The Story of My Voice

It’s kind of freeing to be online, where no one can hear how your sound. Maybe that’s why I’ve always done a better job articulating myself (or preferred) writing to speaking.

Recently at work we were talking about the sounds of our own voices. This came about because I had gotten a new pair of glasses and I asked them how they looked, and said that when I put it on, I freaked out because I looked like a complete idiot with an unsymmetrical, tiny face. I wasn’t really used to looking at my face in those glasses though, and to be honest, no one really noticed until I pointed it out.

This brought us on to the conversation of hating our own voices. I take a teaching methods class where we are recorded during each lesson we teach for lab and forced to watch it later. God, I sound like such an idiot, is usually my first thought. Most people probably feel this way too, because we are just simply not used to hearing our voices. Okay, so yes, we hear are voices, but we don’t REALLY hear our voices. We hear a much deeper version of our voices inside our heads. The vibrations from our vocal cords mix in to what we’re hearing. On the outside, people just hear output–the air-conducted sounds that are released into other people’s ears as we speak.

It’s such a foreign thing to us. We’re not used to hearing it, and when we hear our own voices, we hear this screechy, annoying sounds. To be, it sounds like I constantly spit when I talk. This is because I have a lisp and I hypernotice it.

I remember in elementary school one of my teacher’s told the speech therapy lady at my school that I had a lisp, and so I was put in speech therapy every day after school. It was terrible. I was introduced to this lady who I barely knew and she asked me to say things like the name of my sister. I remember saying one of my sisters and she corrected me by saying “no, the other one. Your eldest sister.” What? How did this lady know I even had another sister? I was so confused. And then I was told I was talking wrong.

I do think my lisp could have been fixed, but I think they caught it too late. I was maybe already in 5th grade. I knew about stuttering but had never even heard of the concept of a lisp before then. I was moving my tongue too forward or something. The thing that really bugged me was that no matter how hard the speech teacher tried, (and she was a nice lady) I had no idea what she was trying to get me to do. To this day, I still have no idea. I can make a hissing noise but I simply can’t make the regular “s” or even “z” noise. I don’t really think I’m capable of it.

After I left elementary school my parents left behind speech therapy as well, because, quite frankly, it wasn’t working, and I think I was probably getting upset of being chided at home as well. I would try to speak and instead of being listened to, I would be corrected. I loved reading since a very young age and at that point I was already reading a lot by myself. It was frustrating to go back to reading out loud with my mom. It took too long and I wanted to do something else. I wouldn’t sit still for it. I hated speech therapy. Even if I did sound a little bit better when I tried really hard to push my tongue back, it was terrible to work so hard. I had to be super conscious of it. I talked so much slower. I talked less. It wasn’t fun.

Into middle school I remember forgetting about the whole thing and then re-remembering it every once in a while and being extremely conscious. I would remember it for a day or a few hours and during that time, I just talked less or talked slower. In my first two years of middle school I was very jumpy and talkative and so it was odd [to the people around me] whenever that happened. Toward 7th and 8th grade, which is around the time I think I started showing signs of depression as well, I met a girl named Tori. Tori has a lisp too and one day she pointed out my lisp to me. I was horrified for a millisecond until she said she had one too. I hadn’t even noticed until she pointed it out. Tori was truly hilarious. She talked about how in elementary school she had gone through the exact same process of having some teacher notice and putting her in speech therapy. She made me laugh talking about the stupid things those teachers tried to do and she would make hissing noises (which I knew how to do) as well. One time she wrote on one of my papers “lisp buddies 4 evah. sssssssss zzzzzz~~~” or something like that. We were best friends for those two years. I stopped caring about my lisp after that. This is what I sound like. Who gives a shit. I didn’t actually stop hating my voice though. When I did hear it on recording I got angry. But that was just like everyone else. In my room with the door locked, I wanted to be the lead singer of a band like Boys like Girls, Good Charlotte, Paramore, Metro Station, or Fall Out Boy*.

Before going on, here’s a link to a SciShow video where Hank Green, one of my favorite humans, talks about hating our own voices:

I’ll share something else next. Quite often my sisters and I are told that we sound exactly alike. However, there is an odd inconsistency to this. I have two sisters, S and non-S. Most frequently, non S and I are told we sound alike, but that may also be because we have been in public together more. I met her friends in college and we spent a year of high school together. However, often I am told S and I sound like clones as well, or rather, that I sound like a photocopy of S. But, never have I ever heard someone say that S and non-S sound so much alike. Yes, we all sound like sisters, and so sometimes we are told we all sound alike, but never have I heard someone point out that the two isolated sound similar.

And to me, they don’t sound the same. One has a more annoying voice than the other, depending on the day.

Probably the most accurate comparison of these is that non-S and I sound alike. When I figured this out I started to listen more closely to my sister to determine what I sound like. She has a lisp as well although it is not as prominent as mine. Eventually, I decided her voice sounded annoying, for a time. This is a phenomena I can’t find the answer to. It makes sense that we think our own voices sound weird because it conflicts with our ideas of what our voice actually sounds like. But if you heard your voice in a crowd, without being totally sure whether or not it was yours, would you still think to yourself, “damn, that person has an annoying voice.” According to that feeling I had toward my sister’s voice, the answer would be yes.

So I don’t really think my sister sounds weird anymore, but there’s still aftereffects of that. The explanation of the earlier phenomena is simply that I am so used to hearing my sister, all of my life. But then why don’t I think my mom and dad and other sister sound that way? Out of all my family members, non-S has exhibited more animosity toward me in the past (she doesn’t exhibit this toward me in particular more than she does to any other member of my family, it’s a bit of grief she has given to all of us). Certain times when non-S talks though it is just fine and comforting. None of this, by the way, means I like her more or less than any other member of my family. This is just the story of my voice.

However, I do have to mention one more thing about non-S. My voice sometimes goes up and down according to my mood. This is less prominent now because I have less moods, because, well, I’m depressed. But when I talk to my family my voice does go smaller, almost more babyish, and I don’t realize I’m doing it, and it indicates usually that I am happy or comfortable. For a long time, this annoyed non-S. She would chide me and say “stop talking like a baby! That’s not your voice.” I will say I’m just talking normal but she will say no I am not. Sometimes even without being nasty she would interrupt me and say “Talk normal,” and I would try to do so but then I just had to stop talking.

Eventually, my mom pointed out to my sister that she talks THE EXACT SAME WAY in the EXACT SAME VOICE when she’s talking to me or the rest of my family in a happy mood as well. I had noticed this, of course, but didn’t really have the guts to point it out. Now, non-S doesn’t chide me anymore. In fact, she probably talks in that same tone just as often as I do now and it seems to indicate that she is happy. The explanation I can think of is that she wasn’t very happy during that time [when she was telling me how to talk].

After graduating high school the self consciousness that had built up around my voice disappeared. After I started driving, I started singing in the car.  I had a conversation with some friends that maybe part of being able to sing was just getting used to the sound of your voice singing (outside of the shower, ahem.) Slowly, I would lower the volume and just try to sing without hating my own singing voice. I know that even my singing voice sounds much more terrible than I even hear it, but I don’t mind hearing myself sing now and will sing around friends loudly without self consciousness, even if it’s bad. Beyond singing, I also didn’t care so much about my voice. In general, I think I gained some self esteem after being with Bo, who would tell me things such as how I was stunningly beautiful, sexy, smart, capable, etc, and that he loved listening to me and he loved the sound of my voice (even though, well, I loved his voice so much more). I also realized, as I became close to him and a few others, that my family members weren’t the only ones who unconsciously made sillier, childish sounding voices when talking happily with someone we intimately adore and feel comfortable with. Nowadays, I talk less than I did in high school because of how I’ve evolved due to my experiences and depression. I like myself better for talking less and with more caution. I think my sisters and I sound more distinct–though many people dispute this. The only reasons we ever sounded so similar was because we have the same humor, same jokes, same sentence structure, and even some same speaking quirks from being around each other all the time.

The self consciousness has returned though. Out of nowhere, I can feel that confusion I felt as a child at being told I am speaking wrong. I feel compelled to try speech therapy again one day, even though I feel I am incapable of changing those ways in which I speak, and so far the research I’ve done makes no sense and gives me no real idea of how to change this “bad habit.” I wonder, are people even listening to the things I’m actually saying, or the ways in which I say them?

Upspeak. Vocal Fry. Continued in the next post.


*I probably didn’t need 4 bands as an example for the kind of band I wanted to be the lead singer of, but I could go on on about the albums I listened to at that time. I’ll save you the details, Reader.

Image Credit: “Close up of a Microphone of the Ark Stage.” The Ark is a music club in Ann Arbor, Michigan, which, by the way, I don’t give a damn about.


I Don’t Actually Have Cancer

jenny holzer

written 10/22/2015

I’m doing okay now. Well, I suppose I’m never really doing ‘okay’ but I’m fully recovered from that last episode. The past couple weeks have been traumatizing. I am moving through the days, finally. I am getting to work and to class. Okay, no I’m not. I’m late to class and I skipped two classes this week and I couldn’t get up for my shift on Tuesday. Also I missed the carpool to go to the library I volunteer at.


But I feel a little more optimistic about things moving forward. There are many good signs–the weather that calls me to be outside rather than stay in, interesting material in my classes, and the reassurance that I actually am a good employee and won’t be fired under the “6 points” cutoff. Which just means that you receive points when you don’t show/call off and don’t have someone to cover. I probably have over 10 points. Yet I’ve gotten no email or contact from anyone. Today, I did talk to one of the managers, not the main managers, but a student manager (there is a very odd management hierarchy). Bri (this manager, who I think is the most competent of the s. managers) really assured me that I was going to be fine and I feel at least 50% better. There’s still half of the cup that’s not full and I am walking a very thin line.

I can get much more help for this if I wanted, I could. I could talk to my main manager who I respect and knows I have “something” about why this happens, provide proof from the doc, and I would receive more flexibility and forgiveness. I would not be under this current fear of losing this job at any moment.

And there’s other things that are problematic that I could easily get help and fix. I blew off a quiz in the middle of the week when I went home. I can have student advocacy reach out and even though the test was online, I know the professor will almost definitely give me some kind of makeup.

Why don’t I do these things? I know some of it has to do with the stigma on depression; to get “anything” in the the realm of these illnesses you must prove that this is serious. I guess in reality they don’t have a right to know what I have medically but rather to accept any wording given to them by my doc or advocate as legitimate. But I have to reach out to my doctor and my advocate to do these things, and I would have to start by talking to Ka, my therapist, and there are too many favors to ask and there is paperwork and then concerns and to them it’s ‘no trouble’ in the end but to me it all is trouble and bothersome on a whole different level. I guess I have still not overcome the idea that I don’t deserve help and my level of depression just doesn’t warrant all the effort. I don’t need their help. I can do this attitude, and if I fail that’s just fine, let me fail.

I’m going to be honest, sometimes I have this temptation to just say to people “I have cancer.” Cancer is such a powerful word. “I have cancer”—three words that stops us in our tracks. It gets everyone to shut up and accept what needs to happen next without question. It gets them to think about you and sympathize. This is because it [cancer] is such a serious, incomprehensible and deadly disease. We also constantly see the children with bald heads and wires and scars on their bodies and pale skin, and this assures us that it’s hard and terrifying even if not all cancer looks like that. But it is hard and terrifying. And I shouldn’t say I have cancer, because even though this can feel like a sort of cancer sometimes, I don’t actually have cancer. And so I never will actually say that (I hope), but I feel slightly bad for the urge to possibly say such a thing, while at the same time understanding where me is coming from. Me wants to be understood. Me just wants to be cut some slack when appropriate and me doesn’t want anymore questions.

We attempt to learn systems of management that allow us to live our lives in some broad state of normalcy (by us, I mean anyone, anyone who has diabetes, anyone who is a cancer survivor, anyone who receives bipolar mood swings). It is hard, it really is. There are so many “steps” to go through as time goes on and we process what we have experienced and we get lost on where we are. But then again, doesn’t everyone get lost trying to navigate life? Sometimes I think the majority of the time, everybody is lost, and even when you’re 55, you can still have no idea what you’re doing.

Tonight, this moment, I am in the library, and I came here to get some work done, but I have done very little and don’t know what to do actually. I kept on thinking throughout the day “I have a lot to accomplish this weekend!” yet I can’t think of anything I have to do at all. I move on to my safe space on the internet.


Picture Credit: Jenny Holzer is the artist for this piece, which is part of a project called “PROJECTIONS”. This image came from San Diego in 2007. I found this project while reading about artists who use light as a medium. To be, PROJECTIONS felt somewhat haunting, maybe because of the incorporation of the text and the lighting of the scenes. Reminding me again of that fact that I am living on this earth of which I understand so little, of which I have to move through carefully.

“Write What You Know”

My internet is being slow and I have to leave for work soon, but my stomach hurts. My stomach always hurts right before this shift. My head always starts spinning. I think it has something to do with the Sunday night. The fear of the coming week.

I’ve picked up one more shift for this week and hopefully I can find more–I don’t want to be unoccupied. I won’t see my therapist until next week–there was a real fiasco so I haven’t seen her for a while, nor have I seen my psychiatrist, who’s newest prescription I simply just haven’t been taking.

I’m writing a novel, and I know it will be hard, but then again I have a lot of faith in it. I attempt a new novel every year as a part of National Novel Writing Month. This marks my 7th year of NaNoWriMo since I began as an 8th grader. That is an amazing accomplishment. My 1st year was through the youth website. After that, I have won twice during my 2nd and 3rd years, and never again since. I can’t imagine the joy I would feel to be able to write 50,000 words in a month. I can’t imagine how I actually did that as a freshman in high school. Those stories I wrote are pretty terrible looking back, but what craziness.

The best writing advice I have ever heard was from the author DJ MacHale, who wrote the Pendragon series which had a huge impact on my life when I read it in middle school. It was “write what you know.” I didn’t have much of an idea going into this. Okay, so I had ideas for novels but they were all mixed up and complicated and grand and I wasn’t ready for it. For whatever reason, I knew I wanted a character named Cassidy, and that was about it.

In the cult classic running book “Once A Runner” and it’s follow up “Again to Carthage” by John L Parker, the main character’s name is Cassidy. To me, those books are written in such a beautifully rustic, unique way. You can’t quite always find a plot or point to it all but Parker manages to make it work. While I was reading Again to Carthage, I was talking to a girl in my Ceramics class who’s name is Cassidy, and I said “I’m reading a book where the main character’s name is Cassidy.” She told me that Cassidy was generally a boys name, but I liked it on her. Then I decided I liked the  name Cassidy. Then, I decided I wanted to create a character, a girl, named Cassidy.

My main characters have always been male. I don’t know why. Now that I look back I wonder, “am I writing the male perspective correctly anyway?” I don’t know why I never wrote from a female view but here it goes. Maybe it will be easier.

ANYWAY, so I had my MC, and no story, but the advice of “writing what I knew.” I know depression and heartbreak, so that was shitty. I don’t really want to write about depression per say and definitely not about heartbreak because I will trigger myself. I went through so many of my old things trying to figure out what I know, but I couldn’t come up with anything. I felt stupid. Nothing was real and worth writing about.

Eventually though, it came to me: nature.

Last year, I went on a trip with the National Outdoor Leadership School, a nonprofit educational organization that leads expeditions in wilderness areas and teaches leadership skills. I had no idea what I was getting into at all. I basically just watched Catching Fire and wanted to throw things and survive in the jungle and be badass. This was before I came to my current college, and I didn’t want to go back to school at all at the time, but I knew it was probably inevitable. I typed into Google, almost in a desperate attempt “I DON’T WANT TO GO TO COLLEGE WHAT SHOULD I DO INSTEAD” and came across the Gap Year Fair website. From there, I found NOLS, and applied for a month long backpacking trip in Wyoming’s Wind River Mountains.

Holy shit, I had no idea what I was getting into. I was the weakest and the smallest. I wanted to leave on the third day. I was always tired and hungry and hurting and scarred. I hated hiking. I couldn’t carry my weight. I couldn’t even make myself eat. I wasn’t sure if I fit in. I felt embarrassed and ashamed.

It wasn’t until halfway through, when I almost lost my life falling down a skee, it occurred to me that I was supposed to be here. From then on I got stronger, more determined, and enjoyed the whole thing more. I think of my NOLS trip every single day. I feel sad that I didn’t survive the real world afterward or continue the things I achieved there. I want to go back so much. Those are the experiences that I know and remember vividly.

The hard part is, during all of those things, I was still recovering from my heartbreak, and all those moments have memories of that which can go alongside of it. So, although it may be hard, here is a bit of an intro of what it is about. I can’t call it a synopsis, because I honestly don’t know how to write those.

Cassidy can no longer remember a time without having a broken heart. After 4 long years, she is deep in depression, struggling to move past her young love relationship with Reagan and make peace with the loved ones in her life. But when Reagan goes missing, Cassidy can’t turn the other cheek. After the investigation starts running cold, Eric, Reagan’s estranged older sibling, thinks he knows where his brother may be. Cassidy, along with a friend who she’s just barely met, agrees to follow Eric into the cold Colorado mountains in search of Reagan. But has Eric taken them on a futile chase, or will Cassidy be the one to rescue her love?

The Flower that Blooms in Adversity is the Most Rare and Beautiful of All

Isn't this the ultimate truth of recovery?
Isn’t this the ultimate truth of recovery?

This was a week. I totally can’t fathom all that I’ve felt and not felt. This week has reminded me how fragile I am, but also how intelligent I am. I really am smart—I can speak intellectually and without bias, and I can pull facts out of the back of my head. My mind can unravel and untangle to where I can reach his information and I can have real thoughts and feelings that I know are worthwhile. I’ll be happier up late with Franzia and good friends talking about the world. This is not to say I’m not stupid. I’m very, very stupid, and everyone, including myself sometimes, seems to overestimate my competence. But I forget that I am privileged with this gift. I had parents who pushed me and I’ve been curious from birth. I forget that my mind actually is precious and holds thoughts that are worthwhile because concurrently my mind tells me that I don’t deserve life. I know I have to deal with the demons to recover, but I think it would help me just as much to help kindle these tiny fires, this small consciousness to get out, listen to other people, have intimate experiences, and—dare I say it—“live.”

It was really me who messed it up. I stay up too late and then just get tired of the things around me. I decide things are just stupid. Maybe I missed a pill or two earlier this week as well, so that encourages it. I think a lot of things are stupid. My therapist is pretty amazing and honestly I’ve been blessed to get good ones. But sometimes therapists I’ve been with ask me questions and my first thought is “stupid.” For example, “where are you going in the future?” What the fuck? I don’t know that. Nobody does. My answer: “dead.” This might not be a great example, but it kind of portrays the thought process. I start thinking everything anyone says is condescending and they are idiots. I get vulgar. Why am I spending my time on this shit? This is fucking stupid. Another example is that I often I think new experiences are stupid even though I end up liking them. First time I walked a dog? Wow, that was fucking stupid. I got Twitter just a few years after it launched and when it started picking up, I would tell the people around me I already  had one (hipster!!!!1). They’d ask me if the concept is good and I’d say “it’s really stupid.” But I kept getting on it. Now I’m recovered from that and Twitter is probably my favorite social media platform, although I deleted my seven year old Twitter account a year ago because I couldn’t stop checking the pages of my ex and all of his friend group, and it was ruining my life, and I’d stopped meeting new people through it. I miss Twitter.

I got really off topic. Let’s try again: this week. It was really me who messed it up. I stay up too late and then just get tired of the things around me. I decide things are just stupid. Maybe I missed a pill or two earlier this week as well, so that encourages it. So, when I would wake up, and think about class, and even though I love all my classes, I thought “that class is stupid” so I stayed in bed. I think on Monday I even got up and got ready for class, and right before I was about to leave, I thought to my myself “this is stupid” and simply went back under my comforter and continued to sleep. That’s all I really wanted—to sleep. I talked about that on my previous post. I mean, technically, all I really wanted was to die, but I didn’t want to die, and I’d heard that instead of doing something irrational, I should sleep before making any decisions. But you can’t pause life. Staying in bed means staying in isolation. Staying in bed means not being able to prepare a meal for yourself. Staying in bed means dreams. I don’t know if this week of sleep was worth it, but God, I have a lot to make up. I have a midterm tomorrow and I don’t know most of anything, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to do this:

Screen Shot 2015-10-11 at 4.08.17 PM

Which will probably end in this:

Screen Shot 2015-10-11 at 4.09.19 PM

Which could probably be at least somewhat alleviated if I end my post now and got to work, but meh.

So, eventually, the stupid attitude morphed into not being able to physically get out of bed or wake up at all, and I missed all of my appointments, including group therapy later in the week. I don’t know if I ever wrote about group therapy, but I’ve only been to one session (the first) and I thought “that was stupid.” But 5 points for Gryffindor for being self aware and saying “Don’t do that. Just try it. Ka wants you to try it. The first session always sucks and is awkward. It’ll probably be fine.” Yeah, but I can’t shake the stupid thought. I really can’t—it got somewhat ingrained in me this week and I will have to recuperate my attitude. So, I’m pretty sure I want to drop group, but I think the main motivation for that is time. I realized I need time for sleep. I’m sick of adding more things that take up my time, because I just need to rest.

Well, at that point, I get a call from Ka (my counselor) asking if I’m alright. I told her I just slept through it all. I couldn’t fake sounding good even if President Obama walked in. She asked if I’d been thinking of hurting myself. I couldn’t lie. So, what to do next? My safety is in question. She asked me to come into the office but she wasn’t available. I could see someone else—emergency thing. I know they do this but I just told her I didn’t want to see anyone else. I’d just had a crying spell too and had thought about calling mom. So of course when she says maybe I should go home I think that’s probably the best option (because she did mention going to the hospital, and fuck that.*).

I thought I could get up and get through the week, I had to. And I wanted to go to my job. I like my job. So on the phone I began with “come get me” and then explained the situation, and then told them I really wasn’t sure, and we went back and forth and I wouldn’t get out of bed. Finally I hung up and I did it, I went to the bathroom. They called me back first but I didn’t pick up, so then I called them back, and my dad told me my mom was coming she needed to come, she was worried. He would get her a hotel.

A few hours later comes my mother. We go to the hotel and sleep cuddled up that night. It was good and bad and scary. I didn’t sleep, really. The next day I went to work. I came back and had energy from that. I met back up with mom. I had a class. I didn’t go. She asked if I wanted her to stay through the weekend or if I wanted to come home. We continued to go back and forth—I didn’t know what to do. Eventually I decided I wanted to be alone, so I told her to go, but it hurt. I went to my night class and found out later that my mom drove home with my apartment keys—I left it in the car. I told her to mail it and it would come on Monday. My roommate is cool and can let me in. But my dad wanted to come and bring them, and I didn’t want him to. At that point the episode had ended, and I was just in the aftereffects stage. The next day I skipped my first class, went to my second and gave a crappy presentation, and then went to work, which was fun. In the morning though, my parents had called and my dad had said he’s coming. He was off and bored anyway.

I think he had the expectation that my mom was going to bring me home but she didn’t and I knew if he came, he would take me. I had midterms to study for and an art project that I have to be in the studio to work on. Nonetheless, I didn’t feel too upset. I let him come and I thought positively. I showed him the facility I work at. He asked me what he should do. He had the weekend off. I kept saying I don’t know—I really didn’t. Did I want to go home? Here’s one thought I had: Going home would put the mileage distance between Bo and I much lower. 25 minutes away*. He’s 25 minutes away, breathing the same air. Having sex with his girlfriend. It was irrational. There would be no chance I would see him. I was safe in my house, I was not going to contact him nor would I leave the house. For some reason my stomach still rattled. And what if I went home and didn’t want to return? I also thought about how much gas we were wasting.

But I was right about my dad taking me home no matter what. He made the decision for me pretending to himself that I’d wholeheartedly agreed* and we drove home. We talked a lot in the car about my classes. My dad talks a lot when he wants to. We didn’t talk about how I was feeling. I felt normal-ish even though I knew I wasn’t. I got home. I hugged my mom. More importantly, I hugged my sisters. God, it was nice to see my sisters. Really, it wouldn’t have been worth it if we weren’t all home to be together. But I don’t regret the choice because it was them who helped me heal. It was them who talked to me and made me laugh and made me feel like I belong. I love them so much, shit, I’m gonna cry.

I’m back now. I did want to stay. I wanted so much to stay—in fact, we’re actually on break this Thursday! Can you believe that? Only a few days here and then I go back. (Was it even worth it to come back…?) My dad once again talked too much in the car but he’s very smart. I hope my parents aren’t fighting on the drive home.

Now, about that midterm? Yeah, I should get on that + I have work tonight. It’s a late night shift I haven’t told my parents I picked up…whoops.

Before I close, on my ex: I love him. I love the idea of him I have created that likely doesn’t exist. It’s just been too much talking about it, trying to work through it, reading books on it—I want to work on some other things in my recovery. I can’t ignore it and not try to work through it, because it’s one of the biggest factors of my depression. It is very difficult and painful to do but that is what it will take to recover. But, right now, I’m sick of people being amazed that I still have feelings for this person—yes, it is totally unreasonable, and no cognitive process or logic seems to be working. No matter how right I know they are, I can’t shake having hope for reuniting one day rather than accepting it’s not meant to be. I shouldn’t say nothing anyone will say will help me get over him, because there’s still time to meet someone who could say something. But I’m exhausted. I hate this, but only time is going to get me through this. I hate that phrase. So much. But that explains it. What I mean is, I have to push through, I have to dissolve it in my brain, or let it dissolve. I don’t know what I’m saying.

Two Fa Zhou quotes in one post?! Where does she get off doing that shit?
Two Fa Zhou quotes in one post?! Where does she get off doing that shit?


*Exactly a year ago three days later (this weekend), I was in the ER. I wasn’t thinking about that at the time, but what an absolute mess it would have been if I repeated the same thing. My sleep last night, which was filled with tosses and turns, had been spent there in that haze one year ago. I didn’t remember it until writing this.

*In the midwest, we use minutes.

*My dad has this problem. I’m unsure about things. I take time to make decisions. He makes them during some conversation and deludes himself to think I want this 100%. His decisions are usually right but…if something goes on later, I have to listen to “What are you talking about? YOU wanted this. I thought you had REALLY wanted this? Why are you doing this?” It sucks, but it’s my dad, and I have to work on that indecisiveness anyway.
All pictures were found on Pinterest. Which I don’t actually use. Except the le meme–I saw that comic once a long while ago and wasted so much time while writing this to find it again. I just ended up making one.

Sleeping as an Alternative to Suicide

Reader, I have some news, and if you’ve been following the theme of this blog, well, it isn’t great news.

Let me start by posting this video.

I watched this video a while ago while I was going through posts on Facebook for the World Suicide Awareness Day. I was so ready to die. I read about all those people who had died and they were all strangers, but I wept a lot. Someone had posted this video, a small talk by existentialist therapist Emmy van Deurzan. After looking over all these people who lost their battle and the family members who were posting and mourning for them, I was hurt and sad inside. I watched this video and Emmy very much touched me. I cried and felt that she was talking so directly to me. Listening to her in the background of writing this is already making me feel emotional again. Hopefully, I will be watching more of her videos sometime soon.

Emmy mentions in the video that perhaps I just need a long rest. I think I kind of started to do this over the weekend.

Through Saturday I worked on my ceramics project extensively. I had a lot of homework to do and thought it would be wise to finish all of that manual labor Saturday and leave paper studying for Sunday. This was wise planning, but instead I slept through all of Sunday. I came home Saturday after throwing [clay] and went straight to sleep and did not wake until the next day when my parents were calling. On Sunday evening, I went to work for my late night shift and when I returned around 2am I fell asleep quickly. Then I slept through my Monday class and most of Monday I spent asleep. I did eventually leave to go to my volunteering job but since I was exhausted I missed the carpool and had to take the bus. When I returned, I fell straight into bed without changing my clothes. I remember waking up at 11:30pm and remembering I had jeans on but not changing. I woke up again around 3am and changed and re-arranged my sheets, then woke up a couple hours later for work. After I got off work today and returned back to my apartment around 11am, I was due for a shower but I just went back to sleep. I ended up going to my class at 2:20 and then coming back to my room after. I wasted time for a while and then finally showered (something I had been trying to accomplish since Saturday).

That was probably not the most exciting chronicle worth reading for anyone, but I am exhausted and I can’t stop being exhausted and all I wish to do is sleep for another week. I cry often and I slept through appointments with my therapist, psychiatrist, and advisor. I think about him a lot and I crave him and think about him sleeping with someone else. I feel my heart breaking often. I have no energy or enthusiasm. I think about my future wants to work in humanitarian aid and the low likelihood of that dream succeeding (it’s weird to think that I may actually have some kind of “dream” for my future, but I will write about that later). I cry some more. I think about the problems in the world. I cry more. I feel alone and sad and worried and anxious and I miss my family and I cry some more and I get more sleepy–and I want to quit.

So, the news is just that I’ve been sleeping. I’ve been sleeping and sleeping and I will probably continue to neglect schoolwork and instead sleep. I do want to quit. I want to die. But I will sleep instead. It is a bad thing that I keep sleeping now and I know it won’t stop, but I suppose it’s better than killing myself.

I’ll update this next time I’m awake.