Last night I went off into another deep depression. I was fed up of the struggle and the cycle of my constant aches in my head so i decided to attempt to end it. For about a minute, while I was gathering my things my heart started to pound. My adreneline kicked in as my mind came to realize what my body was doing almost mechanically. I searched frantically for something to stick into the exhaust pipe outside of my car that would reach into the window. I found the perfect thing, the detachable tube to a vacumm cleaner. I went to test it in the pipe before I left and it fit absolutely perfectly. I was actually shocked that it fit so snuggley into the pipe, and it felt as if the universe wanted me to kill myself because of this perfect fit. This is when my heart started to pound as the wave of realization of what I was about to do started appearing in my brain. Raymond was so clueless and wanted to be, i assume he was fed up with my behavior and just wanted to sleep to escape me. I didn't want him to be in my way, in fact i wanted him to ignore me so I wouldn't burn him out with my constant drama.
A part of me knew that I wouldn't be able to go through with it, once the realization of what i was doing reached my rational brain. It was like I was on auto-pilot and the information signals about an oncoming attack against myself wasn't being reached to the command center. I knew I could just flow with it, just let time decide, and later i could always change my mind. I was too lazy, too worried that this drive to finally end this pain would leave me so i wrote short suicide letters to Cory and Raymond. I think the DMX was helping me dissociate myself and disconnect from my body and brain in a way, which allowed me to type them with almost no tears. The guilt of act I was attempting to commit was hindered by the cut off of connections to my emotional self. Drugs were aiding me in being unemotional at this time, helping me. Later that same drug would be part of my downfall and lead to the failure of my attempt.
I don't think anyone really wants to die, we just want the horrible pain to end. And boy was I in pain. Not so much of crushing depression, but of deep powerlessness and hopelessness of the constant cycle of misery and anger I felt. Of deep and personal hurt that the smallest joke on television inflicted on me. Of the vision of that air brushed model on Ray's phone that I could never look like. It's as if they make me become a hideous fat creature that no man wants but only tolerates because real beautiful women are out of their grasp and so rare. Thoughts of the many Republicans and religious folks that fought to silence me and being against help and aiding people like me. All of it felt like the world hated me, or at the least didn't give a fuck about me personally. Borderline Personality Disorder fits me like a glove, but it smothers me, I can't breathe with this condition, there is no room for error. And the removal of it takes time and tedious work from an expert surgeon skilled in his trade and dedicated to the art of his work. I don't know if i have the energy or strenth to take on such a ordeal.
Everyone says it's like walking on eggshells with us. I don't blame them for wanting to leave, even though they don't and i keep pushing them away they won't leave. But i live in constant terror that they will someday. The fear is unbearable. For me it's like walking on glass, every single step, every second of the day is filled with pain. Many words spoken have a sharp edge, images, voices, piece my skinless body and tear apart the membrane of my psyche. Every cut stimulates an army of defenses which react and attack to the invading army of words or gestures they find to be threatening. They are like shell shocked soliders, they are vigilant and quick to draw the sword.
I go in Raymond's room, kiss him and tell him how much i love him and how he is not guilty for anything, and that he better not ever feel guilty because he is not. He says that I know he will feel guilty. I disregard this into the back of my mind. We kiss each other and i say goodbye.
As i get in my car i am detached, I am waiting for that adrenaline rush to come again, to aid me in my act and to give me the drive and motivation I need to go through with it. I drive around aimlessly, tyring to think of a place that would be far enough away from the ones i love so they dont' have to see the place where I died on route to wherever. But my car growls and makes sounds of exhaustion to loud to ignore. The last thing I'd want is to be stuck on the road with a flat tire or broken down car at 4:00 in the morning while being out of it and slightly intoxicated on cough medicine. The roads were empty and i imagined being pulled over by a cop and being taken away to the hospital or jail, saving me from carrying out this act yet making everyone see that I really am hurting. I don't want to hurt everyone, but i don't want them to think I'm not in real pain, I don't want them to think that everything is fine and that I'm just a grumpy unsatisfied customer who is bitching over a minor flaw in a product or service.
I'm sober enough to drive and think clearly, but their is this disconnect. I drive to Corporates commons and see trees. I see the air base nearby and think of being seen and caught by someone, although i might want this inside the embarrassment and guarentee in my failure of my attempt stop me from parking near it. How could I defend being in enough pain that I wanted to seriously die if I parked somewhere where I could be found and resued eaisly?
I found a good spot near a parking lot and parked. I turned off the car to avoid being seen. While I was setting up the tube I was thinking about what would happen when I was found. I imagined the newspaper saying, woman found dead in car outside of building. But I thought nothing of my family and Raymond and Cory. My mind was on auto-pilot. After setting up i thought of what i wanted near me if I managed to sit there long enough to let the exhaust kill me. I saw books in my bag, atheist books, Jehovah's Witness story books, psychology books. I picked out How the Mind Works by Steven Pinker so those that found me would know that my mind did not work properly, and that I was aware of that. So that they would know nI didn't kill myself out of ignorance but out of sheer exhaustion and frustration.
I turned on the car after moving over to the passanger side. I didn't want to fail and end up getting arrested for a DUI or something stupid like that. As i sat there, a cheery Michael Jackson song was playing, I wanted it that way, I shouldn't need some depression Fiona Apple playing to aid me, I should have the desire strong enough to do it even when the music was upbeat. I thought of Michael Jackson and how different yet simaliar our lives were. He too was a person in great pain and had a lack of identity from what it seemed. We both were raised as Jehovah's Witnesses and had abusive fathers. We both were talented beautiful yet troubled and strange people, trying to find our place in this world. Feeling alone and yet so part of the world. He felt great empathy for suffering and people, so do I.
I sat there for a while and the smell of dust saturated the car. Then as seconds went by what I was actually doing began to unfold in front of me. The fact that I knew from the beginning that I wouldn't be able to go through with it pissed me off. I turned off the car while cursing my pathetic act of desparation and fortold failure. I didn't want to go home or back to Ray's.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Prologue
I never understood why so many writers always talked about flowers and trees in their liturature. I always found talk of daisies and sycomore trees to be dreadfully dull and quite cliche'. Other than a child or botonist who honestly gives a fuck about plants? Sure they are beautiful and full of vibrant colors. However, I haven't been able to see in any color other than black and white since I was a child. The only thing that facinates me about them now is their celluar structure and their place in they evolution of life. My wonder about their lives and if they posess a spirit or some sort of self-awareness in which we are unaware. I assume they don't, to their great fortune.
I do love trees. They are the symbol of life, the longest living things that grow out like the tree of evolution itself, branching out while reaching for the life giving rays of the sun. They feed us air and once provided shelter for our ancestors from predators. They are stunning in their size and the heights they reach. They out live us by centuries and even millenia. I remember once reading about a species of tree that lived for over 5,000 years. That tree would have been a seedling during the dawning of great human civilaztions. It would have seen the Egyptians rise, shaded the great Greek Philosophers in the haze of the sun while they wrote their masterpieces. They might have beared the blood of Roman soliders as they fought their way to becoming a great empire, and then witnessing their fall. It would have grown despite the darkness of the Middle ages, through the centuries of enlighenment and the dispursing of knowledge throughout the world. It could have sketches of hearts and names of long gone lovers. Lastly it would have died during the mass destruction of the earth by the hand of man or the closing of the timeline of existance.
But enough about trees. Now in the digital age, paper is no longer needed to write a book. Although the smell of paper and the feel of it's texture against my fingers is something I miss greatly. If in time we no longer use paper and ciliziation collapses, what will we have to leave behind for others to comprehend? USB Drives, Discs, drives and servers full of numbers and codes that would be so difficult to decipher? Like every human I want to leave something behind for others to see one day. I feel like an individual in a tree of life, branches of humanity are a part of me that seem more important than lesser creatures. I guess arrogance isn't absent in my position as a human, although I admire animals more than humans. Many times I've been in such a state of rage that I wish all human beings dead. In their chosen ignorance, aggrogance, and stupidity, the masses don't deserve life when so many of them fail to take full advantage of our power.
Simutaniously i ache with fear of a nuclear winter, yet smile slyly at the idea that even cockroaches would survive roam the earth, proving our own failure as a species while feasting our corpses. My hatred for everything that is ignorance or selfishness fuels my anger and rage against humans. People telling me what is right or wrong when no such thing exists in reality. Deluded perceptions inflict scars on our progress, the inferior collective consciousness of some sickens me.
In my mind, the same models, representations of my loathing run through like a cycle of misery. My own personal failures, the failures of others and groups of people and their politics their methods of reasoning or lack there of. The confusion of my own beliefs that lead me to believe and admit that I myself understand nothing. Just like everyone else I am a sack of living cells, broken down further a collection of an uncalculatable or comprehendable collection of atoms. The equation of life, if their is such a thing is still unkwown, the purpose unwritten. Predetermined or chaotic no one knows yet. The more I learn about science the more powerless I feel. The more I realize how fucked up I am the more hopeless it seems.
Just like everyone I want to leave behind part of myself, I don't want to live forever in this world, not as it is certainly, not with this brain. I want to die knowing that some part of my fucked up life will be passed along to generations. Like most people I could spread my inferior genes that like a virus will infect this earth, but I don't want the responsibility. I want the glory and attention that I never had as a child. I want to be the most important thing around to myself and not some child stealing my limited resources. How could i look my child in the eye and say, I'm sorry I had you, I'm sorry reject existance just like I did, go on and have a child yourself and subject them to the same misery I subjected you to. Now excuse me while I go off and kill myself out of guilt and leave you all alone with the burden of guilt. A continuation of the cycle of misery. I wish I could be like a tree, seeing life rise and fall, not feeling pain or any responsibility to do anything great. Just living and part of a seemless process of life and death.
I have always been a writer, but because of who I am, I didn't do it properly. I don't really give a fuck about grammar or sentance structure, to me it seems old fashioned and pointless. In an age where IM languge is used why does it matter whether or not i use proper subject verb agreement? Language varies amoung groups, and the group I am trying to apeal to are people who are not so uptight that they care about that sort of thing. How is someone like me, inflicted with so many mental disorders supposed to even accomplish writing a single paper? If failed to do so on many occasions, allowing for my anxiety and depression to stop me from writing my college English Research paper. The guildelines only allowed for 3 mistakes for an A. There are always critiques.
Who I am? That is a complicated question. There are catogories in which I could be placed into to give someone an idea, although their preconceptions might be off a bit to my dislike. Reflecting personality that I don't quite agree with. What I best descrive myself as is hard to say. Firstly I guess being female is primarily who I am. I'm obsessed with my looks, shove my fingers down my throat after a visit to the Chinese buffet. I don't eat high in fat foods regularly and try to get regualar exercise when I'm not going through a depression.
I do love trees. They are the symbol of life, the longest living things that grow out like the tree of evolution itself, branching out while reaching for the life giving rays of the sun. They feed us air and once provided shelter for our ancestors from predators. They are stunning in their size and the heights they reach. They out live us by centuries and even millenia. I remember once reading about a species of tree that lived for over 5,000 years. That tree would have been a seedling during the dawning of great human civilaztions. It would have seen the Egyptians rise, shaded the great Greek Philosophers in the haze of the sun while they wrote their masterpieces. They might have beared the blood of Roman soliders as they fought their way to becoming a great empire, and then witnessing their fall. It would have grown despite the darkness of the Middle ages, through the centuries of enlighenment and the dispursing of knowledge throughout the world. It could have sketches of hearts and names of long gone lovers. Lastly it would have died during the mass destruction of the earth by the hand of man or the closing of the timeline of existance.
But enough about trees. Now in the digital age, paper is no longer needed to write a book. Although the smell of paper and the feel of it's texture against my fingers is something I miss greatly. If in time we no longer use paper and ciliziation collapses, what will we have to leave behind for others to comprehend? USB Drives, Discs, drives and servers full of numbers and codes that would be so difficult to decipher? Like every human I want to leave something behind for others to see one day. I feel like an individual in a tree of life, branches of humanity are a part of me that seem more important than lesser creatures. I guess arrogance isn't absent in my position as a human, although I admire animals more than humans. Many times I've been in such a state of rage that I wish all human beings dead. In their chosen ignorance, aggrogance, and stupidity, the masses don't deserve life when so many of them fail to take full advantage of our power.
Simutaniously i ache with fear of a nuclear winter, yet smile slyly at the idea that even cockroaches would survive roam the earth, proving our own failure as a species while feasting our corpses. My hatred for everything that is ignorance or selfishness fuels my anger and rage against humans. People telling me what is right or wrong when no such thing exists in reality. Deluded perceptions inflict scars on our progress, the inferior collective consciousness of some sickens me.
In my mind, the same models, representations of my loathing run through like a cycle of misery. My own personal failures, the failures of others and groups of people and their politics their methods of reasoning or lack there of. The confusion of my own beliefs that lead me to believe and admit that I myself understand nothing. Just like everyone else I am a sack of living cells, broken down further a collection of an uncalculatable or comprehendable collection of atoms. The equation of life, if their is such a thing is still unkwown, the purpose unwritten. Predetermined or chaotic no one knows yet. The more I learn about science the more powerless I feel. The more I realize how fucked up I am the more hopeless it seems.
Just like everyone I want to leave behind part of myself, I don't want to live forever in this world, not as it is certainly, not with this brain. I want to die knowing that some part of my fucked up life will be passed along to generations. Like most people I could spread my inferior genes that like a virus will infect this earth, but I don't want the responsibility. I want the glory and attention that I never had as a child. I want to be the most important thing around to myself and not some child stealing my limited resources. How could i look my child in the eye and say, I'm sorry I had you, I'm sorry reject existance just like I did, go on and have a child yourself and subject them to the same misery I subjected you to. Now excuse me while I go off and kill myself out of guilt and leave you all alone with the burden of guilt. A continuation of the cycle of misery. I wish I could be like a tree, seeing life rise and fall, not feeling pain or any responsibility to do anything great. Just living and part of a seemless process of life and death.
I have always been a writer, but because of who I am, I didn't do it properly. I don't really give a fuck about grammar or sentance structure, to me it seems old fashioned and pointless. In an age where IM languge is used why does it matter whether or not i use proper subject verb agreement? Language varies amoung groups, and the group I am trying to apeal to are people who are not so uptight that they care about that sort of thing. How is someone like me, inflicted with so many mental disorders supposed to even accomplish writing a single paper? If failed to do so on many occasions, allowing for my anxiety and depression to stop me from writing my college English Research paper. The guildelines only allowed for 3 mistakes for an A. There are always critiques.
Who I am? That is a complicated question. There are catogories in which I could be placed into to give someone an idea, although their preconceptions might be off a bit to my dislike. Reflecting personality that I don't quite agree with. What I best descrive myself as is hard to say. Firstly I guess being female is primarily who I am. I'm obsessed with my looks, shove my fingers down my throat after a visit to the Chinese buffet. I don't eat high in fat foods regularly and try to get regualar exercise when I'm not going through a depression.
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