“Then all of a sudden, I heard a note
It started in my chest, and ended in my throat
Then I realized, then I realized
Then I realized…
I was swimming, yes, I was swimming
And now I’m swimming, yes, I am swimming
Your songs remind me of swimming, which i forgot when I started to sink.”
So it occurs to me that I haven’t really talked about my life since the breakup happened. I’ve wanted to. I think about it all the time. I just haven’t. I’ve written several blog entries in my head, but lately my blog has been very cosmic and abstract. That’s okay, I value abstractness, and feel more accomplished that way. That way, it’s like every blog entry is it’s own work of art.
I still think about him, of course. Today was a day where he was on my mind. I always think about the beginning, although today I thought a bit about last Christmas too, for obvious reasons. I don’t regret my decision, I know it was the best thing for me, and I know that the relationship was hurting me. Ordinarily I’d say that it was hurting us both, but I don’t know, I feel I need to be selfish now, I need to focus on myself.
It’s been interesting, meeting myself again. Maybe that’s why I went so crazy soon after it happened. The reason why I started thinking in broad strokes and writing about loneliness and crying every night, the way I used to do. Before I met him. I think the Jesse from Winter of 2008 still wasn’t done saying what he needed to say to me, and he wanted to finish his thought now that I’ve broken up.
But have I changed? Probably so. Definitely so. The funny thing is, I always thought that without him I’d be the way I was before I met, and that I’d be pathetic. But really, without him I discovered me again. I remember all the love and truth and perfection built up inside of me. I know there is something irreplaceable unique about me, and with him, I think I forgot about that.
Things are looking up. I’m not seeing the world through a fog anymore. I’m not warping my thought processes to match his. I’m not lying to myself anymore. I’m alive. I’m alive again.
So let’s discuss the seasonal events, shall we? It is Christmas time! Winter Solstice, Yule, the point is it’s cold and it’s mysterious. Winter is a season that really has something magical about it. And I don’t mean that in a Hallmark card sort of way, I mean there seems to be something otherworldly or transdimensional about the freezing air. Ironic that a time of deadness feels so fresh and alive, no humidity, no heat. It reminds me of when I was a kid and we used to go the grocery store, I would open the coolers in the frozen section and stick my head in and take a big whiff, because I loved the smell. Sometimes I’d climb in. I wasn’t just trying to play, I enjoyed the freshness of the smell and the cold air. That’s what Winter is like, except without machines, it just happens naturally.
I don’t think it’s even technically Winter though. Is it just me, or do Spring and Autumn seem to be very brief? They’re kind of transitional seasons, but they’re the most fun. Gradual step up in temperature, gradual step down.
What am I talking about, again?
I’ve been leading quite the social life of late. After the breakup, Nathan and I remained friends, and we still keep in contact with one another. He began mourning immediately, which he is entitled to do, since he was the one being broken up with. I was in shock, and then joy, and then sadness, and then anger. But I wasn’t really sad or angry about the breakup too much, I’ve just kind of put it out of my mind. I want to deal with it, but when it comes to the relationship, my emotions are used to being mute.
I reconnected with an old friend from middle school. His name’s Jonathon. We were friends in the seventh grade, which is also the year that I came out of the closet to everyone. I was obsessed with Will and Grace, and apparently talked to him about it every day. We spent most of our time together on the bus riding home, and we listened to Britney Spears and Jump 5 in his CD player together. He wasn’t out of the closet then, and in fact, I started to make advances toward him, which he refuted, pretty vehemently. I remember cracking a smile and trying to run my hand up his thigh, to which he smacked me off of him and got angry, or something.
Eventually though, he just started being really mean to me. I understand why, he was closeted, and he spent his time hanging out with the gay kid, so of course he had the pressure on him of everyone assuming he was gay, and just being the subject of ridicule for being friends with me. I don’t know if it was all that bad on him, but I assume that must be why he started to ignore me. By the time middle school was over, I was certain he wanted nothing more to do with me, and I was kind of hurt by it; I remember once having a dream during the middle school years that he and I were walking through a forest and he was yelling and just generally being mean to me.
I believe the last time we really talked was when the home of one of his friends, who lived across the street from me, caught on fire, and they came to check on the family and make sure everything was alright (along with a couple dozen other spectators gathered on said neighbor’s front yard). Me being the shut-in that I was, the first thing I thought when I saw him was that he should come to my house and see my place, which he promptly refused and told me to leave him alone. He told his grandmother, who kept a keen eye on me for the rest of the evening.
Until recently, the last time I’d seen Jonathon was sometime during high school when I saw him get into a car at a gas station. I waved to him, but he didn’t respond, even though he clearly saw me. I took this an indication that he still wanted nothing to do with me.
So, when Nathan became friends with him on Facebook a month or two ago, I wasn’t sure how to feel about the irony. After the breakup, however, I started talking to Jonathon on the phone, and he told me he had a big crush on me in middle school, and insists that his spurning of me wasn’t quite so harsh as I tell it to be. That could be, but I do remember being very hurt by his rejection as a friend. I didn’t have any friends at that time anyway.
So a couple of weeks ago, Nathan invited Jonathon and I to a gay club, and though I was incredibly nervous about the whole thing, they talked me into it. I finally conceded to go even though on the surface I just wanted to stay home and sleep. I’m glad I went. I wasn’t nearly as nervous as I thought I’d be, I got to meet Jonathon in person again, and I had my first gay night club experience. There was a drag show, complete with a drag queen who was more of a hot mess than Ke$ha, who she was imitating (and seriously, I understand that you may not know every word to a song, but it’s Ke$ha. Listen to the song three times before you go out on stage, how hard is it to remember “We are who we are?”). Poor Jonathon was pulled into the crowd by a drunken “straight” man who, according to a friend, has a wife and small children, and scared Jonathon half-to-death making out with him and refusing to let him stand more than a foot away from him. I didn’t get hit on once, but I also spent most of my time clinging to Nathan or sitting in the back, and while I wanted to dance, I wasn’t comfortable enough yet. I loosened up a little by the end of the night though. Unfortunately (even though I’m a minor and I couldn’t be served alcohol anyway) I can’t mix my medicine with alcohol, so no drinks for Jesse. Probably for the best anyway.
I spent the night with Jonathon a couple of nights later. I have a lot of friends. Most of them, however, live in different parts of the state, country, or world. I’ve never had a gay friend who lives in my vicinity, someone I can be buddies with and sleep over with and trade clothes with and watch movies and dance around with. I feel that’s an element of my teenage years I missed out on, though I did have a very good friend in high school, but we barely got to spend any time together outside of school.
Me being the emotional mess that I am, I cried on my first night at his house. We were sitting there, and I don’t know why, but I just felt sad. Maybe because of the breakup. Maybe because I’m just an emotional person. Maybe because I was actually happy that I had something I felt I’d been denied before. For whatever reason, I got a little teary. I didn’t cry my heart out, I was just whimpering and tearing up, and Jonathon gave me a hug and petted me, which felt really nice and helped. And then he turned on happy music, which, despite myself and my constant urge to wallow in self-pity, cheered me up.
I’m really excited to have a friend who lives near me, and who I actually share some interests with. He loves obscure music, he’s a snazzy dresser, and he’s a ball of fun. He’s also pretty troubled, and I can definitely identify with that.
There has been one terrible event recently, though luckily nothing other than a probably well-needed nervous breakdown on my part came of it. Things are probably finished with my father. That’s fine. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that I do talk to him on occassion, but he’s just really overbearing, as far to the right as one can be politically, a conersvative Christian, and despite his natural intelligence, very ignorant, racist, homophobic, and very, very delusional. He’s a sick person.
For my own safety, I don’t want to disclose why we started fighting. Because he said that he would find me, wherever I was, and “fuck [me] up.” I took that as pretty much a death-threat. Though it goes against my code to withhold information and not be an open book, I honestly don’t want to think of what would happen if he were to read this and hear me saying things that made him so angry he would threaten my life. But that’s what happened, he got angry, and said that if I ever called again, “[he] WILL find [me].” I know the threat seems to imply that he would only hurt me if I tried contacting him again, but it certainly felt like he could be on his way to kill me at any second.
I thought I was just angry, until I got on the phone and said the words “My dad threatened to kill me.” That’s when I broke. I started crying, really crying, not the crying I usually do when I listen to sad music and summon up sad thoughts to make myself get emotional, but truly feeling sad and alone. One of my longest consistent friends, Thomas, talked me through hyperventalating. I was breathing too hard, and my face and my hands got all tingly, and I was having a hard time breathing deeply. Ironically this is probably the closest I’ve ever come to passing out since the first time it happened, and I wasn’t really very worried about it when it happened. That could also have been because I was in the safety of my bedroom and not a public place, but nonetheless, I calmed down eventually. After some help from both Thomas and my friend Jenn (who helpfully advised me to lay on the floor with my legs up on my bed, which calmed me down dramatically), I calmed down.
My father’s wife called me in the middle of the breakdown, further asking me about the confrontation between the two of us. I begged her to tell him not to kill me or hurt me (she didn’t seem very concerned about the fact that he considered it an option), and I haven’t spoken to either of them since. I don’t want to. My world is better without him in it. I hate him. He is a terrible, terrible person. He doesn’t deserve my fear, my love, or even my hatred. My grandmother once hated him, and she told me that it took her years to be able to forgive him, without forgetting. I may do that one day. For now, I’ll just hate him when I feel like I can handle it, and try to forget he exists any other time.
After the incident with my father, I went a little cooky for a few days. I started to say and do things that were scaring myself, and I was afraid that I had actually lost some of my sanity. Luckily, I seemed to get back to normal eventually.
As for my anxiety, things have never been better. Well, on the whole, anyway. I can go out in public again. When I become anxious, I usually don’t begin fearing for my life or dreading a blackout that could come at any second. I just get through it. I think the medicine directly combats the panic attacks when I begin to have them; I have, however, had some thoughts that I’m not sure you’re supposed to be thinking about when you’re on antidepressants.
Namely suicidal ones. Now hold on, hear me out, don’t throw me in a straight-jacket and ship me to the looney bin yet. At first, I started thinking about it simply because I knew it would be a bad thing if I did, after all, you have to stop taking antidepressants if you have suicidal thoughts or urges. So naturally, the first thing I did, in a classic attempt to prevent myself from succeeding, was to think about suicide. However, I started taking the antidepressants around the same time that I broke up with Nathan. So, it’s been hard to tell if the feelings I’ve been having have been a result of the medicine, Nathan, or both. I know that th medicine has helped me, and that I’m feeling good about being out in public again. At one point, a few days before I was prescribed the medicine, a tingling numbness and pain developed across the entire left side of my body. After I started the medicine I stopped noticing it, and it presumably died down a bit. I’m actually feeling it right now, for the first time in a while. I guess it’s because I’m addressing all of this.
But I can’t just throw a thing like suicidal thoughts out there and not finish my defense. I have thought about hurting myself. It seemed like it would give me relief. I thought about cutting myself, and I had this odd feeling that it would make me feel better. It wasn’t the same as when I sit alone at night and try to be sad so that I can feel something, although in a way it was, but I haven’t done anything. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to do anything. If I did, I probably would fail because I’m afraid of blood, and usually paranoid that any little thing would kill me. Self-mutilation doesn’t seem like something that I could do successfully. I don’t want to talk about this in a public forum this way because I’ve always had a terrible fear of being put in a mental institution, and I don’t want to give anyone any reason to put me there. For that reason, I think I’m going to have make this entry private, even though I want to share everything openly.
But for anyone who’s worried, I’m not contemplating suicide. I have, however, thought that hurting myself might be a relief. I could lie and say that I haven’t, but I have. I also thought several times about killing myself, but I don’t know that I ever actually CONSIDERED it, I just thought about it. You’ve thought about it too. You may not have considered it, but you’ve thought about it. You’ve realized that there is a way in which you could do it. It may not be that you want to do it, but you have thought about it, I don’t believe you if you say you haven’t. Everyone’s thought about it. It’s not the same thing as considering it. If you own a gun, you’ve thought about the fact that you have the option of killing yourself. I do not own a gun, but my boyfriend did, and I was worried that the thought that I had the option of using it to commit suicide occurred to me so often.
This blog entry has not turned out the way I’d hoped it would, but I guess I got things off my chest, and that’s what important. I was thinking of doing a part two, where I discuss all the music I’ve been buying lately and what I want for Christmas, so maybe I’ll just save that for the next entry. I’m sorry if I’ve upset anyone with anything I said here. I’m just trying to be honest. I don’t think I’m any more a danger to myself than I ever have been, and I just want to be able to say the things out loud (or in this case, in “print”) that I try to avoid thinking. Part of me just wants to scream all the obscenities and taboo things that I’m told I’m not allowed to say. I want to talk about the fact that 14 year old boys are sexy and that I think guys are hot when they pee and that we’re taught to avoid sexual thoughts about parents, relatives, and children, but because we’re told we’re not supposed to think about it we want to think about it, and if we were all just free to think about whatever we want without fear of judgement we wouldn’t have a burning desire to do things that we’re told are awful, like kill someone or ourselves, or have sex with someone we’re told we’re not supposed to.
It’s these kind of thoughts that honestly worry me. Are these the kind of things a person thinks when they go insane? Or are they just the next logical step on a path of thinking that leads one to question all society around themselves. We’ve probably all thought some of these things to ourselves, but quickly pretended that we didn’t, because it’s taboo. If only people were free to be themselves and to think whatever they want and to express all their emotions in a healthy way. Screaming and smashing up an old car that no one uses with a baseball bat is not necessarily an unhealthy release of anger. Not that I did that. I slammed a pot of beans down onto the pavement and splattered dinner all over my shirt, but the point is still valid, I think.
Since this entry will in all likelihood become password protected, you probably know me if you’re reading it. What do you think? Do you think these thoughts are unhealthy, and that they’re something I should tell my doctor about, so that he can perscribe me another antidepressant, or take whatever action is necessary? Do you think I need to be institutionalized? Do you think I should never have said these things aloud and kept them bottled up? Do you think I need therapy? Do you think I should TELL a therapist these things? Because I’m pretty sure some of this sounds like “a danger to yourself and others.” I’m scared to post this now.