Brief Update

My mother left a few days ago, taking her things and going off to my uncle's house to live.  Since I've been roaming, sleeping at my father's house, eating dinner at various places, and actually eating fast food--which I haven't done in years.  I don't know what I think or feel about it, but I've mostly just been working on things like normal, and sleeping a lot--I can finally sleep, so it's rather wonderful to nap.

I haven't cut, or felt the desperate urge to peel myself out of my skin.  I've been taking my pills, and waking up before noon.  I've been a good little girl, keeping things together.

I'm a bit speechless, however.  Grasping for words I can't find.  I want to write this blog, but I'm at a loss.  I feel like I want to scream out words, but I can't even manage a whisper.

That's all I can say, though.  This is all I can manage right now.

If I Could Fly

I keep feeling like if I could only pull back my skin and walk away as someone new things would be better.  I spent what felt like an eternity staring at my skin, wishing to cut one long line down to see if something different lives underneath.  To peel myself back in layers until I'm just bare bone and rebuild from there: a new brain, twenty pounds thinner (or maybe not--a new brain might get rid of this nagging thought of perfection), hair that's red naturally, and none of this desire to tear myself apart.

I wish I could step away from myself and study me like an entomologist studies a bug.  Tack up my dissected bits and parts on cork-board with a label underneath--"A. Faerydaeus".  Maybe then I can understand what went wrong.  Maybe then I can see what other people see in me.

I keep giving myself away because it frightens me to live in my own mind.  I'm a good time for everyone, a taste of the long-term, but easy enough to walk away from.  And I like the attention, and I crave the moments they call me sexy (but never beautiful; I am many things, but I am not ever beautiful), because I can't find it in myself to compliment myself.  Because sometimes I don't think I'll be anything more.

If I am a butterfly, then I am one whose chrysalis fell.  We got an order of butterflies at the summer school I worked at, already all bundled up.  The instructions said if they fell they would die.  I didn't die but something went wrong.  Terribly, tragically wrong.

I am happy, mostly.  The struggle I can handle most days.  But I wear thin.  Even the hardest thing can wear down with enough work.  This would be hard enough without the fact I have depression.  This would be hard enough without the betrayal, and confusion.  This would be hard enough if my heart didn't stop when she mentioned his name.  If my therapist didn't call me out on the phone, and I could sleep at night.

I'm scared happiness is fleeting.  I'm scared I can only taste this because of the tiny little pills I take every morning.  I'm scared I'm not really happy at all.

Something to Believe In

Sometimes I don't know what to believe.

I have a friend--a more-than-a-friend, really; I guess that's what you call someone you accidentally sleep with--who is a staunch atheist.  It makes me scared to speak of what I believe.  Like when I'm with him my lips become sewn shut and I have to hide like he's going to bring the witch trials to my door.  I don't know what I am, not I know what I'm not.  I know I'm not this, quiet and meek and ashamed of my beliefs.  But something about him nurtures that fear that I'm a fool for this.

I am not a witch, but I believe in magic.  I have spirit guides, and a spirit totem.  Sometimes I don't think I'm joking when I call myself a faery.  I don't know if I believe in gods or god, but I know there's something more.  There's an afterlife here, there is magic here, there is truth somewhere in nature.  I have tarot cards, and I believe they work if you use them right.  I have runes.  When I meditate I feel like I have wings, and I think there has to be more than this.  There must, there must, there must.

I feel like I don't live in the real world; like I have spent so much time wrapped in fantasy I have become lost.  I am mentally ill, but I don't have delusions.  This isn't a delusion, and if it is I don't want it to stop.  I'd rather slip into my own world of magic and fae and spiritual beliefs than nothing.  I don't know how someone can believe in nothing.

I mean, isn't it indefinitely and painfully sad to be that alone?

Unfamilies

“It's like coming home,” she tells me as we turn on the car, me in the passenger seat. I blink. I'm not sure I know what she means. “My parents never fought, everyone helped out. He does his share—look at his house.” She's talking about my my uncle, my uncle's house, where we've been staying for the past day, where we'll be moving soon. She feels like she's coming home, I don't feel the same. I feel like I'm being thrown to the sharks, only the sharks here believe in god, and eat dinner together.

My mother grew up with family dinners and a sense of closeness. I grew up tough. I grew up telling my mother if my father causes trouble I'll get the baseball bat and fix things. I didn't know kids grew up and watched movies with their family. I didn't. Apparently all my cousins are friends but me: the things I never knew.

My first thoughts still fall to baseball hats when my father yells, and sitting in my uncle's house is like an out of body experience. Clean house, large rooms, a dog asleep at my feet while I write or work on jewelry. Whose life is this? It's not mine, I don't belong here. I live in small spaces, work until my fingers hurt, and date people who hurt me. I let my parents be hundreds of dollars in debt to me, and keep silent, don't let myself get annoyed. I don't live in still-life paintings, but I do reside in black-and-white photographs, the kinds they used to take after someone died. Look at the grieving little girl who doesn't cry in front of her family or friends or in her photographs. Watch her grasp for color, but still live in monochrome.

My monochrome feels threatened now, and I don't know how to live in the shadow of happiness. My borderline traits curl around me like a great gray cat, weaving around my legs, climbing up to rest on my chest, burying its back into my mouth. I need its claws digging into my skin. Instead I make bad choices, and come to my two-day home and cry. Sex is the weapon of gray cat clung to my mind. Regret. Like my brain-cat, I crave attention, but when I get it I go too far. I want someone to hold me, and for once I want it to end there.

I don't understand how I can fit into this little world my mother calls home. There's a sense of innocence there, and family. I'm far from innocent anymore, and this family I barely know.

I feel like I'm too much of a stray to belong here. To belong anywhere.

Life Update I

Lately I've been crazy busy between group, going out and having fun, and design.  Mostly, it's design design design.  I have four fashion sketches, and some jewelry to work on, I am thinking of joining Ravelry so I can enhance my knitting ability.

Tuesday was my first "real" day at the AtlantiCare behavioral health I go to now.  I think I'm going to just ask for a referral to a therapist/psychiatrist outside of the program because I can't stand the groups, and found myself horribly bored and unmotivated there.  I felt as though I wasn't learning anything, and part of me resented the fact I was the only person under forty there.  I'm not too sure what I'm going to do yet.  I'll give it another try tomorrow, but I'm not looking forward to it.

In other news, I've been hanging out with a counselor at an acute partial program (not MY acute partial program).  Half the time he's really cool, half the time I can't shake the feeling he's writing down everything I say after I say it to turn into my therapist.

Short post today.  I'm tired and just wanted to update because it's been nearly a week since I posted.  Back to the beading for me!

Cheer Up, Emo Kid

I made a mistake last night.  I was sad and hurting, and no one was awake to talk to, so I took my scissors, and I hurt myself.  It's long sleeves for awhile now, unless I want to end up in the psych ward again.  But this isn't a post about that.  I don't regret hurting myself, really.  I needed it, as horrible as that sounds.  Instead, I wanted to touch on the belief a lot of people have about cutting.

There's a permeating belief that is you cut, and talk about cutting, you're doing it for attention.  Obviously, I'm talking about it.  I'm telling you, Faceless Internet, I sat in my bed at five this morning and drug a pair of scissors over my left arm again and again and again.

But I don't care if you care.  I don't care what you think.  I'm talking about it because this is my blog, this is my life, and it's here so I can talk about hard things, about overcoming and occasionally being beaten down by depression.  It's an outlet, not an outreach.

I've mentioned the cutting on another forum, though.  I told two friends of mine this morning.  It wasn't about attention, but even if it was, a joke about "cheering up, emo kid" or "attention whore" wouldn't change it.  Even if someone is cutting for attention, does it not seem seriously wrong that someone would hurt themselves for attention?  I admit, I have cut for attention before.  I was lonely, hurting, and depressed.  It was the only way I knew to ask for help, and it didn't work.

The doctor in the psych ward suggested I was there for the attention, that I wasn't serious about hurting myself.  And trust me, I wanted to punch him.  So I don't have scars.  I'm careful about things like that--I don't cut deep, but on a bad day every part of my body that can be covered is normally marked.  "Attention" is a word thrown around a lot by people--even in people in the mental health profession.  If you seek help, you're doing it for the attention.  Occasionally you'll get a mental health professional telling you you're strong. Which is true, if you have a mental illness and you try to beat it.  Which is true, if you ask for help, even if it is by taking off your jacket in front of the right people, and showing your scars.

I had a distinct point in my mind when I began this entry, but right now I'm at a loss.  Just think about it, though, next time you want to brand someone an attention whore for their self injury:  Maybe they do want attention, but they still need help.

Pretty Little Pearls

Finally!  I have a camera to post photos of my design work, so I can be a little less depressing and a little more creative with what I post here.

A few blog posts back I mentioned the bracelet I was making all the female cousins in my family which included my grandmother's pearls.  This is the bracelet I did for me:

One of the black beads on my cousin N's bracelet broke, so I'll be sanding her down a new one, which I am not looking forward to, but I really can't complain.  I'm buying an electric bead reamer ASAP, so hopefully my reaming problems will end soon.

As of now, I am working on a necklace for another family member, and two I want to make for me.

I'm very much at a loss of what to say currently, actually.  I forgot my medication for three days in a row, and while I remembered to take it eventually I'm still feeling off.  I'm a little worried it's the depression is getting worse, but I'll give it a few days before I think about asking for upping my dosage again.

I also got a prescription for Ambien, so I've been able to sleep the past three days, which has been mainly what I've been doing.