Pursuit of… Something.
I haven’t written anything in a while. Which is apparent if you look at the date on the last post… but I couldn’t tell you why.
I keep meaning to open up a word document and pour my soul into it, but I continue to fail. I find a reason, like having trouble typing, or I’m tired, or I’m busy… or just too lethargic. The fact of the matter is that I’ve fallen into depression once more, and I’m terribly frightened by it.
Emotions are never my thing. I can manage them in other people and I do well taking care of others, but when it comes to me, managing what goes on in my brain, it’s almost impossible to share what’s actually going on for me. Telling people I’m anxious is more than just telling someone I’m anxious, but it’s trying to explain that my brain is going and just won’t stop. There’s a button hidden somewhere in there, and I can’t find a way to hit it. I’m always worried I’m bothering Dan, at this point. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m happy as a clam in this new place. Now that we have a microwave, a vacuum, our pets have settled, a television, and I get cozy every night knowing things are taken care of and I am safe, things are good. But I worry. Is this going to annoy Dan? Will that bother him? With four people in a house, it’s safe to say that someone is always going to get annoyed at something. When it’s me… I worry. I am to blame.
But it’s so much more than that.
Growing up, I didn’t have friends. I mean, there were people I trusted, and liked a bit, but that wasn’t until middle school. For a long time, I was alone. Utterly and completely. I spent my days at home by myself, wishing I lived in another time and another place. I felt so different, and I wish I could go back and tell myself that it was because I was smarter and better than all that shit. I was picked on, always, and even when suffering the most with my depression in high school, people mocked me, shat on me, teachers tried to take advantage of me and people simply didn’t understand what it meant to be me. I almost failed out of high school while still working. The only people I trusted lived behind a computer monitor.
Becoming an adult has made me confront a lot of things I never did before. I’m faced with decisions and choices I didn’t have, and knowing that I can rely on others who I trust, who firmly have my back, is so weird. Finding that I love people in a way I never thought possible, finding those people I know I can trust for the rest of my life. There are human beings who want me to be OK, and will fight for that to happen.
Therein lies the problem. I am prone to self-sabotage. I fear that people will see whatever it was everyone else saw, and reject me. I tell people awful things, I do awful things, I become overwhelmed with emotions brewing inside of me and I explode in ways that are not always effective. I push aside my anger and my sadness, and despite what my Facebook status says, you really don’t know the half of it.
I am depressed. Pure and simple. Getting out of bed makes me want to cry, and I desperately wish I could ask my therapist to write me a note saying “She’s having a nervous breakdown, please excuse her from work.” I lay in bed and watch television, and I don’t want people to help me. I want to curl up and just… be alone. I am sad. I am beyond sad. I feel terrible and I want so badly for it to just go away. I come up with things to be anxious about, because for a moment… I’m not sad. For a moment, I’m somewhere else. But I’m still exhausted. Still staring at the food we have and knowing I could make it, but not wanting to. Not caring.
I got excessively drunk the other night, and while I remember everything that happened, I lied and said I didn’t. There was a moment where I thought I said something, but it turns out I wasn’t an asshole. I remember what I said. What I did. Why I did it. I remember it all. I remember that face in the mirror, staring back, that face that was reminiscent of the one that was staring at me in the hotel room in 2012, before all this started, telling me what I mess I was. And it’s true.
I’m trying to find my place in the world, to find what makes me happy and how to get there. I think we’re all doing that, but we struggle. I’m having a hard time right now, and while part of me wants to be held and taken care of, I also know that’s just not going to happen. I am so miserable right now. So terribly sad and feeling so terribly alone. I have this feeling. I’m trying to fill that hole in my heart with whatever I can get my hands on, but the truth of the matter is that I don’t know how. I’m realizing the hole is there, and I feel alone. I feel surrounded by people, screaming, and no one is turning around. There are so few people I feel I can talk to and have them, listen, and I don’t even know what that means anymore.
Life is never easy. As my father always said, “Dying is easy, it’s living that’s the hard part” and that’s true. We find our way in a world that is relentless and that does not stop to give us pause. We take a moment and find ourselves ten steps behind. My pursuit of perfection has left me with a hole in my heart since I’ve realized I will never achieve that, because it’s not real. I created this thing to try and achieve, but it’s nothing. I’ve wanted to be the best. Number one. Perfect. And I’ve realized that it’s truly an empty task.
So here I am. Sad. Depressed. Empty. And I don’t know what to do anymore. Medications, therapy, all of it is just so very hard and makes me so very exhausted. At the end of the day, I want to come home and sleep.
Am I glad to be in this new place? More than you could ever know. My new apartment and my new roommate are the best things to happen to me in a long time. And I want to smile and enjoy it… but right now, I hate myself so much, I just don’t know how.
Sometimes I write letters… well, I’ve just done it recently… to people I’ll never send them to.
Just wrote a confessional one and I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never send it. It will sit on my desktop forever, and I will never show it to anyone. Never read it aloud. Never print it. Never copy pieces or tell people what it says. I’ll simply have it.
And it feels good, to write things down, and I know I’d feel better sending it out. But my fear, and my terror… I can’t tell people these things. Maybe one day I can, and maybe this blog is a stepping stone to getting there, but there are things I hold close to my chest and things I never speak aloud. Things i never show. Things I won’t let myself feel.
So I make a place in my mind, like I do with my anxiety, where my fantasies live. I visit them, and pretend for a moment they are real. I hold them close, remind them I love them, spend some time thinking. Then I stand, walk away, and close the door behind me. It’s better not to linger on the things we cannot have. It’s best to let go of what we will never feel.
As I sit on the floor of my bedroom, my last night in this house, I am hit with nostalgia.
Like a wave, it takes over me and I feel entranced by it, watching it caress and take over. I remember what I was thinking, sitting on this same mattress a year and a half ago, my mother in the air bed beside me, coming home from Bigred’s party. I remember that feeling of seeing Jace after the breakup, that emotional crash of moving across the country and trying desperately to set myself back up. I remember everything that happened to me in a weird blur of emotional states.
But I’ve changed, right? A year and a half ago, if you’d told me I’d be packing up my things and heading into an apartment with my best friend, closer to work in a safe townhouse-like area that I’ve dreamed of living in… I’d call you crazy.
What am I afraid of?
I’m afraid of being happy. I am afraid of venturing into a world of normalcy I’ve never experienced. I lived with my parents for a bit after college, regaining my composure and settling in again, working a job I loathed and a second that I liked, also helping with my grandpa. I switched to a better job, but still was with the parents. I moved out when I went to grad school, but that was nothing ‘real’. I was reading a lot, studying a lot, out on campus a lot, and generally working my tush off, both working the library and studying. It wasn’t ‘normal’ by any stretch and I wasn’t financially stable.
I graduated, initially wanting to move to Seattle, changing to San Francisco, then back to Seattle. I got rid of everything and moved myself across the country. It was chaotic, hectic, and insane. I lived with three people, two of whom I’d never formally met, and three of us lacking jobs (Although Joey and I had Starbucks…). Over time things deteriorated, as they sometimes do, especially in a house of four women with drastically different personalities. But I also grew. I learned to step outside my comfort zone and I learned to move forward.
The job at the prison was unexpected. I thought I’d never get it, and more than that, when I did, I didn’t think I’d last. I didn’t want to last. I would come home and hate every second. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I could barely function thinking how afraid I was of this job.
But I fought it, as I do, and not only have I made some of the best friends I could ask for, but I was able to get myself into therapy. I got to know people I loved, learned what mattered to me, and began to grow as a person more than I had already. I stayed at a job, learned to love the job, and learned what it meant to be a solid human being.
I regret nothing.
Moving into this house, moving across the country, this perpetual chaos I’ve lived in for twenty-seven years… it’s all been for something. So what am I scared of?
Normalcy. I am finally getting what I never thought I had. A stable home with one other person, who I adore, in a comfortable and cozy environment. I will feel safe, and I will feel happy. I will finally have something I never thought I’d achieve anytime soon. I don’t know what I’ll do, lacking a perpetual chaos I’ve learned to live in. Become comfortable. Grow. Be happy.
So here I sit, my cat nearby, waiting for tomorrow. Waiting for another chapter in a book I’m writing about myself. I’ve rid myself of burdens and gained friends I never thought I’d have. I never thought I’d be working in a prison. Never thought I’d find the people I have. I never thought I could begin to feel this way about myself or my life. And I expect, in a few days when I have settled down and write again, I will have even more insight. I will be calmer. I will have more normal worries and I won’t know what to do with my poor, frazzled brain that never quite knows how to operate.
But I’m ready. And I’m ready for what lies ahead. I’m ready to take on the world, one step at a time. And if I can move across the country, goddamnit, I can move across town.
I can do anything.
And here… the first picture of me when I got here… my first selfie of many in this house. And my last.
Trust and Love
There are a thousand things in my head right now. I keep planning on opening up this word document and writing something meaningful, but then I forget. I move forward, and other things come up.
I covered anxiety, but I think what I really want to cover now is trust.
I’ve struggled with trust my entire life for a plethora of reasons. For a long time, and for most of my life, I’ve been shown that trust ends in pain and that you cannot rely on others. When I did go out on a limb to trust Alex, I was destroyed. No, scratch that. I was scarred. When I trusted to live with Jace, he let me down, too, and that was after promises of kindness and changes from Alex. Not to compare the two, as they are drastically different, but the result was the same. Loss of trust.
Learning to trust someone is strange, because it happens without you realizing it. I moved to Seattle out of trust on others, and while that has oddly deteriorated, it has left me with something greater. I’ve discovered how powerful I am as an individual, how much I can endure and deal with on my own, despite what I sometimes feel. It’s also shown me who truly cares, and helped me figure out in my life, what matters to me and what I want to rid myself of. And while I agree with Randi that the term ‘toxic’ to identify an individual is stupid… some people really are toxic in nature and manipulative and greedy. I am ridding myself of that.
When I realized I needed to move, it was kind of funny how it happened. Dan noted needing to move as well, and while it was initially a joke, he approached it finally and said, “So… roommates?” And we had decided it.
From there, chaos ensued. My father got fairly sick and fairly severely so. Visiting home was chaos enough, and while it was great to see him, I also was very vulnerable. But few people understood that, and fewer were able to support me. I remember talking to my therapist when I got back, though, because I’d had a few folks helping me, and one in particular with the move.
What Dan did for me, I cannot explain. Understanding that I was getting anxious about moving, knowing what I was going through, not only did he find a place we both agreed on and liked, that fit all our qualifications, but he took on the task of getting all the things in order. Cable, utilities, lease stuff… all of it. As I fretted and worried about packing and moving, Dan came in and helped. He did more than help. He took a burden I could not carry alone and guided me.
I imagine trust as this wild beast. It growls and snarls and whips around. But occasionally, someone comes along, sees it, and isn’t afraid. It either recognizes the beast or isn’t afraid, and gets closer. Without the beast knowing it’s there, it comforts the creature, caring for it until it is right there, holding it, the beast now a gentle creature, loyal to that person.
I’ve learned to trust. Chris has been a guide for me in my time of concern and fear, he has come and helped me without even thinking about it. Well, he thought about it and decided to help ;) I’ve had Elias to talk to when I needed it, to listen and distract me, to make me think about something else. Nick has been there to talk to and to learn with. I’ve had countless people carefully approach the beast and learn to show that they are not threats and that it is not a beast. It is a wounded, battered, and hurt creature.
The change has been astounding. Realizing I’m trusting others is amazing. I can’t possibly express the gratitude I have for others, those who have seen past what I put up, carefully put down my wall, and hold me. I imagine being held, and being told, “Shhh… I’m here. You’re OK.” And that’s important. Because I will always struggle with asking for help. I will always have days where I want someone to call even though I tell them not to, I want them to sneak into my room with cookies, find me hiding away, and hide with me, making me smile when I don’t want to, but making me want to. I have these friends, and they are dear. They have been with me through my changes and loved me through it all. I hesitate to use ‘love’ because of the connotation it sometimes has, but it is possible to love people and not be IN love. But there are so many I love. People I care for beyond what I can express in words. Thinking of that brings me to tears.
Despite my pain and agony on bad days, the hurt and crushing despair I can feel, the want for something else… I have people. And I need to learn to ask for help. To not push away. To tell people that what I am doing is PUSHING THEM AWAY. I am making them hate me so I can expect them to leave and want it. But these people don’t. They stay. And they love me.
So in the end, while my trust is weak and battered, scarred and hurt, wounded and weeping… I have people working to patch it up. Piece by piece. Bit by bit. And I will do the same for them.
A Guide To Helping Sufferers of Anxiety.
Anxiety is weird.
It’s weird because it’s so… devouring.
I’m typically able to handle a lot. I consider myself a strong, capable woman with the ability to conquer almost anything that gets in her way. But sometimes, so much happens at once, that I get thrown off.
When I’m forced to rely on others for help, my entire self gets thrown out the window. Right now, my concern is, and has been, moving. I come up with a thousand reasons things will go wrong. I won’t get my Ikea stuff taken apart or put back together, the Uhaul will be too expensive, I won’t be able to get help moving, it’ll be too expensive and I won’t be able to afford it all.
And even when I’m told “I can absolutely take apart your furniture” or “I can totally move your stuff” and I’m told by my parents, “Here’s the money for a moving company, to help you” and I have the money in savings, SPECIFICALLY to help me out-
Do you see that? Up there? Imagine that flooding through your head constantly. Unable to make that stop, it’s like hitting the pause button on a scene of a movie but it won’t stop. It keeps going. In fact, sometimes the volume gets stuck going up and you can’t do a damn thing. You can’t even unplug it because it’s glued to the wall. And the worst part? You’re worried that the neighbors will hear, because they’ll complain. You want desperately to make the movie stop. To pause it. To MUTE it at the very least, and you can’t.
Anxiety is bad. It’s different from depression, I think, in that you become acutely aware of the effect you’re having on others. You understand how ‘irritating’ or ‘annoying’ or ‘needy’ you are. You know because you can feel it. You hear that movie blasting and more than anything, you want it muted. It’s bad for others? Fuck that, it’s bad for you. It’s a scene of a movie you hate and you can’t make it go away. That’s what it feels like. Trapped in a room unable to stop it.
All this moving stuff is hard. It’s hard because I liked the people I lived with. Endings are hard anyways, by nature, but I liked everyone. I especially liked bonding with Randi towards the end, sitting with her while she smoked, playing with the animals. I don’t like all this finalizing. The knowledge that I may not get my deposit back, or what will happen in the future. Wondering how I’m going to move my things from one place to another and being tempted to get a moving van, because fuck… I’ve never done this. I don’t know how this works. I’m facing things that people might view as simple (such as taking apart Ikea furniture and reassembling it) and I want to cry. I want to curl into a ball and make it go away.
Anxiety is crippling. In the way that depression locks you up, anxiety is relentless, forcing you into the fetal position as it screams all the things that could go wrong. That might go wrong. That won’t go wrong BUT HEY YOU NEVER KNOW SO WHY DON’T YOU SIT AND THINK ABOUT IT.
I was talking to my mother, and I just started crying. All I could think was “I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I want it gone.” In that moment, it made so much sense that more suicides are related to anxiety than to depression (or so I hear). It makes sense. This relentless nagging and this feeling of being utterly alone. Even when people go “Hey, Alix, don’t be silly. I’ve got a truck, I’ll help with Ikea, and you can get a Uhaul because you can afford it” I can’t let it go. I can’t. I feel I’m trapped, helpless, and I want so badly for it to stop.
Part of what makes this so bad, for me at least, is that I’m aware of the fact that I haven’t felt this way in a while. My anxiety was well-managed, even when I knew Brittany was moving, and I was OK. I had a grip. But my grip is loosening, and I’m almost GLAD to be going back to work. Thrilled, even. It’s a way to distract me. All these thoughts are pounding at my head, and I know writing them down won’t work. I find one thing (money) and I solve it, and another comes up (how to move/needing help). I know once I *do* move, it’ll be the issue of getting Grace acclimated, it’ll be getting stuff for the house, it’ll be… something. But my hope… my true hope, is that those anxieties will be back at my lower baseline.
I will always worry. I will always fret and be nervous. And part of me understands what I’m going through (leaving, moving, all that comes with it) is anxiety provoking for anyone. I get that the feelings I have right now are normal, though exacerbated by the fact that I’m just prone to anxiety. And I want to apologize to everyone I’ve fretted to. To Randi, for freaking out every four seconds, to my family, for throwing this at them, to Dan, for telling him I can’t even look for a place. But they’ve all come through. As they do. Chris has reassured me he will in fact help with the Ikea furniture. I know I have the money for the Uhaul, or even a moving company if it came down to it. I *know* I’m OK, but I fret. It’s hard to let go. It’s hard to let go because I know the flooding of emotion that comes with it.
We don’t ever do anything without it giving us purpose. For me, anxiety prevents me from thinking. I’m so focused on all this other stuff, my brain doesn’t stop. It’s exhausting, but it gives me another outlet. I don’t think about my depression, or my confusion in the world. I don’t think about myself, or taking care of myself. I think about my goal. What I want to happen. I anticipate and I plan. I have plan A, B, C, D, E, and F. I’m ready for anything. And when it comes down to it? 90% of the time… I didn’t need to worry. Or fret. I’ve always been OK in the end. I’ve moved across the country, alone… why is this so scary?
I guess what I’m trying to say is… be kind. Be kind to those suffering from anxiety. They are trying their DAMNDEST to work through that pain. That relentless onslaught of emotion. That feeling of being a burden. Think about what those with anxiety are experiencing. Put yourself there. Don’t make it logical because anxiety never is. That’s what makes it so hard. It defies logic. Be kind and be gentle to those in pain. Soothe the pain with gentle reminders. Reassure. Hug. Love. Adore. Remember that it won’t be forever, and if you can soothe this person for even a MINUTE, if you can help with ONE thing… it’s more relief than you can understand.
Be sweet. Be kind. Be understanding. But most of all… be a friend. Because we need those.
Anonymous asked: What does PAX stand for? Thanks.
Penny Arcade Expo
We’re Done Here.
Those of you who have hurt and wounded me, those who I have given a chance to and have let me down, those who have required my time and energy and hurt me so. Those who have taken and not given, those who have left me in the cold, those who have used me for what I have and what I give. Those who hurt without care of consequence, those who choose a life path leading to choices they will regret, choices I wish to not be a part of. Those who have forgotten and harmed me, those who have left me in times of need and those who have simply not cared…
My New Year’s resolution is distancing myself from you. I am ensuring I am friends with those I love and those who love me back. Those who care about me, even when it’s hard to care about them, because I know their hearts are in the right place. I am here to fix no one, but I am here as a support for those who support me. I love those who love me. And I am learning to put myself first, for once.
One step at a time.
Grief and the Holidays.
I haven’t been writing as much lately. I’m not sure why. I’ve been forgetting some of my dreams, and those I do remember, I regret.
I dreamt of Alex last night. It was the type of dream I haven’t had in years, and really kinda shook me, one of my PTSD dreams. It was one of my shame dreams, the kind that I get and wake up feeling awful about myself for, even though I didn’t do anything. I hate those dreams because I can never share them. I have them kept to myself and I always feel like a fuckhole for them. So of course, today was filled with wonderful flashbacks.
And everything is irritating me. People, places, things in general. Even books. I’m getting bad at BOOKS. I’m sad that that ONE THING I was looking forward to seeing in Leavenworth, the lighting ceremony, I won’t be able to see because it won’t be happening. Part of the reason that I wanted to go to the thing in general was for the lighting. I wanted to celebrate Christmas! I wanted to be HAPPY! i wanted to spend a day doing things, leave late and exhausted after watching a gorgeous lighting ceremony, and then be happy. But it’s not happening that way. And part of me is like “Alix… you do this. You set yourself up to be upset by these things that happen.” And then another part of me just goes “Fuck it. Why try?”
I hate the holidays. I always have. I tried to like them growing up, but we never had many celebrations and most of the traditions were jaded with fights, cynicism, and general dislike of the holiday by my parents. I always wanted to love Christmas. I always tried. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become further jaded and disappointed. I don’t care about the gifts. I really don’t. But I’ve just become sad and I’ve stopped caring. What’s the point? Another year gone by. I don’t get it. I don’t understand it. I’ll never have a family to celebrate it with and create new memories with. And then I imagine my usual…
I imagine being alone, ten years from now, sitting with some stupid small fake tree, sitting with my cat and a glass of wine, and being alone.
I have never understood the holidays. The shopping seems so… commercial and stupid. Why not get a gift for someone randomly? Why wait until the calendar says you have to? Why bother putting up those stupid tangled lights just to have to taken them back down? I don’t get any of it. Maybe no one ever cared and so I never cared. I don’t know. I just know it depresses me. I just know I’m sad.
I know my friend is doing an incredibly kind thing, taking me somewhere very Christmasy to help me try and enjoy the holiday, but I just don’t. I want to curl into my ball on the bed, read a book, and wait for this fucking holiday to go away. I dread it. I didn’t used to. Dislike, sure, but now I dread it. I spent it alone last year, away from family. I spent it working at Starbucks because I needed the extra money, then watched Die Hard with people. It was awkward, disjointed, and generally stupid. Now I’m stuck again feeling like this holiday is fucking pointless, because it is.
I want to ignore it. If I don’t give you a card or gift, it’s not because I don’t like you, but because what the FUCK? I need a day where we promote people feeling badly about financial hardships or being alone? I need a day where I feel even more insecure about my future and spending it alone? I need time to feel like shit more than I do? I hate this holiday. With every ounce of my being I despise it. I’ve never had a ‘good’ Christmas. I’ve gotten things I’ve liked, but they’ve never been memorable. Unless we’re counting fights and arguments. Those I remember.
But I don’t want to remember gifts. I want to remember things. People. Activities. Love. I feel like the holidays are just not that to me. And so when I act extra cranky, extra angry… Just understand that it’s mostly sadness. And understand that there are some things that just cannot be fixed.
The Truth Behind Pain.
I can’t explain to you what this feels like.
Imagine someone takes your head and shakes it up like a snow globe. Each of the little flakes are your emotions, and they’re scattered everywhere. You wait desperately for them to settle down, but to no avail. There are always a few little ones settling down, but those are the ones you can deal with. And right when you think you’ve got it sorted, that the snow has fallen and settled, the same person comes back and shakes it all up again.
My brain has always felt off. I’ve always been acutely aware of my differences from others. I’m smarter than others, for one, and I think differently. I am driven in a way that makes little sense to me, but I use that drive to do better. To do well. To help others. But my brain has always felt… different.
That’s what mental illness does. Unless you’ve experienced it, you simply cannot understand what it means to go through the ups and downs of being bipolar. Even with medications, the depression and the happiness, sometimes butting heads, takes a toll. My anxiety that chips away at me and that makes it hard to focus, and my own pain and fear of letting people anywhere near me stops me from doing so much. I keep everyone at a distance, and it’s usually for good reason. Or what I view as a good reason, anyways.
I want to talk about self-harm for a little, because for those who don’t understand, it’s a difficult concept to wrap your head around. For some, self-harm can be a way of expressing the pain of struggle you hold inside. Having no way of letting it out, it is a physical form of release that can leave you feeling euphoric and relaxed. For others, it’s a sign of needing and wanting help but having no way of knowing how to ask for it. For some it’s both, or a mixture of one over the other.
For me, as a child, I would wail on myself. At age eight or nine, I would feel this horrible, crushing sensation over being overwhelmed by everything, being so sad I couldn’t bear it, and not knowing what to do, I’d bang my head or punch myself or just beat myself. It’s all I knew how to do. Punching pillows was never what I wanted because what I wanted was release. Physical pain, for a child, is so much easier to understand than mental anguish. It’s easier to process. So I guess it makes sense that once I started reading about cutting, I understood I had options.
I’m pretty sure at first it was just a way of saying “Please… please, someone notice me. Notice my pain.” Suicide was always on my mind, and while I desperately wanted to feel better, I thought it would be a way to be noticed. And I was, but not by anyone who could help.
It escalated over the years, and when I understood that my wrists were obvious and the pain was about release, not about being noticed, i began to cut my thighs. I have scars. I will always have scars. It’s hard for me to admit what I’ve etched onto my body. The word “FAT” is there, and I can trace my fingertips around it sometimes. Discolored marks where the wounds have healed, general understanding that there is something wrong makes me more self-conscious about my body. But the goal… the hopes of what I want to accomplish with self-harm, have always been release.
I have such a difficult time when my brain snow globes, when I can’t manage what’s going on, and that’s where my mind goes to. Previously, I’ve made the decision to take too many of my meds and drink, leaving me unable to remember what even happened to me. I know I’ve been around friends, but when I saw Hunger Games for the first time, I can’t even remember that movie. I had to rent it and see it again to know. I had no idea. I didn’t remember. I still don’t.
My body and my mind have a difficult time handling pressure. It’s just a constant state for me. When I can’t hurt myself, my goal becomes to hurt someone else. I lash out and push people away because god forbid I let someone in to help. They can’t. What can they do?
Last night I had a scary moment. My brain has been especially scattered lately, but I was drunk and alone in my room. I was taking my meds, and the thought occurred to me that while drunk, I could take all my diazepam and just sleep. No one would notice or even recognize anything was wrong for a while.
The moment was fleeting, and passing, but it scared me. I placed the bottle down and simply went to bed, aware that I had made a good choice. But the idea of self-harm has been on my mind in a way it hasn’t in a while.
I am broken. We all are, inherently, but I feel my brokeness some days more than others. The knowingness that I can never be that close to someone. That something will always hold me back. But self-harm is euphoric. It blocks out experiences for a long enough time to distract and keep me occupied with something else. Refusing to eat for over 24 hours, wearing my body down… I just feel frazzled. All my experiences with Alex have come rushing back, and there are moments, sitting and talking, where I’m there again. I’m walking on broken glass, trying to inject all his insulin into myself, running from him bawling and screaming as he chases me.
Coping with these things feels impossible. Were I even to ask for help, what would be the point? Temporary relief? I don’t know right now.
I’m OK. I mean, I’m probably not OK if we’re being honest, but I’m seeing a professional and I’m on medications, but right now I’m not really OK. I’m sad, I’m lonely, I’m hurting in a way I wish was physical so I could bandage it and wait for it to heal. But this will never heal and will always be a part of me. Just right now, it hurts a hell of a whole lot.
I am in love.
Falling in love is never easy. It’s never simple and it’s never without its struggles.
I am in love. Wholly and unequivocally.
You also never really realize you’re in love until it hits you. Smack dab in the middle of the face, you realize that it’s not just infatuation anymore, that you’re not just doing this because you like someone, but because you are absolutely in love.
That feeling, seeing something that reminds you of them, that creeps through your body, tickles your gut, makes you shiver. Never wanting to leave them. Wanting to be enveloped by them. Wanting to be whole and entire when they take you in.
Falling in love is so surreal. You find yourself doubting so many things and being afraid of things that you were never afraid of before. Afraid it might fall apart. Afraid it might end. The part of you that’s afraid it’s not reciprocated and that you’re alone in it.
But isn’t that what makes it exciting? Closing your eyes and feeling like you have something completely in your heart and soul? Feeling like you understand something to a degree you never thought you might. Losing yourself entirely even when the risks are undeniable. Being in love is more powerful than anything ever felt.
It’s different from lust. I grew from lust into love. I grew from a desperate desire of what I had imagined in my mind into something real and something tangible. Some of those dreams have been dashed, and that’s ok. Lust is always unattainable and unreal. But the love that has settled… the love is something extraordinary. I had always lusted, but never realized I could turn it into love.
I guess it’s all the little things that did it for me. Being inside Century Link field for the first time. Walking alone to Safeco Field, sitting in the middle of bumfuck nowhere staring at the clear sky on a freezing night, mapping the stars. Working at a prison and seeing the mountains, meeting people I never thought I’d ever know.
To say I love Seattle is an understatement. It was surprised me with the love it has given me. The friendships, the love for others, the true understanding I have for myself and BEING myself. Realizing I love a place and its people is astounding. I am afraid to say it, daily, but I love so many people around me. I do. I want them to know it. I trust and care for them. I love them.
And most of all, I love what this love has done for me. How I’ve grown, realized what I need to keep doing. Keep moving forward and developing as a person. Growing and exploring. Loving the things I do and how I do them.
I am in love with Seattle. I miss some things and I hate some things, but in all… I love Seattle. I love the city and the people. I just… it feels good. It feels right. It feels comfortable and safe in a way Boston never did. I question my choice on whether I even want to go back to Boston. I understand that not knowing where I even want to be is good for me right now. Maybe I’ll stay at the prison forever. Maybe I’ll get a job offer somewhere else tomorrow. Maybe I’ll move all around Washington and the West Coast and end up in Wisconsin. I don’t know.
But what I do know is I’m happy. Despite stress and hell, I am feeling happy. And happiness comes from love. Because I, Alix Seifert, am in love.