Bad at Time

Tick tock, goes the clock. When will it stop?

I’ve never been good at time. I’m the person who can’t estimate how much time has passed even with the sun visibly moving, the annoyed customer who signs the wrong date next to her signature and has to redo all the paperwork, the friend who is reliably unreliable when it comes to arriving punctually. I don’t like being this way, and I only have vague ideas on how to fix it. And besides, maybe I like being bad with time. At the very least, I’ve become all too comfortable in the skin.

I wasn’t always like this. I used to keep a calendar every year, from a young age. Eventually though, and I’m not sure how or when, I just stopped hanging one up on the wall. I preferred to let the days pass by on their own accord, without my conscious knowledge of it.

But you can’t reasonably live like that. Let me explain why. Have you ever heard the phrase “live each day like it’s your last”? It’s terrible advice, because most days aren’t your last. We are forced to live life in consideration of the next, which, honestly, is something I rather like. It’s not as if I look forward to each and every day, it’s just that we operate in such a lifestyle in which we will have many, many days to go.

What I mean is, I can’t live a life where I just let the days pass unconsciously and not plan for the next. Yet, I still do bad things. Sometimes, I just lie in bed all day, and I do think to myself “if today was my last day, who really cares that I went to class or if I sent those emails? I’d rather do what makes me happy, which is to sleep.” It’s such an ugly mindset, but it’s the skin I’m comfortable in. I believe I made a choice, and continue to make the choice, to be so terrible at time. It is not what I want. I want a conscious life where I consider each day to not be my last, or at the very least, don’t ever think in such a haphazard way. Shouldn’t each day be an investment into the next? If so, why am I up at 2AM writing this, rather than acting according to what the consequences for doing so will be tomorrow?

Being bad at time is perhaps my biggest flaw. My Kryptonite. If I was a superhero, and you, Reader, were the villain, the way to get to me would be just to say “I’m not going to destroy all of the city right now, but at approximately 9:00AM tomorrow, so come back then!” Such a specific measure would freak me out, and you would gain ultimate power because the person who was supposed to save the day slept in. Well, maybe she woke up, but she thought to herself, “if the world is ending today, then I deserve 5 more minutes.”

I’ve heard people say that if a person is late, that means they think whatever you’re doing is not important. I’m not sure I totally agree with this, but the point is that not being on time is an entirely selfish act, and that’s something I agree with.

So far, it seems like everything I’ve written is just me saying “look, I’m self aware!” I am, but it doesn’t mean anything. Honestly, I wish I was oblivious. If I was oblivious, I wouldn’t be so skilled at being apologetic and forthcoming when I miss a deadline. I wouldn’t be so careful and exhibit higher than needed excellence in other areas. Thus, I would prove to be exactly what I am–regular and lacking competence–and no one would give me responsibility. Even if they did, I wouldn’t take it because I wouldn’t estimate that I could change.

Let me expand on that, Reader. I pick up something because I estimate that I can change. That I will work harder to have a better grasp on time. I will care about this enough, that at least for this, I will be good at time.

It never happens though. I always fuck up. To be clear, it’s perfectly okay to fuck up sometimes, but it’s not okay to make it a trend.

I am terrified that as of recent, I may have taken on a certain amount of responsibility I simply don’t have the capacity for because of how bad I am at time. So, what does that mean? Should I quit? I’m scared and unsure.

I wrote in the beginning that I have “vague ideas” on how to fix my flaw. They’re vague because when I get down to it, the real fix is “sheer will.” I am not sure I have overcome anything so significant in my life with sheer will, but I don’t see another way, and, as I mentioned, I just can’t live like this.

There may be something deeper that has to be cured. I have to stop making up excuses. I have to stop having nothing in me. I have to stop being depressed.

There it is, isn’t it? The real skin I’m operating comfortably in: depression. My nemesis. I’ve tried different things on it, but deep down, I really don’t know. I don’t know how to fix it. I think I’m broken forever. At the least, I can’t imagine a life without this thick depression.

I began writing in this space as a means to document “recovery.” What recovery? It always comes back around to this.

When will it stop? Tick tock, tick tock.

Ridiculous Ramblings from Inside a Suburban Starbucks

I guess I’m going to be that ridiculous person who writes in a Starbucks.

Earlier this summer, I quit therapy, which forced me to quit seeing my psychiatrist (you need to be doing therapy in order to see a doctor at the student clinic). So, I’ve been kind of alone. I’m not sure if I made the right decision when I did that, but it was rash, it felt freeing, and I was tired of sitting on a couch where nothing got accomplished.

My old psychiatrist reached out to me to let me know he was leaving the center and asked if he should close my file. I wasn’t really sure. I didn’t think my care was over. Maybe I had thought I was just taking a break. The doctor let me know he had a private practice I could see him at. Today, I went there.

My anxiety has been high. Last night I had that terrible feeling, like something was really wrong. I haven’t had that feeling in ages. I used to have it all the time, and I would think something was wrong with Bo. I had abandoned him, and now something catastrophic was happening. So, I would always reach out. Just to make sure he was okay.

I couldn’t do that last night. I knew my family was safe, so there was nothing there. Bo is long gone from my life. He exists more as an idea now than as a human being or old friend I know well. I’m not sure Bo would have cared if I sent him something asking if he was okay–probably not, he would have been very decent. However, I felt it was just something I could not do anymore. So I just sat there, in my own anxiety, melting into a puddle of adrenaline.

I watched a documentary that was on TV, and it made me cry, even though it wasn’t the most emotional thing I had ever watched or new information for me. I wanted to fall asleep, but my mind wouldn’t let me. I had to stay awake, in case something was wrong.

But there’s nothing wrong, I was just being irrational. I told a few people I loved them over text and went to sleep. When I eventually went unconscious, I had terrible and realistic dreams.

After my appointment today, I did feel a little better. I walked for a bit and got to a Panera Bread, where I had something to eat, and browsed funny Reddit subs. I listened to suburban moms meeting for coffee in the morning talk about their children and Disney Princesses and society and Stranger Things. I listened to suburban divorced dads meet for lunch and talk about ways they are trying to lose weight. It was all very comforting. There was a mall–one of those where older folks go for walks. I walked around. I like walking. I got ready to go back to campus, but I didn’t want to. I get so tired of campus and it’s hullabaloo. I found this Starbucks, and got a water and a bag of whole grain, yet entirely too salty and buttery popcorn. I’m not a big fan of Starbucks, but at least they have great WiFi. I did some homework. Now, I’m writing this.

My hormones have been racing spiking lately. I feel horny, or I sweat too much and smell ridiculous, and I’m getting some small bouts of acne. I even have been having some cramping. None of this has really happened since I’ve been on birth control, so I couldn’t say what the source is. Perhaps my body has adjusted to the birth control, and now I’m fucked up again. Hormone spikes during my period have been a big source of unbalance in the past, and I don’t want to deal with that.

I don’t think I’m completely sad or unmotivated anymore–I’m just lost and feel lack of control. This could have to do with me being close to graduation from college, but it is not like me to let those kind of things affect me this way. No, I think I am just growing and this is another portion of my growth stage, of my coming of age, which will not stop with something like college ending. I’m not saying that my educational career finally (finally!) finishing is not going to bring about emotion, but that I feel odd in a way that doesn’t relate to that. I constantly think of my life as a timeplot, plotted according to a vague variable of “feeling.” I am having ups and downs. There are thresholds we may hit along this. This plot goes on for the period of my being alive.

I can attest that I am deeply afraid of moving back to my hometown–which is the plan post graduation. I feel like I will lose all the progress I have made. That none of this journey will have any point. That the timeplot may as well come to it’s end.

If I had to pick one title for my identity, I wouldn’t be a female, or a minority, or a queer person, or a Muslim, or a daughter, a friend, or anything. I would be an artist.

“He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight.”

-James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

 

 

 

 

Messing Around and Shit

“Have a slutty phase. It builds character.”

The above is some bullshit I read somewhere on the internet. I can’t say I had a slutty phase at all, but I can say that the combination of college and today’s technology sure makes it easy.

There have been people in and out of my life. The person who ripped through me the most was my first love, who I’ve referred to before in this space as “B” or “Bo.” Our love was a short-lived whirlwind that I will never forget and still cling on to. I haven’t fully let go. I don’t know if I ever will. And if the chance to be together again presents itself, I’m not sure I could say no.

I never thought I would ever be with another man until marriage. It was a cultural thing. But, thankfully, and sometimes with guilt, I have been with other people than Bo. Mostly all of it has happened in the past year. This is because for the first time, I could see myself as a sexual being.

I remember a little while after getting out of my relationship with Bo, I thought I was bisexual, but I never really worried much about it except for internal moral judgement of myself. I never thought I was going to be with another person, and it wasn’t something anyone needed to know. But I definitely felt attraction toward women in ways I realized other women did not feel. There were girls I had deep crushes on. When I got to college, I did hang out with some LBGT groups and identified with the community. Often times, I felt very much out of place and confused as to whether any of it was real or if I was just straight and trying to be unique. Everyone used words I just didn’t know about. I learned so much, however, and really felt like I could be myself around those people. Most importantly, I came to realize sexuality can be viewed as a spectrum, and I didn’t have to fall totally on one side or right in the middle. That was an amazing thing to learn that I hope in the future more young people are taught. Maybe I wasn’t bi, maybe I wasn’t straight, or demi, or whatever words they’re using nowadays—I honestly can’t keep up. I could just be “kind of queer” and that was okay too.

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Spectrum, from Trevor Project

I think after I realized all this, I was at the stage where I thought “wow, I have this information about my sexuality, now will I do anything with it?” I was still very much in love with Bo, even though I knew it was over. I didn’t think having sex with people or even having feelings for other people was the key to recovering and moving forward. Turned out, I was kind of wrong.

Maybe it was reading other blogs here on WordPress, or maybe it was just random things on the Internet telling me to have a slutty phase, but I have, in this past summer, delved into being with other people.

The first person besides Bo I was with was Aaron from Tinder, who I did write about once. Later on, I dated a man who was the same ethnicity as myself but that didn’t turn out great. For all of it I held deep, deep guilt. If my parents knew what I was doing, they would be ashamed. I was not taught this way. I was taught to be a different kind of girl. A good Muslim. I was going to go to Hell for this. God must hate me.

I can’t say I still don’t feel guilty sometimes, but I know in my heart what I’m doing is not a bad thing. Having sex with people is not bad. Sharing emotions and being intimate is not bad. When I allowed myself to be a sexual creature, and accepted myself as one, I felt better. I became a better person. I am stronger now. I am happier with my self image. I feel more spiritual and I feel that maybe I can have a relationship with God and have a faith, because no longer do those things feel like traps, but rather as guides.

That’s not to say my different relationships this past summer have not brought their share of tears and confusion. But it was all normal. I moved from it when I needed to. Having depression and navigating those things was hard, but at least I wasn’t immobilized like before.

As I type all these things though, I wonder, am I just trying to justify all the bad things I’ve done as okay? Even if that was true, I don’t think these kind of things will send me to hell anymore. Yet I was so pressured all my life to think a certain way that was so contrary to what being a human being is about, and I can’t get it out of me. It’s ingrained.

I suppose therapy could get it out, but quite honestly, I don’t even like talking about my sex life or relationships in therapy. I feel uncomfortable about it all. I do joke about it and talk about with friends, but otherwise, on a serious note, I’m scared to admit what I’m doing is reality.

This particular conflict probably won’t be resolved in my head anytime soon, but action wise, I know what I’m going to keep doing, and that’s, well, messing around and shit.

This was written in such a lumpy fashion. That’s all for tonight. I’m quite tired.

Butterflies, and Why I’d be a Terrible Social Worker

I am melting in this hot sun.  My sports bra is supposed to wick away the sweat, but I can just feel it sticking to my skin. Aren’t the dog days supposed to be coming to an end, not beginning? New resolution: stay indoors from 1pm to 5pm.

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I can see a smaller version of myself running around, and above me flying frantically are dozens of butterflies. It hurts to have them inside of me, but I’ve created them myself, and it’s not like they’re not useful. They are butterflies of so many thoughts, things, and ideas that are floating around in my head. I have so much going on but I can’t catch any of it and stick it onto an organized place. Smaller version of me grabs at the butterflies and attempts to put them into something. But I lose them or get distracted by another one. Who can blame me for feeling so distracted though? They are really beautiful. Despite this, I know that enough of them, like anything in this world, can kill me.

It’s always an odd thing when I write a metaphor like the one above and end it with “can kill me.” I mean, don’t I want to die? I spend a lot of time making fun of my suicidal ideations. Does it make me feel better? I’m not quite sure. I like laughing at it. To anyone else though, it must be very dark.

For my new job, we had to do suicide prevention training, which was pretty odd for me, to see the other side of people who try to prevent me from killing myself. Their rationale is so far misunderstood from what we feel. They say we don’t really want to die, that we just want the pain to end. I’m sure that’s actually true, but it doesn’t feel like it. I feel like the pain is a part of me and I can’t imagine getting rid of it. I feel like my sadness is so deeply ingrained in me, that if I didn’t have it, who would I even be? I’d be nothing. So might as well die.

I’m not going to kill myself though—it’s simply not an option. It’s just something I think about, something that’s almost normal at this point. In this suicide prevention training, there was a little bit of talk about how we shouldn’t be joking about depression. I get where they were coming from. People shouldn’t say “OMG look at this picture of Harry Styles I’m gonna die/I’m having a panic attack, etc.” That shit pisses me off. But we also talked about how people will say “ugh I had the worst day ever I just want to die/kill me.” Maybe a lot of the people who say that fall into the same group of Harry Styles girls, but a lot of people who say it really do want to die, they’re just normalizing it.

That leads to the question: is it okay to normalize it in this way? Is it an in adverted method to reduce stigma? Or is it just a fucked up thing to say by people who don’t really get? Or, in reality, is almost all of our generation depressed and fucked up so when they say “kill me,” part of them wouldn’t mind.

Simply, what I’m trying to say here, is that I am so personally messed up that I really don’t get it. What I’m saying is most likely all wrong. It’s probably not okay to say things like “I had a bad day, I want to die right now.” I rationalize my suicidal ideations and it makes me feel okay about it. I make memes about the fact that I’m depressed and laugh at it.

Despite what was going on in my head in that training, on the outside I seemed totally with it all. Yes, that’s a good method of de-escacation, yes, those are the right things to say. I was even able to participate a few times and tell people what they should say when they have a friend showing signs and what they shouldn’t say. I agreed and nodded my head that it was a serious issue. Yet, part of me thought it was all bullshit. Just let us die. 

I know a lot of people who have suffered depression or other forms of mental illness go into social work or become psychiatrists or whatever, because they want to help people who went through that. But I couldn’t do it. Maybe I could fake it. But a part of me would still think things like “well, this is what they want, they want to die, let them die,” or “this work is so hard, I want to kill myself” or make memes that are ultimately pretty problematic.

All of what I’ve written, when reading over it, sounds kind of disgusting. It makes it sound like I wouldn’t want to help friends or students I’m working with who are suicidal, but I absolutely do. I absolutely want to drop everything for a friend who isn’t feeling well (and I have). I want mental illness to be a bigger priority for young people. 

There are many contradictions in my head: 

“This suicide training is a good thing that more people should be doing, 

but actually I don’t believe in any of it and it’s all bullshit, 

but I would absolutely help someone if they needed it, 

but they need it because so much of our generation is depressed, 

and since so much of our generation is depressed that means it’s normal, 

so who cares,

but I do care, 

I don’t want it to be bullshit,

I don’t want it to be this way, 

but it is anyway, 

but why don’t we talk about it, 

but we shouldn’t talk about it, 

why aren’t we trying to change it,

why aren’t we trying to create a new generation where this isn’t the fucking status quo?”

I don’t know what I’m doing I’m making this all up.

____________

Once again, feeling very inspired lately by a Youtube video by iisuperwomanii which can be found here 

The beautiful butterfly image credits go to Peter von Bagh on Flickr.

Voices

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It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. I stopped writing for a while and then when I thought about writing in here again, I didn’t because I feared that I abandoned it too long to ever be able to return, which is a silly, odd thought. I recently remembered that I created this as my spot on the internet, my home, my place, where I can write about and post about anything I want, whenever I want. So, it’s time for me to come home, I suppose. I was hoping to sit outside and write, but I’ve ended up inside the art building due to the icon above (which, by the way, is a great representation of how I’m feeling. Oh well, I feel safe here. 

The last couple nights I have cried and cried. So much has happened to me in these past couple months. I’ve met beautiful humans and kissed wonderful men and stayed all night talking to funny people. I picked blackberries every week on the farm and pet the stray cats and moved out of my apartment and into a new one. I quit therapy, quit my doctor, tried to be me, got confused about who that was. Too often I have so many words to describe my identity despite the fact that I yearn for only one: human.

There have been moments I feel hated, and moments I’ve felt loved. People have told me wonderful things like “you’re one of the sweetest souls I’ve met,” or “you treat me like I imagine the love of my life would treat me.” People also mention terrible things, but often it’s by not mentioning anything at all that I feel truly hurt.

I am pushing and pushing to continue existing in this human world despite a fog that presses the insides of my brain. It tells me to stop, to sleep, to just give up. In fact, lately, I feel like I trust that fog and agree with it. I do want to give up, I do want to sleep all day, but still, I’m not doing that. I’m not killing myself. Why is this? I’m not quite sure. Voices inside my head holding me back. 

There are so many voices in my head and they drive me mad. Sometimes all I want to do is sleep, other days I want to paint for the rest of my life. There’s never a part of me that truly wants to do the things that I actually do—go to class, get work done, help others, lead projects, volunteer, eat, etc. But I do it anyway, because something pulls me toward it. It’s a sense of duty and obligation bigger than myself.

I think I’m destined for greatness, but I’m unsure of it.

The people that see me couldn’t imagine I’m on the verge of tears constantly, although I do know it shows sometimes. I just excuse myself and write it off as being an introvert. Although,  I am less than quiet about it all. I admit to people who ask me if I’m okay that I’ve been feeling anxious, or nervous…but do they really get it? Do the realize the turmoil that is shaking me and terrifying me at the core?

I have somewhere to be other than on this page.

____________

PostScript

I’ve been really into a video made by the great Lily Singh aka iisuperwomanii that goes by the same title of this post. Link here

More Late Night Writing

Written 4/25 in the night when I couldn’t sleep. Been a little late on posting because I write it on my phone. 

An update: Later in this post I talk about a guy I met who makes videos on how to pick up girls. Since then, I’ve learned that this is related to  something called “pick-up” culture. I’ll be talking it more soon. 

I’ve had another odd and weird last couple days. My depression is getting at the core of me and I can’t shake it. Mostly, I cannot cry, and this is very difficult. I think I would be a lot better if I could just cry, but I can’t. It won’t come out from me. I feel the sadness dragging on me. I haven’t slept properly for days. I slept through class and I didn’t turn in a very important paper nor did I email back the people I am supposed to be working for this summer. It all seems so worthless and stupid and I can’t find it in me to push through. I spend a lot of time browsing Reddit lately on my phone. 

On Saturday night I went to a party and was reminded again that parties are not my scene. I saw the guy I had last dated there and he was very drunk so I told him he should stop drinking, but he didn’t really listen to me. I don’t know why I feel a need to control other people or act like I know better than them, when I don’t. I got excited when I first saw him though and wanted him to meet my friend, but it was honestly embarrassing. I went home from an already frustrating day. 

Sunday I was unable to get out of bed for most of the day, but there was a celebrity that came to my university for a meet and greet and I went to that and it made me very happy. I wasted my Sunday and didn’t get any work done which was what led to me being unable to finish that paper. It’s still not even done! I don’t know how I will answer to this. I cannot fail a class or I will not graduate on time, and all I really want is for this college thing to be over as soon as possible. 

It’s odd how they say college is supposed to be such important fun years of your life, and I don’t think it’s living up to any of that.

So here’s a good story: 

On Sunday night I went to meet with a guy I had met on Tinder back in December and had been talking to here and there. He is moving to Miami soon. I slept with him and it wasn’t that wonderful or anything, but I was so fascinated by him. Never have I met a person like that. I can’t put my finger on everything that is so odd about Aaron. We have a lot in common but nothing in common. There is something similar in our spirits but no connection whatsoever. Aaron is older than me. He comes from the hookup culture I’m still struggling to adjust to and understand. Is he a good guy? I don’t know. Later on we were on our phones and I said I would unfollow him on Instagram because I would be sad if I looked at his pictures (since he is moving) and he didn’t even like my posts back anyway. He pulled me up on his Instagram and it seems he didn’t even follow me. But actually, he did follow me, it’s just that he had 2 instagrams, and he didn’t realize which one he’s on.

Well, I’m crazy, so of course I figured it out pretty soon when I got home. One of these instagrams caters to his YouTube channel. Naturally, I look up the YouTube channel. It’s a series on how to hookup with girls and get laid. On his Instagram are ads about how he fucked 3 girls 3 nights in a row, and you can do it too! Just follow his channel, where you will conveniently find videos about “how to use snapchat to get laid.” He is currently making videos about how he goes into the “field” (eg bars and parties) and finds girls, and he breaks down his interactions for other men to see and learn from. I think it’s a series where he forced himself to go out every night. On one video he did actually videotape himself with women–whether or not those women knew they were being videotaped I don’t know. It’s definitely not fake. 

I knew these people existed but I didn’t think I would ever come into contact with one of them, let alone kind of fall for it. But then again, maybe I didn’t. Definitely didn’t like those other girls did. Aaron and I just hung out last night…it didn’t seem like anything he was doing for his videos. I had been asking to see him, and he’s leaving. And none of what I saw he does online surprises me. I don’t want to sound cocky or like I’m special, but I think at a couple moments I got through to this guy, as in, he allowed himself to be vulnerable to me and wasn’t acting. When I first met him, I knew right away which lines he uses on other girls, I could tell which parts weren’t that genuine and whole hearted, etc. I was brave enough to ask him deep questions on personal levels and happy to open myself up as well.  But I’m not special either. I think other girls can tell as well, as far as which lines a guy uses frequently. They’re just not gonna burst anyone’s bubble. 

Continuing on the line that I’m not special, I have to think that it truly is no surprise to me the kind of videos Aaron is making, so long until some other girl picks up and gets really mad? 

Because, I’m not that mad. I wrote down what I felt about the whole thing. But I’m slowly learning that I have no right to try and change people. These people exist and always will. They don’t see any harm in what they’re doing and are just excited to have found something they’re good at. I knew this guy didn’t really like me, I knew I was just there for sex, because as much as he worked himself up to be charming and caring, you have to feel that sense of charm in the lovemaking. Love was not made. I was touched and fucked and it was fine, but when you have sex with someone you care about or are genuinely interests in, it’s different. You’re curious as to the way the side of your hand sits into the intersection on their chest and how soft their earlobe is and how sensitive they are on the stomach right above their genitals. Good sex is a magical mixture of pain and pleasure. Bad sex only has one of those elements. Mediocre sex doesn’t really have either. 

I hate that I am still awake writing this. 

Lonely

Written 4/23 2:43 AM

My eyes hurt—they need to be closed, but I think writing will make me feel better, and I haven’t written a post in a while. I have tried to, but I end up deleting it all because what I’m writing seems mundane, useless, and unworthy.

I am incredibly lonely. I feel like I lack social skills. I’m not sure what to do. I feel as though everyone has made their friends and I am just hanging out all alone.

I’ve always been okay with just me in the way that I can go out, go exploring, and have fun with just myself. But not anymore. Now I just don’t want to go out at all.

I do have some friends but I either secretly do not like them much anymore or they don’t see me as a very close friend. I’ve had these problems all my life. Only once did I ever make a good friend on my own, and that was with Bo, so naturally I miss him a lot once again. Am I even capable of making a true friend like that again? Or open to it at all? (Which is a different, yet equally complicated and concerning issue)

Sure, I would like to date casually and I’m open to it, but I am afraid to go out or go to bars. I even try online things like Tinder but after a while it seems so dry and worthless. I am so afraid of the world lately and it feels hard to go on.

I just want to dig a hole and lay in it forever, let the only sound be the earth around me and let the earth around me make my bed. I want cold dirt in my ears and in my hair and pushing into my fingernails and I want to lay there until it gets warm, in the way that pool water gets warm when you’re there long enough. And then I want to go to sleep.

Goodnight.

Written 2:43 am

My First and Last Serious Protest

Written 4/6

Today was a difficult day. My eyes close on me. My words must be written.

2:16 AM. I will publish this later.

I stayed in bed because I didn’t do my homework and then I realized I had skipped a quiz and then I realized I had skipped a trip to the art museum and then I realized I could have just done my homework and then I realized there was another assignment I was supposed to submit but I didn’t and then I realized I truly, genuinely don’t care. But I also kind of do, not because of the grade, but because I missed an experience, because I stayed a slave to my bed today when I could have been doing other things.

Eventually I got out of bed. I went to a protest tonight and it was my first protest and maybe my last, not because I had a bad experience, but because I’m not sure if it’s my scene. There are very few things in this world I’m willing to fight for or that I believe passionately in. I see injustice in this world and it angers me but I don’t know the right way to go about doing anything. This organization has tried other ways and been rejected, and tonight, the people were not treated fairly or with compassion.

I do know that compassion is important.

Sometimes I worry that the police believe, and others perpetuate and agree, that it is us vs. them. It doesn’t have to be that way. Often times officers are just following orders and the cause being protested is not their fault, however instead of acting like a neutral force they see themselves as superior and create a dichotomy between citizens and police. They represent an establishment they do not have to. Besides, who is to say they are not citizens as well? They are a part of us. We’re all just human beings with beliefs. Both the protestors and the police begin to forget this. We dehumanize each other. This is not okay. Police end up on the wrong side of history, but does it really have to be like that?

Protestors hide under the guise of exercising their rights, and policemen hide under the blanket of keeping peace and safety. Why use the word “hide” here? In an ideal world, people really ARE just peacefully protesting and the police really ARE there just to make sure everyone is safe and following rules, but in the throes of passion, each side begins to inch across the line. The police get angry and begin to think about their loyalty to their occupation, how prestigious their job is, and how annoying these protestors are being. The people get angry and think about whatever injustice they are fighting for and get caught up in the moment and just want to blame anyone that even partially represents that which they are there for. We create division. We see one another as the enemy. It is not necessary.

Protests are stressful, for the protestors, and for the police. But not for the real issue. Not for the people in charge of or capable of changing an issue that is being protested in the first place. The president of the university probably went home safely and was asleep by the time all the protestors went home. Eventually, the next day, the issue and the people in charge might take some strain and stress as it gets talked about and covered. But the inconveniences of all the people who are there that night don’t matter to them. It’s an event. So, for all the pain and division it causes for protestors and police, is it really worth it?

That’s why, maybe, it was my last protest.

Masks I Wear

I am so angry. I could rip everyone* to shreds.

*Funny, I thought I just wrote “everything”, not everyone, but I just read over it and it seems that I wrote “everyone,” and that’s fine.

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I don’t know what to type because I feel very speechless. I am very romantic in a hookup culture. I’m small and naive. I suffer from depression and it’s hard for me to put myself out there. I feel anxious around other people. I always feel like such a bother and a burden. I consider killing myself a lot, or at least just punishing myself in some way, letting myself suffer and not taking proper care of myself because I’m not worth caring for.

I was dating a guy who I thought liked me but I wasn’t positive liked me, but I thought I was probably just being paranoid. He could never get an erection and I thought we could move on from that but it turned out it was just me. He wasn’t attracted to me. I’m really not that hot or gorgeous, I know that. He hid some things from me so we didn’t have some things in common like I thought we did and I found that out now. I was a symbol of the elements in his life that had oppressed him. No, he didn’t say that outright, but….ouch. It hurts a lot. All he really wanted was sex, and when that didn’t work, I guess I became kind of useless. I broke up with him, is what he said, but I was going through a lot. I was confused. I just wanted a moment. He was drunk–how could I have talked to him? I expected him to reach out. He said he hooked up with someone else and it worked out for him. So it must have been me. I didn’t really think we were even totally broken up. I wanted him back, I wanted to be with him again, now he’s blames it all on me.

That would be okay, except for I take the blame. My twisted logic allows me to take this kind of stuff and internalize it, and decide that I am the problem, that things could have worked, or at least not ended so badly, had I only not said or done this or that.

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He asked how I can become attached to him in just a month, but it’s because I’ve had no one for so long. Because I have felt lonely to the bone. My depression has stripped everything from me. I have no coping skills to handle problems like this. What is hurtful to one person is extrapolated into something that can actually physically harm me, something that is out for me and wants to get me and take my life. Heartbreak shatters not just my feelings but my entire existence. I feel my brain breaking apart into little pieces and for days I am out of my own body, simply a ghost of myself, afraid of myself. Nothing runs anymore. My bloodstream seems to be flowing in the wrong directions. I am unable to walk, speak, eat.

The one thing about people with chronic depression is that we don’t have real coping, recovery skills, instead we have invisibility skills. We can make ourselves into something we’re not so the general public can think that we are okay. I call myself an artist but that’s my purest artform: creating masks for myself.

>>>>>> Ouch, it hurts to be a human. …

royEven though I recognize now that I must grieve, I can’t actually grieve because my automatic disposition is to begin construction of my mask that will cover and suppress my grieving and pain for the next cycle of existing, until I move on even a little bit.

I never really moved on from any of my heartbreaks. I made masks. I operated within them, until they became less effort to dress up in. Until it seemed normal for me to be wearing a mask. The mask is normalcy. I am normal. I am okay now. I’ve been pretending to be okay for so long, that I must actually be okay. This was my logic.

Instead I still wear those masks, they have just become a part of my skin.

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At least, as of writing this, I’m aware of it…

______

All Images are Roy Lichtenstein originals. He uses “benday” dots. These images spoke to me tonight. 

Insignificant Ramblings #1

I’m back at home this weekend, not really sure why but I am, and I’m just making the most of it. This past week was hard with the whole thing with my ex. I’m pretty positive he has blocked my number because my message was never delivered. I feel sad and I don’t know what I did wrong. I just published a post I wrote on Wednesday and Thursday about all of it, because I wanted it to be a part of the timeline on this blog, but right now is the end of Saturday. I’ll just write about various things.

I began reading the Kite Runner and I won’t spoil anything but the part I just got to was very disturbing, to the point where I felt sick. The writing was that powerful. I am haunted by how well the words got to me. As a writer myself, I feel like this is something other writers want to achieve but at the same time, I don’t know if I do, because it really shook me up. I think part of the reason is because my parents were wary about me reading this book. They are Pashtun, the ethnic group talked about in the book, and then of course with any books that have explicit things, I am a child to them, especially my dad. My dad read this book a while ago because of how famous it was getting and the fact that it dealt with Pashtuns, and although he has just recently started reading, he wasn’t a big reader or into reading at all then. It was always a book my dad said we shouldn’t read. But, there, I did it. I’m reading it. I can’t understand why I feel weird about it.

I am totally against censoring of books but I think there are points where we are more or less ready, in our personal lives, to handle certain stories. In these past few months of my life I’ve come back to books I passed up previously because I wasn’t sure if I was ready for them. I’m glad I was prevented from reading it any earlier.

I’ve had a good weekend of, actually, talking about my sisters to my dad. My dad sometimes thinks we are going to stay with him forever, but the truth is, we’re not. We each want to do great, and in a way, I want to tell him it’s kind of his fault for instilling a curiosity for the world in us. I have been pushing to get him to understand that one of my sisters wants to do global work within medicine. Of course he knows the medicine part, but the traveling part? And the same with my other sister. She too needs to travel and has more potential than he recognizes. Oddly enough, I find that now that he has become a reader, he has become a better listener. I believe so deeply in the power of books.

Whenever you read a good book, somewhere in the world a door opens to allow in more light.

-Vera Nazarian

About me? I do want to do peace corps, but I also just want to hide under a blanket and not come out, and my most important concern is that my health gets better. I’m not going anywhere or getting approved to get anywhere carrying all this baggage. I can’t think about what I want to do tomorrow, let alone in a few years. The thoughts frankly terrify me.

My mom fell today. I was so hurt by it, watching her scream on the floor. We need a softer floor. We need a warmer place to live for her joints. I need to be here, is what I start to think. What if something happens to  my mom? I have to take care of my mom, I think. I need to do something. I feel so helpless watching her there, I feel my heart breaking. I just want her to be okay. I don’t know what I’ll do without her…

I’ve been having weird dreams, I see myself, and I’m so mad.

I need to sleep, don’t I?