and that I'm avoiding deciding about the future, because I don't want to be tied down to being an adult. And for a while, that was kind of my mantra about why being an adult sucked--you don't have time for real "living." But I'll give you another truth free of charge: I desperately want to be an adult and do adult things, but I know that I know that I know that I am utterly incapable of anything that matters.

Maybe that's just jackass depression talking again, but I have no evidence to the contrary. And frankly, I am tired of believing in myself one second only to fail horribly the next. I think it's safe to say that I've proven myself unworthy on too many occasions to count and that means I should just give up. I'm making a damn fool of myself. Why is it so hard to die around here? How have I not made someone angry enough to kill me yet? Oh damn, I bet if Nate were still alive, I could have swung that. But alas, he died before he could kill me. That bastard! And gosh, killing yourself has so many strings attached...too messy, too hurtful to loved ones, too complicated to plan and execute (punny, eh?).

I'm sorry that I'm making light of something so serious, but I guess humor makes it seem like I'm kidding when I talk about it. I think that's my basic problem in counseling. I just make a joke of everything, so she just doesn't grasp how dark I am or how much help I still need. But what can anyone really do? I have to solve this, but I am so tired and ill-equipped. I don't see this ever ending. So tonight, I will wrap myself in my darkness again and try to sleep well, because in the morning, I know it will be another day of seeing the light and having no way to reach it, like Tantalus I will try and try to get what I can never have as punishment for existing. And that is exhausting.

Wanted

My roommate, and probably one of the closest friends I've ever had (I have other equally close friends, if you are reading and feel slighted), transferred out of our school. What made our relationship so strong was a mutual struggle and promise to do this life thing together no matter what. I put a lot of hope in having someone to lean on who also understood my experience. I have other friends I surely can lean on but none that understand it like she does. That doesn't make this friendship 'better', but it made me stronger. And I had been doing immensely better just having that person who says 'me too'.

Now, she's gone, and we hardly ever talk. Partly because I don't pursue it. I am still grieving, in a sense, a loss. It hurts to open up the wound when I would rather forget I was ever hurt. She doesn't reach out either. I don't know why. Maybe for the same reasons. Maybe she wants to give me space, because she knows she hurt me. Or maybe, and this one is what really gnaws at me, she didn't need me in her life like I needed her. And she is off making new friends and having a ball, because our friendship wasn't real. Because she didn't want me.

I know her. I do. And that means I realize she would never purposefully hurt me or pretend to care. But I also have experience that rises to the surface when similar events reoccur...like losing a friend.

When Amy and the rest of that group decided I was not one of them anymore (to be fair, I was being a bit of a jackass...but I was also having a slight mental breakdown from carrying the weight of abuse, loss, depression, self-harm, and an eating disorder), it broke something so deep inside of me that I can't find it, or consequently, fix it. I am destroyed by guilt from my inability to function as the compassionate, kind person that I know myself to be. And I am equally broken in realizing that, as Amy so angrily put it, they only ever saw me as 'an acquaintance' when I saw them as 'best friends.' They weren't invested like I was. It didn't hurt them much to give up on me, to discard me. They, after all, still had each other, the people they truly cared about. And me? If they had really invested in me or cared, they would have given me a second chance. That is what love often means. But they didn't. They didn't want me.

The same happened with Nick, my first and only boyfriend. I loved him. I realized the other day that, after the breakup, I tried to pretend that my feelings were also fake. That I just enjoyed being in a relationship, but I didn't really care about him, like he never really cared about me. But I did. I loved him. And now, as the anger and hurt fades daily, I see him and realize that I loved him and something inside me still does. He may have been pretending, but that person he pretended to be was meant for me to love. But again, he wasn't invested like I was, and so, he discarded me. He didn't have to hurt, because he didn't care. He didn't want me.

My brother, at least, never pretended. He was pretty straight forward about how he felt about me from the very beginning. And through the abuse--physical, emotional, mental, (and sexual, but my subconscious is nice enough to let me forget it)--he showed that he didn't want me. My own brother, my own family didn't want me. My other brother never abused me, but he shows me time and time again that his wanting me comes with conditions. He doesn't want me, not the real me, either.

My best friend my first year at GC was the same. I invested so much in our relationship that I saw only to her needs and ignored all my other friends. I just wanted someone to want me in their life. Even better, to need me like I needed them. And then she transferred, and we would talk occasionally but only about her. And when Nick and broke up and I needed her, she shattered me with indifference to my pain. Me, the person who invested so much in her. She didn't care. She never cared. She wanted the undivided attention I gave. She never wanted me.

The same kind of thing happened with Mandie. She was fine when I was doing everything I could think of to be a good friend to her, but the minute I do something that hurts her, without realizing I was actually hurting her, she doesn't want me in her life. Honestly, this is a win-win, because I realize that she wasn't ever all that invested. But it does make me wonder. What exactly was my place in her life if it's so easy to get rid of me? If she had no desire to fight for our friendship? It didn't mean anything to her. I fight for what means something to me. She didn't want me.

And I could go on and talk about my mommy and daddy issues or my issues with my church family, but you get the point. I am debilitated by the idea (and it might just be an idea, not a reality, I know) that I am not wanted. So, in every relationship I try to have, I tend to ruin it, because I can't believe that I am wanted. That I am enough. And so, when Rachel transferred this semester, I felt that familiar sense that I belonged nowhere and to no one. That throughout my life, no matter what I do, everyone else will have someone who wants them, and I will go home alone.

And I realize that this is taking for granted the people who have been there, always, no matter what I've done. But this fear, it tells me that even they will grow up and have families and move on from me. They tell me this is just how life goes, and that's true. People go in and out of our lives all the time. But most people have some consistency, whether it's a family member or a spouse or a child or whatever. I am afraid that I will never have that. That no man would ever want me. That my family has never wanted me, at least not the imperfect version of me. That even if I had a miracle and could have children, that they would deserve better. That my friends will all eventually reveal that they too never truly invested. That they too never wanted me.

So, I do the same thing with God. I fear that He doesn't want me, that He never did and never will no matter how hard I try to be enough for Him. I just want to be wanted, not for what I can do for someone or what I offer but just because I am me. Is that selfish? I am sure, if it is coming from my mouth or my mind, it must be selfish. But I need proof from somewhere that if I died today, people wouldn't be upset, because death makes them fear for themselves or their loved ones. Or because death makes them uncomfortable. Or because they'll miss everything I did for them. I need to know that people would miss me. That not having me simply present would hurt them. I don't care that Rachel isn't here to drive me places or to make me cocoa or whatever else she did for me. Honestly, when it comes down to it, I don't even miss that she made me stronger. I miss her. I miss her presence, because I love her. I miss my old friends, because I loved them. I miss Nick, because I loved him. I miss God's presence, because I love Him too. Will anyone every feel that way about me?

I am sorry to always, always be so whiny on here. But it's how I can vent without being needy in real life. Because people don't want needy people.

Lost Cause

I don't exactly know what's wrong with me today. I have been doing exceptionally well lately considering how much I usually struggle. But man, this evening has included a lot of tears, a lot of full-on weeping. It could be the episode of One Tree Hill I just watched, because I do get pretty involved in their lives. But I don't know. It's something else. I think watching it just triggered something.

When I think of what it's like for me at my darkest moments, what I see is a little girl curled up on the floor, crying and afraid. That was me sometimes when I was little, and Nate and my parents were fighting. Or I had locked my bedroom door for protection, and Nate was using a screwdriver to break into it. I can hear the banging and yelling and the shaking door handle on the other side. And I can see the slits of light pouring in from the moon outside of my windows. And I can feel the rough carpeting and smell the dust that has settled under the dresser beside my head. I can feel the beating of my heart and the desperation of my breathing. But most of all, I feel the weight of life pressing on my body, and even with the inevitable danger, I want to fall asleep. It takes everything out of me, the weight does, and I have nothing left to fight with. I don't care what happens to me, just as long as I can sleep.

This is me sometimes, even though Nate is long gone. I feel that weight of life, and I don't care about what I do or what others do or anything else. I just want to sleep. I feel the weight of my future, of all the decisions that I'm forced to make even though I have the aptitude for life of a five year old. Who ever thought I could handle anything on my own was very optimistic but ultimately, very wrong indeed. I feel the weight of my past, of everything that has been done to me, of everything I have done and cannot ever forget or forgive, of everything that remains a secret in my tired brain, because who really cares about any of it? I am so sick of being needy. I am done needing. I feel the weight of everything I am not and never will be, of everything I am expected to be that I cannot live up to, of everything that others see me as even though it is far from true, and of everything I wish I was and hate myself for not being. I feel the weight of this broken, corrupt ball of planet that has no hope of improving, of all the violence and hatred and pain and sickness and death that everyone experiences every day. I feel the weight of my emptiness and such an unfounded sense of loneliness that comes from all of this unfounded pain inside of me.

This weight never lifts, and I think I deserve that much. I deserve it, but I cannot handle it much longer. I am a totally lost cause. I just wish everyone else could see it, because once my worst fear is recognized,--to end up alone and unloved--then I can sleep for real.

I try to sleep in this life, but it gets harder and harder. I struggle to fall asleep every night and am exhausted all of the time. When I do fall asleep, this war in my mind causes my sleep paralysis to get worse and worse. My mind wakes up, but I cannot move my body. It is the worst terror I have ever felt, because along with it, comes the sensation of suffocating and hallucinations. It is not a new thing in my life, but I don't know what is breaking inside of me that is making it worse. Still, I know it has something to do with all of this weight. It is stealing the one thing that lightens the load. I need to sleep again soon. I am so tired in every way. I need help, but there is none, and I am done being needy. I am a lost cause, I am afraid.

Meta-Writing

           

I want to be a writer more than anything. I want to prove to myself and maybe everyone else that the voice in my head has something worthwhile to say. Some days I think it does, at least, until I look back and read the jumbled mess that I dumped so carelessly on the page. I don’t understand how the greats weave such beauty, such intricate life out of letters built into words strung into sentences. It starts out as such silent nothing, and some people have an amazing capacity to pull a voice out of the thoughts and experiences most people discard—a process akin to the building of Frankenstein’s monster from a grim assemblage of lifeless body parts. Where did Shelley get the electricity to bring Frankenstein to life? I want that life-giving creativity; it must bring you close to God, to create life where there was emptiness and void.

How do you know if your thoughts even matter? I mean, what makes one person’s inner world so much more interesting than anyone else’s? Maybe it’s in how you tell the story. You don’t have to be interesting to begin with, but you have to know how to keep attention. You need charisma. You need to seem interesting. I have never been a good storyteller. I used to write short stories as a kid in elementary school, but I would get bored with the plot long before anyone else got the chance to fall asleep to my words.

But damn it, I want to write. That emptiness and void engulfs me, and all I want is to fill it so tight with new life that it has no room to swallow me anymore. When I feel so alone that my heart is tired of beating, I want to be surrounded by these people I’ve created. And I will know that they see every part of me as I do them, and there is no love lost between us; there is no fear, because we know each other.

Like when I read a book or watch a movie or a series on television, I involve myself in the lives of the characters. Sometimes, I think it can be unhealthy, because I use it to escape figuring out my own life. Why would I if I can live through them? Other times, healthy or not, it gives me hope. Their stories, though often unrealistic and unbelievable, make me believe that when I do decide to exit this shell I’ve created for myself here in my head, when I am ready to face all the anxiety that living creates, then I might find someone who understands me. And maybe someone like me might not be too damaged and crazy to be loved.

For now, these characters, these stories, they save me, because I’m not ready to be real yet. And even though all my psychological training tells me it isn’t healthy to live in an imaginary world, I’m certain most people do it in one way or the other. What if I could create that world for someone, a safe place to prepare to be real? All anyone really wants is the ability to be real and be safe at the same time. I don’t know if that is possible, but the closest I’ve ever come to such an achievement is through the stories I read and watch and hear. Could I help someone get that close?

I want you, whoever you are, to be safe for now, and I know that one day you will be real, and I will be real. And even though being safe and real may not be possible to be at the same time, we both know where safety is—behind colorful cardboard binding, between dots of ink, at the end of someone’s diary disguised as a work of fiction. You know why this is safe? Because someone decided to be real with letters built into words strung into sentences. When someone else is real and let’s us in on it, it makes us feel real, even if we aren’t ready to prove it.