Doctor, Doctor, I’ve Got A Bad Case Of Lovin’ You

I feel cold. My feet hurt, and my brain feels like it’s the size of the world, pressing against my temples and threatening to burst out of my ears. I’m not cracking, I’ve fucking shattered all over the floor. I’m the decapitated corpse of who I used to be, a cockroach waiting to starve to death and higher brain function cut out like cancer. I am the cold wind in my own body, a self-perpetuated cryogenic mistake. I’m numb, from the frontal lobe down.

Two days ago I had my biggest mental breakdown in two years. This was not a drill. This was screaming, this was crying, throwing things, getting physically violent. I felt starved for touch, yet wanted no one to touch me. I craved something physical, just to fill the gaping blackness I could feel carved out in my chest. I tried to ignore it.

Fake it till you make it, right?

I guess I just wasn’t up to scratch that night. I still don’t feel back on top. I feel blank. I feel empty of any deeper emotion. Like a shallow reflective pool, I can’t feel anything unless I have something else to bounce off. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel safe inside my own head.

I’m sleeping ridiculous hours, staying up until 4-7am in the morning and not waking until 3pm the next day. I can’t sleep when I lay down, I’m tired when I stand. I can’t hold a proper conversation without my anxieties eating at my tongue. I don’t eat, I can’t be bothered showering unless I’m trying to drown myself for hours, even after the hot water has run out. I can’t control my spending, I can’t control myself.

I think, I honestly need to start taking medication again. This feels like what happened before. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t ever let myself feel this bad again, I wouldn’t let myself be pulled under again. That I’d catch it early and save myself before I needed saving. That boat has sailed.

I can’t save myself right now. I don’t know how, and I’ve run out of options in the people around me. They can’t help me. I don’t know if they’d try.

And heeeeere we go. The pity party begins in my own head. I just can’t help myself. Complaining about these people I have no right to complain about. Who am I to judge these people. These beautiful, loving, amazing people, who all they do is look after me. Shelter me. Pay for me. Comfort me. Trust me. And I can’t even bring myself out of a grave I’ve dug for myself, long enough to say thank you. If I am going to die, emotionally, I should at least do it with the grace I pride myself on. With a little fucking humility and quiet. With silence and anonymity, just slip out of their lives and never come back.

I don’t WANT to be the screaming mess I am now. I don’t want to end up at 4am in the morning again, screaming and crying, fists swinging at my boyfriend who had no idea what was going on in my head. All he could see is that I had apparently gone fucking insane. I want to feel okay again. I don’t want to feel a thing. I don’t want to be shaking underneath a stiff breeze because my life is collapsing around me.

I need to see a doctor.

Ich Spreche Ein Bisschen Deutsch

So I might be moving to Berlin next year! Wow. Think about that. I have lived overseas before (Japan, but only for a year) and just thinking about moving to a whole new country for what may be the entirety of my foreseeable future is flipping me right the fuck out. How brilliant to think that this time next year I could be in the mild summer of a European province, learning my third language steadily and advancing my life in a whole new culture.

It scares me as well though.

I never really thought my life would be like this. A year here. A year there. Travelling in my own little bubble of a support group, literally just me and Reid. It doesn’t feel like the cliche of ‘us against the world’, but more like two children bumbling through a landscape undiscovered. If there is one last world to be explored, it is most definitely our own psyche. What makes us, us. Trying to figure out who you actually are can take a lifetime.

I am really quite terrified.

My experience in Japan was not an entirely comfortable one, and though I regret nothing, there are things I would have changed about my stay. Mostly I would have gotten over my own internalized racism sooner. Also, I would have been more outgoing, but maybe these experiences are what will make my next big international move better than the last. Maybe this time I can take what I’ve learnt and be a better global citizen. First, I have to get my shit together though. Even with my European passport, I need to get my British healthcare card to become a proper British national so moving, getting a job, getting a house will be easier. I’m unsure about whether or not moving this soon will be a good thing. I want to apply for university tomorrow in Melbourne and I know that if I get started here, I may have to drop out again to go to Germany. I dont even know if I can complete a course in English over there. In creative writing. My German isn’t up to scratch enough to understand any coursework or lectures. I want to get my degree and be qualified in my field, but it seeming almost impossible in my current circumstances. Maybe it will be okay to put it off again, but a job in another country in another language? What could I possibly work as with the little German I know? How will I be relevant, how will I make money, how will I survive?

These are the questions that plague me in the night time. These are the nightmares of my future existence.

You’re An Asshole, I’m An Asshole, We’re All Assholes!

I sit clutching a cigarette, barely lit anymore, between the yellowish nudge in my fore and middle fingers, contemplating the words I am about to type for the first time in more than two weeks.

I admit that I am little more than a failure at this point. For all my grandstanding, my proclamations of greatness and forced assurances, I know the truth. I should probably just sit down and shut up, actually goddamn silence my running mouth and put something down worth reading. My first foray back into the purging of my emotions, will most likely be a failure on that front, but what is journaling worth if it cannot temper and hone my skill?

After all, we all create bad art, we all create good art but it is the bad that gives us a point of references. I’ll stop here, before I start drowning underneath all my own bullshit. At least with other peoples you know exactly how much it will take to kill you. With yourself, eeeeh, not so much, part of our bullshit is being able to bullshit ourselves into believing we can take more than we actually can.

A little pathetic really.

But such is the nature of our own ignored and reviled inadequacies. Is it so bad to admit that we’re shit every once in a while? Is it so abhorrent to understand that we arent the greatest, and for acknowledging that, does not make us better than anyone else? It makes you more prone to bouts of depression, anxiety and bad self esteem, but other than that you’re still an over-educated, underachieving asshole child of the world. One finger in your nose, one finger flipping the bird and your ass firmly planted in a government subsidized chair, clothed from the backs of ancestors who could not have dreamed the ideas we dream. Could not fathom the great depths, and lengths of our beautiful, brilliant minds.

I will admit we’re okay.

I guess.

Sometimes.

My own opinion of myself is still out, but knowing me will return as a glowing commendation full of lies I tell myself to sleep at night.

Be good to each other my lovelies. I’ll try to be good to myself, for myself, for you.

False Gods, Fake Idols, Burning Bull

I feel like I need more people to look up.

More idols I can strive toward, better versions of myself that I can create and aspire to be like. A fixed point of clarity and perfection in my head

The more I think about the future, the more I wish I had a better role model to follow. I just can’t seem to find anyone walking the same path as me. Which makes me question whether or not the path I’m walking is even a good one? If it’s the right one. But I can’t let things like that hold me back or stop me from moving forward. I may be the only one walking this path, and I may be the only one who thinks that what I’m doing is enough or even adequate. The uncertainty of an unlived life and an ending that doesn’t seem quite right. A final destination that may or may not exist.

I hear that the journey is what matters, but what is a journey without a goal, without an end? It’s a rambling mess of confused lines and unprepared sentences. A walk through a maze with no map and no plan. I don’t like it. I could spend the rest of my life watching movies and tv shows, lamenting over book characters and impossible conclusions. I could draw my days away, and spend the rest surrounded by the sounds and expressions of mediocrity I see in the city streets. That isn’t the way I want to live.

I have one motto I live my life by, the way I choose my friends, the way I draw my path in the sand and under the light of the sun and moon.

I do not surround myself with mediocrity.

That’s it. It is very hard to do though. I meet a lot of people that do not come up to my standards, a lot of people simply cruise through like I said before. Existing in the misty purgatory of a ‘journey’ worth travelling. I do not know how to say no. I do not know how to escape these people yet. I will not let them drag me down. I will not let them pull me into the undertow of bastardized ambition and vague pretenses of glory. I will not let them pull me under.

When The World Ends, Will God Go Down With His Ship

About to upload my first youtube video today.

It’s a strange little thing, just talking about one of my more recent posts. But I hope that it gives a better voice not only to myself, in time, but also to my work. I have written before about how I feel a need to be able to speak more concisely, and more to the point. About my crippling ability to waffle on for hours and say nothing. It isn’t something I’m proud of, or feel any sort of release from which is why it feels detrimental to who I am. Art, writing, speaking is all about release and connection. It is about trying to find meaning in ourselves by expressing it with others. People go about their own connections in different ways, physically and mentally, but I don’t seem to be able to express myself as well as I need to.

I want to be able to make a difference one day in the words that I speak, and the prose that I create. I want to be able to have conversation drunk and sober, and in front of one person or a million, that are so painfully honest, where I neither stop nor stutter, and am well informed enough of my own heart that you cannot help but take note and listen. Listen to these words I’m saying. Question them, ridicule them, love them, and hate them, I just want you to listen.

I think of those people who write and sing and dream of screaming into the darkness just to be heard. They speak as though the echoes that come back to them are distorted. Perhaps there are no echoes in your dreams. There aren’t any in mine. A void of air and space that sucks in what I say and never bothers to keep it. The echoes I hear, I fear are only in my mind. So for me start this means something.

It means that I have so many takes to say something and be exact. It means that what I upload is finished and complete. I do not want to have any fancy openings or closes. I am not that tech savvy, though I know I could do it if I try. I just want to pray though the sound of my voice to my dying little god inside me. Every word I write scripture in my bible, a nail in my coffin, a eulogy for my funeral. God I’m morbid tonight. Then again, God is who I pretend to be.

Untitled #2

My father used to tell me that the world was a small place. That everything that could be discovered, had been.
Anything left to find was inside yourself.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel as her head slipped onto my shoulder, short hairs tickling the length of my neck, and my foot fell heavier on the accelerator. I guess he was right to a certain extent. As much as he crushed my adventurous spirit in the wilds of our backyard, and the trees of the neighborhood. Harsh words spoken, but never forgotten, on the day I’d fallen from the Chinese apple tree. He had opened a world of introspection that was more vast and wide than the plains of Africa and the forests of South America. He had opened a world he never expected me to explore.

My passenger moved in her sleep, lips moving over the skin of my collarbone as she woke from her slumber, brown eyes staring up into mine and a small smile on her lips.

We would find our place in this closed off world. We would find somewhere, and explore it like no one else had. Hearts in tune, beat by beat, symphonies created in our honor. Any place would be better than what we had before, and that feeling was more important than all the treasures in the world. A fast car, no limits, and anything we had left to lose, left behind in the sunrise.

Freedom, Freed ‘Em

Do you ever get the feeling that people have a fear of finishing things? They say that starting is the hardest thing you can do, but finishing?

Finishing is the most terrifying.

This is the most true of the important things you do. The experiences and the projects that will define you for the rest of your life. Whether it be that book, or the painting you’ve been working on for years. A toxic relationship, or the death of a loved one.

Sure, there may be light at the end of the tunnel, formed in that strange darkness that drives people to depression and madness. When you are at the end though, when you cannot see where to begin, sometimes it is easier to say you are not finished instead of heading into the uncertainty and judgement that is sure to come. To avoid the cruel stares and indifferent glances of those who do not know the courage it took to stop. The courage it took to finally become accepting of the end, and to let the past be what it is.

I am not here to advise whether or not you should be happy about it. I am not educated enough to give you the directions needed when I too am stuck in a similar cycle of madness. I am just here to state that you should do it. That you should finish, and feel the exquisite and unimaginable relief of control lost. It is no longer your responsibility to be plagued by the indeterminate.