Rinse and Repeat, Until Symptoms Have Subsided

Tonight I am angry. Tonight I have been incensed, by the cruelty and ignorance that for too long I have ignored. I read tonight an article surrounding the phenomenon of ‘suicide contagion’, which if you’re like me and tldr: describes the spike in suicides after a highly reported and detailed suicide has taken place, usually relayed by the media duplicating and publicizing the information en mass. Now, I am not usually the one to take the offense. I am not the kind of person who rises to some sort of high ground proclaiming a social justice defender stand point commentary surrounding a socialist/mentalist/vegan/whatever-is-in-vogue these days ideal, but this? This I feel right to my gut. I have felt it too much and too hard. I have not been honest with most of you.

I have not been the most open person these last 5 years. Ever since I left school I have been struggling with something inside of me which I could not, and still can not, entirely explain with my own words. But for this, I will try. The idea of ‘suicide contagion’ is that when a suicide is highly publicized within mainstream media or online media, it becomes so pervasive that it encourages copy-cats to emulate that particular suicide. I do not at all condone nor condemn these people. They emulate because the initial victim is regarded as a saint, as a milestone and paragon of a particular idea. Who doesn’t want to be remembered as being bigger than themselves, as a crusader, as a god? Suicide though, in itself is one of the most horrific things I can imagine a person being driven to. It is to me a perceived lack of total loss of control in life that leads to an act that at least has a semblance of control in death.

I have seen this, even if I have not been conscious of it until this time, the depression and anxiety, the overall futility of existence combining to create a weight that when one person of your ilk dies, and then is deified by your peers, inspires a step that seems more meaningful than a continued life of the individual self. This deification which I see absolutely, everyday online, of depression, of anxiety, of introversion, of beyond the social norm. IT SCARES ME. It terrifies me, because there is almost no alternative. It is reasoned by the media and by peers as the only thing to do in that situation. They say in not as many words but usually in more, that this is the only way to be seen, to be recognized, to be loved, This is so, so wrong.

Personally I suffer from psychosis. I do not a have a mental disease that can be idealized nor glorified. I do not own a disease that you can make pretty for consumer consumption. I hear voices, I see things, I am not someone who is looked at with envy in a tumblr post or pityingly in a facebook announcement of prescription pills. To be honest I scare the hell out of the people I tell. Even those with prior experience in psychotic conditions I terrify, not because they think I will hurt them, but because they have lost too many already to my particular disease. Worse still, some won’t believe me.

When you think psychosis, you think schizophrenia, you think violence, you think ‘crazy’ and not in the ‘dances on tables sometimes’ kinda crazy. You think domestic violence, assault, you think padded rooms and solitary confinement and for the extremes of my behavior honestly you aren’t wrong. I try hard though. I take my medication, I go through therapy, I swallow my anger, and resentment and fucking incomprehensible dissociation’s of reality on a daily basis for the one goal of getting better. You could not even understand how much I fucking try to be a member of society do you understand? Yet I hardly ever say anything about it. Why?

Do you know how much it hurts me when someone says their friend is ‘psycho’? Do you know how much it hurts to sit through conversations and TV recitals condemning me? Do you know how much it hurts to know that at one point I wanted to lock myself away? That I thought that confinement was the only way to keep the people I love safe from me? Do you know how much it hurts to take down the barriers of my ego to tell you about myself and have you sway away from me? As if an inch between our faces can stop it from being catching. It’s not fucking Ebola. I am not ashamed, and I have worked hard to be where I am today, but when I see another mental illness being made godlike on TV I quiver, I shake, I almost feel like vomiting because you have no idea. Because I am not the media version of okay, I am not someone in a spreadsheet of beautiful women who have been empowered by their struggle through mental illness. It is because I know how hard it is to be better, to go through the stages of recovery, yet I am the plague to those same people who lift others to a godlike ground.

Every time I admit to my illness I am treated as septic. Like I will infect. I have wallowed in the despair of depression, I have existed in the purgatory of extreme anxiety, I have lived what others have lived, yet because I imagine a world that does not exist I remain an untouchable.

Imagine day after day you had your father, your lover, your best friend rolled into one telling you to hurt your loved ones, badly, because maybe, just maybe then they might need you and you wouldn’t be so pathetic and useless for a while. Imagine your mother, your sister, your brother rolled into one telling you day in day out to hurt yourself, that a knife through the foot, a cut to your arm, a needle through your hand wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done this week, it might even be the best. At least then you would be out of the way, at least then someone might notice you. Imagine that every day, every hour, every time you get stressed, every time you relax, letting go for just one second means the voices comes back. I remember a week when it grew so loud, and so strong, in all the timbres of the people that I loved and adored, telling me to kill myself. Telling me I wasn’t good enough. I knew it wasn’t real, I knew they weren’t saying those terrible things but it was just so strong. It felt so close underneath my temple, just behind my hair and skin that I began to scratch. I began to pull out my hair and dig into the skin because it felt so close to the surface between my brain and bone that I might just be able to dig the goddamn voice out.

There is blood beneath your fingernails now.

You lie about a cut.

You walked into traffic, wanting anything to be louder than what’s in your head, please let me go, please.

You’re in the emergency room now.

You get home from a walk you cannot remember.

You lie.

You talk to your parents.

You lie.

You talk.

You lie.

Rinse and repeat.

Camus talked of Sisyphus, the man the gods condemned to roll a rock to the top of a hill just for it roll down again, thus the futility and absurdity of life itself. We of the mentally ill are condemned to repeat our mistakes indefinitely. So what is the point of living? In my experience, with blood beneath my fingertips and a multitude of bad decisions bruised everywhere else on my body I ask you this.

Why do you want to be like us? Why would you ever, EVER want to walk the road that we do. Ask yourself what is so empty in your life that you must create a reality in which you want to exist in ours?

Then realize, you are so so good just as you are. Please. Please do not think of me badly. I am just a girl who envies you. I want to be better. I want to be good. I want to exist in a world that loves and accepts me at least sometimes for who I am. I have no one telling me I am okay just as I am, only people who say that someday I will get better.

I will live through my entire life on field separate from your own. I will not ever be you, there is no pill nor therapy strong enough. So I ask now, and forever more. Do not love us, the mentally ill, because of our faults. Love us in spite of them and never, NEVER, make us your goal, for you are ours already. You have already won, and I shall at least forever envy you that.

Searching, Searching

I do not enjoy solitude. It is a state I find myself avoiding at all times. I’ve always based my mood and behaviours off of other people. To be completely honest I do not know my own feelings at any real point of time. I can not tell you if I am an introvert or an extrovert as both seem equally plausible to me in how I feel around others. People tire me yet excite me, but by myself I have always felt as if were a blank slate, waiting for some type of human interaction to give meaning and purpose to my actions. I can never be sure if the person I am is whom I actually am, or if I am just a reflection of what others expect of me. Maybe I will never truly know. But that is emptiness.

The emptiness of being alone, completely and truly.

It is something I have always had. Even as a child I reflected, I learnt early to reflect on the behaviours expected of me. Dependent on the situation I tried hard to be ‘seen but not heard’, I tried hard to be ‘playful but not precocious’, to be ‘silent but attentive’, notice I say try hard because as a child I was not ever truly in complete control. Even now I am not completely in control. It would be so much easier if I was. I am water, filling any shape container I am poured into. The perfect dinner companion. The charming hostess. The funny drinking partner. The reason I try is because it’s easier. People put you in a box and it is easier to inhabit that box for the moment than to live outside of it. Depending on the size of the container I can be too much though , or too little.

The medication makes it better. I don’t know how I survived without it. How on earth did I deal with all the shame, the guilt the absolute helplessness of being overwhelmed and overused, undercharged? I am just glad I do not have to experience it any more.

As much as I complain about not knowing myself, I understand that maybe this is just what being in your early twenties is supposed to be like. That this too will pass. I will always be thankful to have parents which instilled this in me. I see so many people feelling ostracized, criticised and invalidated for expressing their opinions. I always knew there would be a time and a place. I grew up knowing instinctively when and where to be the person I am versus the person I should be, or want to be. I am eternally grateful that I have never felt hated by anyone. I can be who I need to be for a night just to survive where others mighthave been left floundering in the shallows of a pool I did not know how to swim. My social exoskeleton is intact, a concrete jungle metres thick.

It’s Not Paranoia If Someone Is Following You

I don’t trust my doctors. I don’t like them. I thought I would be okay with them talking together, ‘helping me’. Fuck them. They’re not helping me. I had to drink half a bottle of wine this morning just to feel okay going, and I don’t think I’m going to handle this well at all.

I am so paranoid on public transport.

Reid hates me but I still trust him more than any of these fuckwits. At least he comes, at least he can mask his disdain for me enough to calm me down. Then they pull me down further. I don’t

LIKE talking about what’s happening in my life. I don’t LIKE sharing the bits of me that only I know, don’t lie to them? What about them lying to me? They don’t care they don’t give two shits about me. Just another sad girl on another sad day of the week. They couldn’t care less about me. Some quota to fill, another hour of work and upping my meds. The only reason I still go is to get a bigger dosage every time. That’s all I want. Something to numb me down enough to not fucking care about this anymore, anything anymore.

It’s actually hilarious how much I hate everybody right now. Or it would be funny if I didn’t feel like punching and kicking anything and everything about me right now. I don’t want this anymore than they want to hear my sad fucking life story 80 times over. They don’t bother to remember. They talk about me behind my back. They probably laugh. She’s not worth the time. They don’t want me, no one understands and all they do is talk over me anyway when I see them. A curse on them. I curse them with all the breathe I have. I don’t want them, I hate them. I don’t want this. I just want another bottle of wine, my cigarettes and no one near me. Not because I want to be alone but because I will hurt them. I will hurt myself. I don’t care right now. I want none of this life. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I hate everything.

Dismissively passing off my problems as not serious.

Not serious hey?

I’ll fucking show you not serious.

Among Gods and Demons

Isn’t it wonderful to think that we all grew up believing we were gods?

Everyday reminded of how gifted we were, how gorgeous, and special, charming and knowledgable. We were initially at least, a present to the world, and you had the ability to do anything and everything your heart so desired.

We grew up believing we were all powerful.

We formed ourselves from the ashes of giants, from those who believed in us and what we were doing right now. We shaped our bodies in the shadows of fantastic people, teachers, relatives, friends, and we were beautiful. I was so beautiful. We all were. There wasn’t a single person in the entire world who could tell me otherwise. Who could tell me as the tiny saint-like being I was, that everybody in the world was not kind and good in some way. We were told everyday that we were special.

That we were loved, and that we would do great things.

Like Zeus atop Mount Olympus and the omnipotent beings in the air we crawled through, I breathed life into all I created. I imagined entire civilisations made from sand and clay, I saw them in my head and worked them into life with tiny hands and big heart. In those moments, were we not more heavenly than anything taught in churches and preached throughout temples? There is no force greater than the unbroken confidence of a child in a space of creation and manifestation.

God may not be real, but I see what those disciples saw. Organised religion may be an unholy mess of the human condition, but it is easy to find the miracles and magic it speaks of.

You rarely find children heavily invested in religion. They may be brought up with it and able to recite prayers upon prompting, but they do not see it as the saving redemptive force adults do. Instead, children relate to god as a peer and a rival. I envy those who never came down from their godliness, who never fell like in the stories of Satan or judge like his brother, the archangel Michael who cast him down from heaven. They rule with their absolutes.

I know I could have ruled with that heart, that mind.

Instead, we forget we are beautiful. We forget our greatness. We forget we were once gods. The encouragement fades to criticism. The compliments become few. We delve inside ourselves, and where once was a glowing fountain of self-confidence, we find that we have used it all up. We are running out. That stream becomes a trickle, and that trickle begins to drip, drip, drip, slower and slower and stops.

We are no longer gods.

We are no longer the creators.

Instead we become an entirely different being. Of no less importance, but it is intensely humbling to see where we have come from. To see the room we have left behind.

We become the followers. We are the believers.

We pass it on.

We become the vessel for gods.

We create absentmindedly almost, a new and glorious pantheon. Just as special, just as adored, just as liberated, free, and almighty.

We keep the faith alive within the last world we will ever completely create, that which we have grown up to love and protect.

We pass it on.

From The Primordial Sludge It Lurches

It’s almost the end of the year again, today is my boyfriends birthday, and we have no money.

This happens maybe once every 3 months, we both forget to save and end up with 30 dollars between us, no cigarettes and no food in the pantry, with payday 4 days away. Haha. Tough, but it is worth a laugh or two in the long run.

In my last therapy session, my psych talked to me about prioritisation and figuring out what is really important to me. Not in the sense of what is truly important in life such as family, friendship and so on but what is truly important to my psyche. What makes me happy, comforted and calm. What makes me who I am.

At the same time as I was finishing my appointment and the days inbetween and afterward, I was listening to a philosophy podcast on Socrates ‘The unexamined life is not worth living’ and Descartes ‘I think, therefore I am,’. These were both very uplifting and really engaged me intellectually in thinking closer and deeper about my life and what makes me and the others around me who we are today. I have since then come to some kind of conclusion, though not a conclusion at all really in the sense it is not an end but an understanding of what I need to do.

I need to start my life.

I need to begin molding myself into someone I feel happy being. From what I have gathered inside myself this will involve a fair few changes, including wardrobe, reading, writing, living and lifestyle. It is going to cost quite a bit of money, time and expertise to achieve but in the end I hope will be worth it. I need to start to focus on what I wish my life to be and put that into action, letting the rest, less important aspects of my life fall where they may.

This might seem self centred but I do not think it is in the purest sense. Yes, I will be doing a lot of self-centred activities, I will begin to spend more money on my clothes and health/well being, I will spend more money and time on arts and craft I desire to complete, I will spend more on furniture and the such leaving less time and funds for socialisation. But that is what I want.

One thing that constantly stresses me is the way I present myself to the world. The clothes I wear and the makeup on my face, the state of my house. I stress because the outside doesn’t reflect the inside, it doesn’t reflect me, only my current income or social status. If it means I retreat from the world for a while to further polish and perfect myself so be it. I might prefer that. I would prefer to be elusive and rarely seen than spend that same time watering down my public persona into something less than what I am. I’ve always tried to use my words in a way that is clear, correct and concise, and now I shall make the rest of my life the same. I do not wish to be misinterpreted, in any way, as I said I try to say what I mean and mean what I say so why should my life not reflect this same personality? I have a goal now. I have visual confirmation of my desires and I will work to achieve them. I shall make lists, and I shall not lie.

I will become myself. I will work hard to become myself.

This coming year and all years after that, I shall endeavour to embody my trademark saying,

‘I do not associate myself with mediocrity,’

I am am not mediocre, and neither shall the people and life I lead be such.

I am finally going to spend time creating me.


So I thought originally that I wasn’t going to post this. I thought it might hurt people, make them think about me differently, make them feel bad if they read it. Well fuck that. You have NO idea.

You feel bad? I’M THE ONE LIVING IT, I’m the one shuddering on trams trying not to touch anyone walking home with a scream stuck in my throat so loud it’s a constant hum in my mouth. I’m the one trying to deal with a new everyday that I can’t fathom as a possible forever. I’m the one doing this practically alone because no one can see in my head like I can. No one hears what I hear. No one is feeling what I feel and you have the audacity to blame me because, oh, poor baby, You. Feel. Bad.

Not anymore.

You may feel bad, but I feel the fires and icy winds of hell. You may feel bad, but I hear the voice of reason drowned by demons. You may feel bad, but trust me baby, I feel worse. I feel so much fucking worse and this is my reality. THIS is it.


I hear a voice in my head.

It tells me things I don’t want to hear. It’s a dark voice, a rough voice, a confident tone in it’s timbre that makes me listen, makes me want to listen so it’s hard to ignore. It tells me bad things. Small things. Almost meaningless things until you really listen, and I mean really listen. Then do.

I see objects move in the corners of my eyes, skittering across the floor like mice. In the bathroom the heat makes it worse. When I’m tired it shifts like mirages across hot sand. When I close my eyes I can feel myself detaching from my body and floating, bouncing off the walls of my skull and against the roof. I dream in Japanese and get confused when they speak English, I can’t translate back the languages in my head and I wonder which one I know best, if at all, when all I can repeat is “watashi wa nemui desu. Hontou nemui desu.”. I am tired. So very tired.

I smoke too much, I drink too much, I don’t sleep or eat enough. I can’t when there’s so much stopping me from resting. From finally sleeping. I am so tired you see. I’m tired of being tired, but my eyes will not close just to feel so much anxiety it makes me grit my teeth and clench my jaw so tight it cracks in the morning.

My medication isn’t working and my life isn’t right, how can I hold down a proper job when it’s hard to think linear enough to make sense. It’s hard to interact with people for long when I just get so angry and disgusted I want to vomit into my own mouth. Or on them. I don’t think I’ve made a real friend after 2012.

I want to be alone to avoid it all. I don’t want to be around people who will just leave anyway, who I will only disappoint as I cannot make or maintain relationships with those who didn’t know me when I was sane.

I don’t care. I don’t care, I just want enough encouragement to get out of bed in the morning. I want a hand to hold when it gets too much. I want someone just to tell me that tomorrow is not a myth, and that the sun will rise tomorrow morning even if I don’t believe it will.

I’ve just had enough.

I hear a voice and it’s telling me it’s okay to stay awake. Stay awake.

I hear a voice and it’s not mine.

I hear a voice and maybe I’ll listen to it this time.

Expecting The Inevitable

For the last 5 days I have been underground. Out of sight and out of mind, I have altered my sleeping pattern to consist of a number of highly exasperating procedures to manage my own guilt. I seem to be in a two week slump which has hit hard on not only my self-esteem but also into my education and hip pocket. I have skipped work and assignments, admittedly for subjects that mean little to nothing to me, but I am suffering constantly in the wake of this guilt.

I don’t want to do it, I didn’t want to, not because I have no motivation but because I said ‘fuck it’ which is not a reasonable excuse. I don’t know what to do with myself.

I need money.

I need a break.

I need a life.

I need an education.

But somehow I cannot consolidate these things into a singular existence. I focus on either one or the other, I can only have a single aspect of that perfect existence at any point in time, according to my own universe and ridiculous restrictions based upon self-made rules and regulations. Maybe this is just real life catching up to me. Maybe this is what it means to be an adult, compromise and all that jazz. Though I feel that this compromise is a bit harsh, it is a little too unhealthy for me to exist within. If I could only escape the torment of a life filled with outside expectations maybe I would be okay. I expect nothing from myself except to succeed in who I am, in what I want to be, and I have no time frame or limitations placed upon that. It is everyone else around me I feel a need to live up to. As much as they repeat to me that they will be happy as long as I am, I can’t help but see the end of their patience, the line they have drawn in the sand for others. They believe it is to help those in trouble, and I agree that some do need to be cut free, or at least talked to harshly before they can realise their own full potential. All I see is a deadline in the distance made of broken friendships, relationships, family. I see a pair of slowly closing scissors, or a mouth lined with razor sharp serrated teeth just hovering beneath me, waiting for the last threads of my lifeline to fray and break. One day they will. Not because I haven’t been trying my hardest but because I can’t anymore. I’m not infallible, and as much as unrequited love can get you through the day there is a point that the unbroken and healthy must leave so as not to be infected themselves. Make no mistake I am diseased, a contagious virus that spreads and affects all those who know and touch.

I am not angered by this. I am not upset about the inevitable. I understand. It is necessary to cut off the dead flesh so the good can remain, like a gangrenous limb it must be amputated for the health and wellbeing of the whole, before it poisons the blood and tissue irreparably. I get it.

I want you to.

Almost a little too much, I wish that people would cut me off sooner rather than later, because it is so hard to see others be pulled down with me. He touches my scars, feels the bumps beneath his fingers and says they’re ugly, asks me why? I don’t have an answer. I never will, but I can’t stand the pity, anger and pain in his eyes. I am not good for you. Don’t come near me. I am not healthy and I doubt I ever will be.

I will never live up to your expectations because I cannot comprehend a way to reach those lofty heights of well being. I plan two steps ahead without knowing the first.