Hey, a Depressing Story! There Just Aren't Enough of THESE in Blogs!!

So... quick trigger warning. This is my story, I'm talking about suicide and cutting and depression. If this bothers you, or if you feel like being a dick, don't read it.





I held the blade to my wrist, willing myself to do it. I pressed a little harder... And I couldn't. I took some deep breaths and tried again, but I couldn't. "Everyone's right, you're nothing. It doesn't even matter anyway. Just do it." But I couldn't. In frustration, I moved the blade higher up my arm and angrily slashed. It burned a little; it hurt a little; but it sliced through the white noise in my head. The voice urging me to kill myself just went silent. The film that had been endlessly playing in my imagination; who would discover my body, how my family would react; just stopped. I was alone. Just me, and blood, and pain. I ran to the bathroom, cleaned and dressed my arm and rolled my sleeves down. Then I went about my life, just as I always had.

The voice came back, of course, but it wasn't telling me to end it, it was telling me to cut again. I ignored it as long as I could, until it started pointing out things I could hang myself from. So I figured "It worked the last time..." I waited until I was alone, I cleaned and sterilized the knife I had chosen. I locked my bedroom door and sliced timidly into my thigh. There was a little blood, but not enough pain, so I cut a parallel line, then another and another until I was shaking too much to hold the blade. Once again, I washed my leg, I rolled my pants down, and I went about my life.

This was how I coped for months, until summer came. See, hiding the cuts was easy; but I forgot about the scars. My mom spotted them, and asked me about them. She didn't believe whatever lies I told her, so she kept asking me about them until I finally told her what I'd been doing. She couldn't understand at all. She sent me to the psychiatrist her insurance covered. I walked into the Dr.'s office and he handed a prescription across his desk, that was all.

So I took this antidepressant for a few years, and I suppose I was better. Everyone else seemed to like me better, what did it matter how I felt? But I didn't feel better. The pills kind of just took the sharp edges off of all my emotions, so I didn't feel so sad anymore, but I didn't feel so happy either. I didn't really live, I just existed.

I stopped taking the pills and I got worse. I asked for help, but I didn't feel like I was understood. People kept trying to fix me, but I didn't think I was broken. I finally decided I would have to help myself, so I started reading a lot of self-help books, and books about depression and happiness. I wrote a lot of really bad poetry, then threw it out lest it be discovered by family. I probably need therapy of some sort, but that takes more money than I have, and I feel like my parents will send me back to a Rx-er, not a doctor. I'm mostly better now, I haven't cut in five years. I can't say I'll never do it again though. I just really don't know. If I ever feel that overwhelmed again, I may. I hope it doesn't get that bad.

The Voting Entry, Two Weeks Late....

I was a good girl on election day, and I voted on every part of the ballot. Even the judges. Even the state questions. I researched everything on the ballot and marked it down in my sample ballot and took it to the polls with me. I won't really talk about much of it, but I will say that Jon Porter's ads were what pushed me to vote for Dina Titus. Her ads were all "my opponent has silly ideas that won't work. Here are my ideas that will work." and his ads were all "ZOMG YOU GUYS!! DINA TITUS EATS BABIES!!1!" Umm... what she does in her free time is not what I'm voting for, and I strongly doubt she did the terrible horrible things she was accused of. (which weren't even all that bad IMO) But really, Jon Porter gave me no reason why I should vote for him, Dina Titus did. I pushed the Dina Titus button on November 4. I also looked at all the judgey type folks on the ballot, and voted against all those who said they'd make court more efficient and get everything done by lunchtime. I'm of the opinion that justice takes time, and that everyone involved deserves to present their best case, and sometimes that will take a really long time; but it needs to, so bad people will get in trouble and good people will remain free.

Yay Me?

So, I had a weirdo aha moment the other day. I realized that I'm the exact same size & weight I was in high school. I've gained a few and lost a few in the ten or so years I've been out, but I can still wear the few things that made it through the years without holes in them. I struggled with weight for such a long time and was never successful. If I were only thin; if I were only 'normal'... You'd all be so frikkin jealous of me. Most people my age have gained weight since high school. Yay me. I'm exactly the same. I'm the short round one.

Okay, it's quick and short, but there ya go.

Stuff I've Learned

1. Don't hate yourself. If you're "ugly" (you're not,) if you're gay, if you're slow to learn, if you're hopelessly geeky, if you're a flake, if you're awkward; it doesn't matter.
2. Don't make excuses. Either make it better or accept it as it is.
3. You can do anything with hard work and determination. I seriously only learned this in the last year. I'm not telling you that you can solo with the symphony, but you can probably make a living playing violin if you devote the time and heart to learning.
4. You're never too old/too fat/too naive. Just give it a shot and believe in yourself.
5. Keep a playful spirit. My parents are the happiest adults I know, because they dance when they feel like dancing, they laugh with their whole being.
6. Don't waste time on shame. See number two for the reason.
7. Apologize. If there's even a chance you were wrong, an apology can reopen a closed heart.
8. Trust your heart, it's usually right. (thanks Jenny)
9. Speak your mind. Don't hold your thoughts back for fear of a bad reaction.
10. Kindness and grace go a long way.

Woohoo! Good Day!

Yeah, today has been a pretty good day. I've been having a tough time lately with a bunch of drama and self pity going on. I actually really reached bottom about an hour before I got a phone call that made a huge difference for me. I have a job now. Woohoo!

 

This is my grandma. It's the only recent picture I have of her. She's not really there in any other pictures I've taken. She is 91 years old, and she lives in a nursing home. I see her once a week and it's so hard to go. I never know if it's going to be a good day or a bad day. She doesn't have many good days lately. Dementia isn't like it's portrayed in books and movies. It's second to second. She could be there, and asking about specific family members, and then she gets a confused look and she asks you who you are. On the good days, she's present about 70% of the time. It's much worse on the bad days. In the early days, when she started losing her memory; she would recite the alphabet to figure out what word she was trying to think of. Now, when I see her, it's like we're each reciting our own monologues in two different languages. I tell her what's happening for me; and she recites the alphabet. She is trying so hard to communicate- and she can't. I don't know if she's treated well, I don't know if she wants anything, I don't know if she even remembers I'm her granddaughter. This situation tests my faith; in humanity, in God, in myself. How can this be the strong-willed, independant woman from my childhood? What purpose is there here?

A poem

You ask if I'm okay.
At least, you use those words:
"Are you okay?"
But your eyes are screaming.
Louder than those words.
"Say yes. Just say yes."
I can't ignore your eyes.
I can't ignore the voice
That tried to choke that question.
Kill it before it could reach me.
So I mumble in the affirmative.
I think we both know it's a lie,
But it's what you want to hear.

Expedition

This is a creative non-fiction writing experiment for me. I'm trying to be honest with the emotions my 10 year old self was feeling, but looking at it from this side of childhood, I was raised by June and Ward Cleaver. Any mistakes they made were made out of love. Both of my parents were and still are supportive and loving. Sometimes they didn't "get" me.

“Come on! It’s just a little bit further- you can do this!”
“I just… need to rest for a while.” I say as I stumble off the side of the trail, slinging my pack to the ground and sitting beside it. My father’s face gets fuzzy around the edges as I concentrate on breathing as normally as I can. The scouts are gathering around, staring at us.
“We’re almost there! It’s stupid to give up now!”
“I’m not giving up…. Just go ahead, I’ll catch up later.” My father looks around at the nine boys standing around, then leads them on up the mountain. I put my arms across my knees and stare at the dirt between my feet, taking tiny sips of air so the others won’t make fun of me. Tears gather in my eyes, and I rub them away with my wrists. Finally my brother catches up, and sits beside me, hanging his arm from my shoulders and glaring at the other boys. After an eternity, the last boy disappears around the bend in the trail.
“Okay” Says my brother, and his hand starts rubbing on my back. I lean my head back and concentrate on breathing- trying to force air past the cotton bunched in my windpipe. I wheeze, I cough, I cry, and finally it eases. Still wheezing slightly, I stand up and lift my pack to my shoulders.
“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.” I say to my brother. He puts his hands on my shoulders and stares, concerned, into my eyes; then turns and hurries up the trail. Alone now, I can take my time. I can listen to the forest; the wind, the birds. I can walk, I don’t have to march faster than I am comfortable going. I get to the top and it is a beautiful view. I can see our campsite down by the lake at the base of the valley. My father walks up and stands beside me.
“See? It wasn’t that hard.”
I smile up at him, then look back at the lake. From up here I can see that it’s crescent shaped, and what we had thought was an island is a peninsula. Two people are fishing on the shore, hoping for trout, probably catching debris, if anything. Our campsite is the only wide part of the shore, twenty tents scattered in a field behind a rocky beach. I can see my mother sitting in a camp chair, her feet propped up on a log by the fire. She didn’t want to come on this hike this morning. Maybe I should have stayed behind with her. My father rounds up all the boys and announces that, as the slowest walker, I am to lead the way back to the camp. All the boys groan and roll their eyes at me. I hurry through the crowd to the head of the trail and start walking. Maybe they won’t see how red my face is. Maybe they won’t see me crying. I set a pace that’s much too fast for me; my boots slip on the path; really it’s more of a controlled fall than a hike. Soon it’s less controlled and more falling, and I end up on my butt, picking rocks out of my palms. Once again, the scouts start to pass me up, until my father shouts at them to stop. He helps me to my feet and leads me to the head of the group again, then returns to the back. My legs hurt, my hands burn. Doesn’t he see how hard this is for me? I just want them to go on ahead of me. I know the way back, there’s only the one trail to follow. I keep walking, staring at the ground, trying to hide the sounds of my breathing. I go at a more comfortable pace this time, trying to ignore the complaints from behind me, just trying to stay upright. My father starts singing a song, some old rock song that everybody knows. Some of the boys join in. He shouts ahead that everyone should sing. I ignore them, concentrating on walking, concentrating on breathing. I’m not trying to hide it anymore, I openly wheeze with every step. I’m now racing my body to the camp. Will I collapse here or in my tent? After about four choruses, the path flattens out, and the camp is visible just around the next bend. The scouts hurry past me, shoving and teasing each other. I skirt around the edge of the campsite and find my tent. I unzip the door and throw my pack inside, then crawl in and curl up on my side.
I wake up to someone scratching at the roof of the tent. I peek my head out and smile at my brother. “Hey, it’s dinnertime. We’re gonna have spaghetti.” “Thanks,” I say, then crawl out and stand. “How are you feeling?” I borrow one of my father’s phrases; “Like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet.” He chuckles a little, then asks “Are you sure you’re alright?” “Yeah, I’m fine” I say as we walk toward the fire. I smile at my father and sit beside my mother. She tousles my hair and leans in to kiss my cheek. “Did you have a good time today?” “Yeah, it was alright, but I fell.” I answer her, showing my skinned hands. “You’d better wash up before dinner.” I walk to the edge of the camp, where a jug of water is tied to a tree. I squeeze a little soap from the tube tied to the handle and wash my hands. I go to my tent and get my flashlight and my dinner utensils; a collapsible cup, a plate and a spork. I return to the fire and sit beside my mother again. Dinner is finally ready and we all pass our plates to my father. He spoons rehydrated something into each dish. It tastes like the spaghetti they serve in the school cafeteria- plain noodles and tomato paste, but I eat it. After dinner we rinse our dishes, then hand them off to the boys doing dishes tonight. The rest of us return to the fire. The older boys tell stories and jokes they heard on other camping trips. I’ve heard most of them before, but I still laugh. The dishwashers return and my parents get out the popcorn and the marshmallows. I spear two marshmallows on my skewer and stick it in the hottest part of the fire. I smile as they catch fire and hold my skewer up, admiring the blue flames swirling around them. I blow the flames out when both marshmallows are burned, then wait while they cool. I see my father staring at me across the flames. “Are you sure you want both of those? Don’t you want to share with your brother?” I manage to keep my smile on my face as I shake my head, then I look back at my marshmallows. I quickly pull one off and chew. My mouth’s too dry, it only tastes like charcoal to me. I quickly shove the other one in my mouth and swish some water around to chase the taste away. My mother smiles at me and smoothes my hair. “Do you want some of my popcorn, honey?” I shake my head and lean against her side. Once everybody has what they want, my father sits forward and tells a story to the group. It’s one of my favorites, I’ve read the book he got it from. He’s a great storyteller, his voice rises and falls, finding the rhythm of the words as he speaks them, building tension until he reaches the conclusion. We all smile and clap, then he offers the marshmallow bag around to everybody but me. He doesn’t offer me the bag, but I smile and say “No thank you,” then excuse myself and go back to my tent. I crawl in and take off my boots, then crawl into my sleeping bag and shove the material against my mouth as I cry, as quietly as I can, until I fall asleep.

Stationary Bike

I've decided I want to be healthier. I want to go on backpacking trips. I want to learn to scuba dive. I want to go rock climbing. I want to surf. The problem is, my body can't handle it right now. I am not dieting. Dieting is a bad idea for me. The last diet I went on, I ended up eating only yogurt and salad, and weighing myself twice a day. I lost weight, but I was tired and irritable and I had a headache for four months. btw, If you're fat, people only see that- they don't notice the first four sizes you lose, they constantly ask how the diet's going, and they're disappointed when you tell them you've gone off it. I am exercising more, but here's the problem: I'm scared. The last three times I rode my bike, I got hit by something someone threw from a car. Every time, I crashed my bike because of it. When I skate, people laugh when I fall down, and make jokes about earthquakes. Even if I have a visible injury, noone asks if I'm okay. They have asked me if I bleed gravy. I wear a 42F bra- They don't make sportbras for me. (Okay, they make ineffective ones) When I run, I cross my left arm over the top of my chest and pump my right arm. I know it looks funny, but it is painful if I don't. Every time I run, strangers make jokes about me. If I do anything physical in public, I am taunted and jeered and physically attacked. I've been running at night, but it scares my mom, so I'm trying to do it in the daytime. I am just so tired of this. I haven't ridden my bike in a year, and it used to be my favorite thing to do. Why do their jokes get to rob me of the things I enjoy? Why is it acceptable to laugh at me?

Sorry for the downer, I'm in a maudlin mood tonight. I'm just venting so the bastards won't see me cry. I think I'll take my bike out tomorrow- I have a shiny new helmet to test.

I'm The Short Round One

I met Mom at her work tonight so I could lend my car to a friend who works at the same place. We swapped cars and I drove Mom home. On the way home, she was talking about her day, and the fun people, and the mean people she helped out. Then she got a kinda funny smile and mentioned talking to a customer on the phone. He asked how he'd know her when he came in and she said "just look for the short round one." When he came in later, a coworker of Mom's addressed him right before he spotted Mom, and he kinda laughed a little. The coworker asked why, and he said he'd been told to look for the short round one and that must be her. Later on, mom was helping him and they started joking back and forth a little. He made some joke about her roundness, then said "oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." Mom said "I wouldn't have told you that if it bothered me, it's just a description, it's not gonna change." I love my mom, and I am so proud of her right now. Four years ago, I wouldn't have been able to take her swimming, she would have said something about how nobody'd want to see some middle aged fat woman in a swimsuit. Today she knows it, she owns it, she gets that it's her body and if somebody doesn't like it that it's not her problem. She's fat. I'm fat. We're fine with it.

This Disc is Copy Protected

This is cross posted with another bloggy thing I do, so I'm only ripping off my own ideas.

I bought Across the Universe on dvd 2 days ago. I've been wanting to own this movie since I read an article about it 3 months before it opened out here. The movie won't play in my dvd player, which is about 4 years old; but it will play in my computer, which is much newer. (I tried my best to punctuate that sentence and have no idea if I did it right.) I'm feeling really conflicted about this. I bought this movie so I could curl up on the couch with my fuzzy blanket and enjoy it. It's not the same watching a film upright in a rolly chair with the sound coming out of itty bitty speakers. There's a part of me that wants to return the dvd, but I won't because I've already seen it, and thus 'used' it, and returning it now would be stealing. (My parents worked hard to instill a good guilt instinct in me. I don't refrain from bad things because I might get caught, I do the right thing because it's right.) I will eventually get a new dvd player that the movie will probably play on, but I won't be able to use it in the way that I want to for probably another year. I would like to write a complaint letter, but where should I send it?

Smile

This is one of my favorite songs. It's 'Smile' by James Marsters. I think it's absolutely beautiful. I found it on Youtube, I didn't make the video. I just wanted to share, I guess.

Subway ad (a feminist rant)

I get angry whenever I see this ad. The list of things that the cheeseburger meal comes with: bloated feeling, regret, remorse, a bigger waist, loss of self esteem, loss of boyfriend, shame, years of therapy, fries and a shake. One slip, one cheeseburger, and you're on a runaway train to Chubbyville, where you will be all alone, because boys don't like fatties. Subway, you really don't need to reinforce women's negative body issues; we have mothers for that.



Now, compare that with the 'male equivalent.' Oh, how silly, those burgers went straight to my butt. I'm slightly embarrassed, but not 'shamed.'