(Blog/Poetry) “This House Is Full Of M-M-Madness”

Apparently I’m in a Kate Bush phase.

I go through a lot of phases, especially with music. Part of why I so often bemoan the fact that I haven’t been blogging is that I always want to talk and/or write about what I’m listening to, and I’ve discovered I have to write about it when it’s fresh, instead of doing what I’ve been doing and taking notes to review an album later on, and never doing it because the inspiration is gone. I don’t like writing without inspiration.

My life has been strange lately. I mean, I say that a lot, but it has been pretty strange for the past few years. Today, my brain’s natural “I am miserable and lonely and life is meaningless” processes are fighting against the “HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY” processes that the antidepressants are shooting into it, leaving me FEELING happy and, well not exactly THINKING negatively, but I’m aware that it’s there in the back of my mind.

My best friend Jacob lived with me for about two months earlier this year. I woke up next to him every morning and went to sleep by him every night. We spent our days driving around, going to the mountains, looking around stores, talking and singing and playing music and having sex. It was a wonderful, wonderful experience. He had to go back home, though, for work, and has been there for the summer. He had the opportunity to move in with his dad and hopefully be in a better situation than where he was living, and I was happy to hear it, although sad that he isn’t coming back to me at the summer’s end. But then, I’m not sure what I can give him to come back to.

I’ve only just recently found another job. I had a long stretch of unemployment when I quit my last job after my stepfather died. It wasn’t actually his death that prompted it as much as my anxiety about working and the fact that I’d been sick going on a month. When I found out Jacob could move in and I didn’t have to pay rent I basically threw my hands up and decided I didn’t care about working right now, and that’s what I did.

Getting back out in the world has been difficult. When Jacob left I felt so empty, and dealt with the depression the best I could. I thought the worst of it was over, but it turns out my grieving process for Jacob leaving just moved into a different phase that FELT like normalcy, but was actually self-destruction. I’ve never been the kind of depressed person who physically self-harms; for one thing I have an incredibly low pain threshold and I don’t like the sight of blood, so cutting myself has never been an option. I know that a lot of depressed people feel relief after harming themselves, so I don’t have that outlet and my depression builds and builds.

My depression primarily manifests as intense loneliness, and it has strange physical effects on me. I start to walk incredibly slowly, all of my hand motions and mannerisms slow down, I have a look of exhaustion on my face, and generally just feel incredibly heavy. Usually I fall into bed and listen to some music and curl into a ball and cry, shivers running up and down my back, and I stare in awe at the depth of the sadness within me, so inexpressible by words or by music or poetry. I’ve found certain metaphors that describe it, but never perfectly, and besides it changes form.

I don’t think of my depression as a virus living inside me, more like a very somber friend. Last night I thought about personifying it as a character, I’m not sure what he would look like. I already have a few characters that live in my head, two of which were my imaginary best friends as a teenager and one of which is kind of like an angry alter-ego. I started listening to the song Get Out Of My House by Kate Bush obsessively last night, it’s so incredibly powerful, and describes what it’s like to feel invaded within your own head, fighting against something that’s trying to break into you. I don’t know that I can say the depression feels like it’s trying to break in, but it is apt in a certain way, because I could imagine it growing in my heart and then trying to break into my head. Like moving from my emotions to my choices, and affecting me.

I digress.

My depression moved into a self-destructive phase, and my form of self-harm was hooking up with strangers on dating apps. While a few of these encounters were actually pretty positive and I had a good time, many of them just left me feeling dirty and lonely. Not dirty because I think sex is dirty or wrong, or that sex with a stranger is wrong. Sex with strangers can be fun and exciting and even fulfilling. But for me, I started to lose myself, all that I did was send messages to people on Grindr. I neglected eating or showering or even things I normally do for fun like playing video games, and it started to consume me. I could write here the number of men I hooked up with over the last few months, or at least an estimation, but I’m not going to. Suffice it to say it was enough to leave me feeling even more depressed.

I’ve had a couple of depressive episodes that were as bad as anything that happened back when my depression was at it’s worst a few years ago. I don’t know that I’ve ever truly thought about committing suicide in any serious fashion, but I have felt a longing for death, which is odd because mentally I am afraid of death, but there are times when emotionally I find the release attractive. People always shame others for wallowing in self-pity, but I think that the reason people wallow in self-pity so often is that it’s a natural and possibly even healthy part of processing emotion.

I finally made the decision that I’m not going to be having any more random hookups with strangers, or that at least I’ll try to do something in the context of a date, rather than just appearing at someone’s house for sex and never speaking again. I put myself in a lot of potentially dangerous situations hooking up, one of which involved a guy who more or less threatened to kill and rob me as some kind of weird “joke,” and strangely I stayed there and finished fooling around with him before leaving. I think that maybe a subconscious part of me was choosing to put myself in those dangerous situations because I couldn’t deal with the loneliness. I don’t really know why I would do that. Maybe it was so that I could reach a low point and realize that I needed to change my pattern of behavior.

A part of moving on is finding a job and getting my life together, and starting school too. I haven’t made much progress yet on school, but I did get a new job as a pharmacy technician, which is a career path I’ve wanted to at least try out for a while. I’m not particularly interested in the medical field, but it’s always seemed like a comfortable environment to work in. Not as comfortable as being in an office, but at least they get to wear scrubs and stay behind the counter in their own area. I had a nine-hour first day on the job where I was trained on a few areas, and I felt that I understood what I was doing pretty well and picked it up easily enough. I do worry about how I’ll react when there’s a line, or when I’m stuck in one area not able to leave to go to the bathroom or hide anywhere. But at least right now I have some medication that can help me calm down in the case of a panic attack. I’m hoping that the anxiety I feel around going to work will subside soon.

Working has always been difficult for me. I usually dread going, and have a difficult time feeling safe or confident when I know that I’m working that day. It’s because I’m preparing for a battle, and I know I have to be strong because I have to go to work soon, and I can’t allow myself to feel depressed or scared, I have to try and be strong. As a result, the emotional toll is incredibly taxing and difficult, and I often come home completely exhausted. This is just how going out in public is for me, it’s a part of my anxiety. It’s something that I live with.

I’ve been writing a lot of poetry lately and I think that I’m in a good place with it, a lot of it is coming out really well and I feel very proud of these brief little poems. I’m hoping they’ll work their way into lyrics for songs. I’d like to make beautiful albums like Kate Bush some day. Here are some poems I’ve written recently. I’m going to be posting some more after this post as well. Hope you enjoy.

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We’re playing God and God isn’t playing fair
I’m coming in to burn you all
My skin begins itching soon, try to contain the flash
No weight can hold me back
Tell them to run while they can
I will live forever, the sun will die before my light is quenched
Don’t breathe, just run
Feed me with life until I am everything

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Running through the veins of love
Come on let the sunshine in
It’s finally gonna happen
You can’t even guess at how it feels
And when you hear them singing
You know they’re only trying
To say something that can’t be said

Come on out of the catacombs baby
Everyone’s been waiting
And in the middle of the circle stands
The fruit you eat daily
The water you drink
You heat that keeps your heart beating
Freedom waits for no one

 

Currently obsessed with…
Get Out Of My House – Kate Bush, The Dreaming

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(Blog) “Run Run Run Run Run Run Honey”

I’m not sure where to begin.

So much has happened this year and I haven’t written about a lot of it. I’ve just… done other things mostly. Tonight’s post isn’t going to be very long because I need to be asleep within the next half hour or so for work tomorrow. And because of that, I really have no freaking clue what exactly I should be writing about.

I’m not going to do my usual speech about how I wish I would write more. More, I want to talk about what I plan to do now. An ongoing problem I’ve had is that I’m incredibly organized, which is a manifestation of my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and that can actually put a lot of strain on my writing. The reason for this is that I try really hard to to categorize and organize everything I’ve written, and I have gone through the entirety of my blog posts since I began in 2010 and recategorized them several times. The reason for this is that I’ve always wanted to have a nice numbered blog system. Like, for instance, let’s say that this current blog post was number 123, I could put a nice pretty #123 before the title. I want to do this because it’s the way some Youtubers organize their videos and it just makes me feel proud to see what I’ve created.

The problem then becomes, what the hell COUNTS as a blog post? Because I’ve posted such a variety of things here over the years. The fictional short stories and novel excerpts I’ve posted are clearly not blog posts, and most of the time I post poetry all on it’s own, so that’s not a blog post either. But I’ve also posted a lot of really personal stuff, as well as things that are kind of meant to be read by others. For example, I’ve done reviews of books and video games, and more recently written some essays about social topics and media that I like. So, do I number those are part of the blog? Do journals count? What about those couples of posts where I just recounted my sexual encounters in explicit detail, which I then went back and retroactively made private? I know that this all seems silly and pointless, and well, it is, but that’s part of my OCD. I also keep my iTunes library immaculately organized with perfect track numbers, album artwork, and other metadata.

Think of it like trying to concentrate on creating something while you’re in a filthy room. You might want to clean the room first so you can concentrate. Okay I’m not going to keep going on about this because I’m sure it is an absolute chore to read, but maybe if you also have OCD or something akin to it you’ll understand where I’m coming from.

On top pressing matters. I have work tomorrow. Which means I have a job. Which means I stopped working at my previous job. And all that.

I left my last job pretty abruptly by unceremoniously walking out the front door one day when I decided I had had enough. It was mostly a combination of stress and being sick. I had a bone spur in my mouth and was on heavy pain medication for it, meanwhile my stepfather was dying of cancer in the hospital, and after he passed away my mom moved into her own apartment, leaving me alone in the house. I had the chance to help my best friend and lover move away from his abusive family and of course I took it, and my brother was planning on moving in with us with his wife. There was just… a lot going on. And I honestly couldn’t handle the stress of trying to work.

I’ve never been good at working a job. It’s not so much because I’m lazy or anything, as much as it is that I hate to be forced to do something I don’t want to. I mean, we live in a finite universe with incredibly brief lives that are already difficult enough to find meaning in, why would I waste eight hours of a perfectly good day standing behind a counter somewhere smiling at strangers and ringing up their hemorrhoid cream, when I could be writing a novel or kissing an artist while standing on a mountain top? I mean yeah, there’s the whole issue of society needing to stay afloat, but society isn’t going to miss me, why can’t I just stay home and do what I like?

I realize how immature that sounds, but it’s the kind of question you have to ask yourself looking at society objectively. The only reason you HAVE to work is to have money, and the only reason you need to have money is so that you can have food and shelter. Meanwhile food and shelter exist plentifully, it’s just that we’ve all communally decided and agreed that you can’t have the food and shelter unless you have enough shiny rocks, or scraps of linen paper or what have you. Actually WE didn’t agree on that at all, people hundreds of years ago did, and we haven’t all realized that we don’t actually HAVE to do anything Thomas Jefferson says because he’s actually dead.

Boy did this go off the rails quickly. Anyway, the point I was trying to make is that work is a HUGE anxiety trigger for me. It’s more or less the ONLY anxiety trigger. I mean, I get anxiety other times, but almost always it’s to do with work. The responsibility of going every time I’m scheduled, being forced to stay there without the ability to leave, it’s terrible, and sometimes unbearable. I think it has to do with the way my anxiety started: I had a panic attack at school when I was seventeen and I passed out, later being taken to the hospital. The next day when I came into school the panic attack repeated without actually passing out, though dizziness was definitely there. From that day forward, being in the classroom where I had my panic attack caused me uncontrollable anxiety, eventually I couldn’t be on that floor of the school without having anxiety, and then I couldn’t be at school at all without anxiety, and then I couldn’t be in public at all without anxiety. Having medication has helped greatly with the anxiety, although it’s mostly replaced the panic attacks with depression.

Which I’m fine with, really. I don’t mind the depression nearly as much. Depression is usually kind of comforting. It’s like a warm blanket of sorrow and hopelessness. It’s a relief. It’s like a gentle say, saying “It’s okay. I set down all responsibility. I’m not going to try and be happy, or try and make it through. I accept that I’m miserable, I accept that I’m filled with deep, longing sorrow.” And yes, being in public is hard when it happens, but the symptoms of being somber and deflated are much easier to deal with than the heart-racing, blood-pumping, nauseous dizziness of a panic attack.

Yesterday I went in to work on no particular set time schedule to get some computer training done. This ended up taking about five hours, and honestly I wasn’t terribly upset while I was there, just very depressed, which is not really the same thing. Depression is sort of the opposite of being upset. It’s a quiet resignation to sadness. But by the time I got home, the depression was starting to becoming heavier and heavier, like a weight in my chest, and I found myself curled up in my bed, shivering and tingling all over, crying and feeling a desperate, aching loneliness, wanting so badly to be held, to be touched, to be kissed and to be told it’s going to be alright.

I think I want a boyfriend. Someone I can trust who will help me when it’s hard. Someone who will make me feel safe and special and beautiful. Jake does that for me, but he’s far away and I need someone here. I don’t know how to go about it. I prefer to be polyamorous and I already have feelings for a couple of people and I just don’t really know how to HAVE a boyfriend anymore. I haven’t done it in several years and all previous attempts have ended disastrously. I had a long-distance boyfriend last year and it worked pretty well but then there’s the obvious problem of the distance. I need someone here, someone that can be there for me on the bad days. And sometimes there are a lot of bad days.

I hope that tomorrow will at least be manageable. I pray a lot. I don’t believe in God, or if I do it’s only in an Obsessive Compulsive way the requires the ritual of prayer to feel confident or safe. I’d like to believe in God, or in something. At least I think I would. I’d like to not feel alone, but I also don’t want to feel trapped. And I haven’t yet found a way to overcome both of those feelings at once.

There are ants in my bed because it’s by the window they’ve been biting my legs and my arms. But I don’t really notice them when they’re there. Hopefully this problem will get resolved soon too.

Tomorrow I work from nine in the morning to five-thirty in the afternoon. I hope it will be alright. I’ve had a lot of disastrous job experiences. Right now I’m in a dark place with this job, but I’m hoping that after some time, it will become easy and casual like my last job was. And I hope that I get to take the weekend off to recover from all this. Yesterday was unbearable. And the thing about unbearable sadness is that you have to bare it, which is what makes it so unbearable.

Goodnight, friends. I wrote a poem last night, I hope you like it. I really did. I’ll post some more poetry after this blog post. I write a lot of scraps of poetry throughout the day. Hopefully some of it will turn into something beautiful. Or maybe it already is. Who knows.

 

Currently obsessed with…
Hounds of Love (Alternative Version) – Kate Bush, This Woman’s Work II

Another Day

Today is not a very good day.

I always begin my writing by talking about how I regret not writing more. I’m working on that. I’m working on a lot of things.

I get the feeling this little journal entry is going to be scattered.

Oh well, at least I’m writing.

My anxiety appeared yesterday. Not that it ever went anywhere, but it just kind of showed up and decided to reek havoc. It does that. It tears apart foundations, it sinks it’s teeth into life rafts, it finds the broken locks and fixes them back up again. It’s weird to think about it that way, actually, because I usually think of anxiety as a friend.

If Anxiety were a creature, a personified person, I would think of him as a friend. Kind of a shadow of me, and he’s all curled up and he’s sad, and scared, and I sit with him. When I put my arms around him they sink into his shadow skin, and inside he’s warm and wet and dark chocolate black, a safe place deep underwater where you can breathe. So it actually makes me feel guilty now to describe him the way I just did, as a snake, a serpent trying to devour me and keep me locked away with it’s fangs.

I have a feeling I’m making less and less sense the more I write. But I’ll keep writing. Sometimes that’s all you can do is keep writing.

The anxiety is worse some days than others. The depression is the same. It’s not the same disease though. It’s weird, actually, to think of it as a disease. Like, if you speak English, you don’t think of English as a disease, it’s a part of you. My depression and anxiety are a part of me, so I don’t know if I’m comfortable thinking of them as a disease. My coping mechanism has always been to embrace them, make friends with them.

At any rate. The day before yesterday I was off work, and had a pretty decent day. Then yesterday came around and I felt nervous about going to work. This is common. Lately the hours leading up to going to work have been pretty stressful, and I’ve had to do everything I can to keep myself feeling positive, listening to positive music and doing relaxing things while I wait for the afternoon to roll around. I try and make the most of the my day, even if it’s not always terribly productive.

One thing I’ve been wanting to do more is write. I used to do these kind of mashup blog posts where I’d talk about myself, my life, everything I was interested in, what music I was listening to, things I was into, all of that. I’d like to start doing it again. Creating those blogs gave my life some meaning, made me feel like I was doing something productive. I don’t really go back and read them but I know that one day I will, and they’ll be important. Just as this will one day be important.

I’ve gotten so used to the dread, the anxiety, the depression. It’s almost drab to describe them now (I’m pretending to be smarter than I am, I don’t know what drab means, but it probably works. Okay I googled it, it means dull, that’ll work). Everyone describes their anxiety the same way. Maybe I’m only thinking of it as a friend because I just want to be special, I always want to be special.

This is getting very rambley.

Anyway, yesterday I was getting ready for work, and I lay down in bed and realized I just felt shitty. I couldn’t specify what it was exactly. My throat has been somewhat hoarse, which I haven’t helped by doing a lot of singing, and I have a feeling I may be coming down with something but not for a few more days. Anyway I decided to call out of work, and I had to lie to my boss that I threw up in my car, which I felt very guilty about. I was relieved, but I know from experience that running from the thing that gives you anxiety only makes the anxiety more powerful.

I have medication but it doesn’t work very well. One is an antidepressant and that works okay, the other is supposed to relieve panic attacks. The panic medication doesn’t REALLY work, but I’ve discovered that it helps calm me down a bit, usually at the cost of making me feel incredibly melancholy and lethargic. In fact, that’s probably why this post is so melancholy, and why I feel so unmotivated. I was pretty excited to write earlier, and now here I am.

Anyway, I took a nap. I didn’t do much with the rest of my day. It occurred to me that I needed to clean my room, I always feel better in a cleaner space. I’ve been watching Doctor Who recently, I started with David Tenant (I’ve seen the first three episode of Christopher Eccleson’s Doctor, I’m sure I’ll come back to him). Parts of the show are very sad.

So today I’m off again. I’ve not done much with my day. I haven’t cleaned. I played video games for a bit. I came here, to the coffee shop, to download some more Doctor Who. I played a bit in my iTunes library. I thought about my future, about where I am. I went to the craft store to look for a nice journal, couldn’t find one. I want a journal to use as a lyric book. I can’t write by hand very well because it hurts my hand and I have too much to say, but I would like to have a physical book with lyrics. It would be a fun project, a fun thing to have.

I’ve been writing a lot of lyrics lately. I think some of them are good. Maybe I’ll post them here soon.

I don’t think I’ll have a panic attack tomorrow because of work. But I am dreading going. I know that means that I have to go, in order to beat the dread. But I am so tired of fighting it. I’ve decided that it would probably be good for me to start looking for a therapist, trying to get medical aid if I can, and looking for a new doctor as well. I don’t have insurance but I do have a job, and that’s a good first step. Maybe I’ll start getting enrolled in school too.

I’ve thought about studying I.T. and getting a job in that field. I’m not crazy about computers but it’s something that would allow me to work at a desk, and what I would like most is to have a desk job, preferably one with benefits. I also need a gym membership.

There’s so much to work on that I don’t work on anything. My diabetes, my anxiety, my health, my job, my music, my writing, my blog, my novel. Usually I just stay in bed. I masturbate and watch porn, or play video games, and eat. I eat a lot of sugar free ice cream. It upsets my stomach but I eat it anyway.

This isn’t what I wanted. I wanted to live in Delaware with my new family, with Zack and Robert and the dogs. I want to go back. But I can’t. Not yet anyway. I want to, though. I just… don’t know where to begin. I have to stop fantasizing about going back to Delaware. I’ve accepted that this is where I live now.

But some part of me still won’t accept it. I don’t know. I wish the future were bright, like it was in Delaware. I wish there were promise, and hope.

I wish I weren’t near my mother. I wish she didn’t drain my will to live with her presence. No matter how nice she might be, still, being near her is terrible for me. It hurts me.

I’m hurting.

I’m afraid. I’m always so afraid. All this time has passed since I was that boy in 2010, writing about discovering Tori Amos. And really, where have I gotten? What’s changed?

Today I feel useless. I hope tomorrow I don’t feel so useless. I hope that one day it won’t all be so hard. I hope one day I can do something I’m proud of.

I hope one day I can have a friend who’s close by, who I can touch and hug and kiss and fuck. A boy who I can love. Someone I can come home to. Someone I can look forward to things with.

Today, I’ll just survive.

If I were to die, I would want someone to know about my writing. All the work I’ve done on my book, even if it’s all notes in emails and Google Docs.

But I shouldn’t talk like that. I don’t want to die and I’m not feeling suicidal. I guess maybe I just wanted to write it down just in case. I’m not going to delete it. I’m just going to keep going.

Some days your writing is good, some days it’s awful. Same with your mood, with your voice, with your achievements. But if you keep moving, something will change, for better and worse. And the promise of change, maybe that’s what hope is.

Keep moving.

“Living Like I’m Not Alive”

How do you stay alive? It’s all so much. The worst part of being happy, of finding friendship and love and hope, of traveling to new places, is when you lose it all. When you move back to the past, and you’re surrounded by the places and the people you hate. And suddenly, those weeks and months of happy times, of meeting friends, of laughing and being told how good you are, they’re all distant memories, and they feel like they’re fading away so fast.
 
I can’t take care of myself. What will I do next? Find someone else to take care of me? I don’t mean to be down on myself when I say I can’t take care of myself, I truly mean it. And I’m shouting out to everyone: “HEY! I can’t take care of myself! Someone, help me!” And everyone responds with “Oh no, don’t say that about yourself, you’ll be fine! You CAN take care of yourself!” But that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that I just can’t, and I need someone to help.
 
Where do I go? All of my friends are so far away. All of my hope is back in Delaware, with Zack and Robert, with the dogs, with the living room and my bedroom and the office and the computer. With the places where I belonged. My parking spot in their driveway is empty. And I’m empty. I hate that they aren’t here every day, that I go moments and hours without thinking about them. I hate that I’m losing them. They’re not leaving, but they’re transitioning. They’re becoming Zack and Robert Three States Away, instead of Zack and Robert In The Next Room. I didn’t want that transition. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want my world to shake and crumble.
 
How do you keep living? It’s not that I want to die. I want to live. If I wanted to die, this wouldn’t hurt so much. The fact that I can’t live, it makes it so much harder because now I want to. And they’re so far from me. They can’t pull me up here. And I can’t pull myself up. I can’t take care of myself.
 
I need safe arms to hold me. I need a place to recuperate. But there isn’t one. I have to get up and find a job. And I just… I don’t want to live like this anymore. What can I do? Where can I go? How can this be happening?
 
How can you live?