“So it’s not something you can talk about with your friends?”
“Well, I do, but they ask me to come out and I’m like, well I can’t come out cause I’m filthy, and they’re like why don’t you take a shower, and I say no it’s on the inside.”
I’ve had a shitty fucking winter. I finally accepted after years of denial that I definitely from suffer from emotional dysregulation issues in dimensions way beyond unipolar depression and I also probably have a personality disorder mixed in there as well; neither of those Dxes really go away with time but both statistically increase my risk of dying by suicide. So I’ve been trying to figure out to cope with those aspects of my permanent brain fuckery after losing health insurance, ruining my long-term relationship, admitting I have a crippling prescription pill addiction, and moving back in with my parents.
…I wish this were the plot to an indie film in which complex psychological issues were mediated and superficially resolved during a denouement with a dance competition, but unfortunately this is my unscripted, personal human experience and I have not yet learned how to tango.
One of the most uncomfortable realities I’ve discovered about being trapped in a state of intense emotional flux is that all the existential anxiety is heightened and compounded by the need to constantly reevaluate the the oscillating levels of doubt and confusion, particularly those at stem from the false dichotomies society loves to throw out there, e.g., “That was the illness, not you!” <<Did that make any sense or was that just a bunch of redundant concepts with vague overlaps and missed ideological connections? Whatever. I’m writing this stoned on pills and dropped out of liberal arts school long before learning how to pronounce ‘Sartre.’
Anyway, to help resolve some of my identity crisis, I made a pie chart to capture a static qualitative representation of my core essence:
If there’s one thing I learned from being the psych ward multiple times, it’s that visual metaphors that oversimplify the human condition are among the most common therapeutic tools that therapists who graduated from a third tier public university with a Master’s in Social Work and the delusion that they’ll make a difference can pull out of his or her ass to help you understand yourself.
Understanding is the key to accepting. And accepting is the next step in recovery.
I should also probably declare Jesus as my lord and savior and Bill Nye as my spirit animal, but I’ll procrastinate making those decision later until I find a sponsor.
Good night, WordPress. I love you.
I’m still alive, sort of. Still lacking in motivation to produce any form of original content. My blog is like the stepchild in a broken home that I give inconsistent amounts of attention to and can’t decide if I like or not.
Filler post for December.
I’m running out filler material for this place actually; most of the poetry I wrote in high school does not stand the test of time. (Oh, the angst. Never quite The Pain Tree bad, but still cringe-worthy enough to never be shared.) But there was some clever enjambment in here that I still like.
Nerdy, Angry, Fuck
- Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse
I think it’s hot when strippers cry on their master’s
degrees, when meteorologists make innuendos
when your mother pretends to be Jewish.
Sometimes I wish I had synesthesia
so I could palpate youtube’s
myriad turtle sex clips with my retinas
though I wish there was more to do
on a Friday night than watching
ugly animals fuck online.
I have a Dukakis sticker on my teenage
mutant ninja turtles lunchbox from 88′
It’s currently filled with positive
pregnancy tests, disposable cell phones
and a picture of your mother.
Love insurance premiums: $99.99 a month!
Good student discounts. Press 1 for more options.
It’s like that time I asked why she didn’t
love me anymore and she replied
“supply side economics.”
I told her her metaphor sucked;
our relationship had too many uncertainty principles
to be graphed criss-cross on an X and Y axis,
We were more like 2 out-of-sync sine waves reaching for infinity
until the tequila ran out.
Para continuar en las lenguas románticas
oprime el número dos.
I sent a letter of complaint to her new
PO Box in MN, asking her to return my soul
for the full amount, in the payment method
in which it was received.
She doesn’t know it, but she’s still
the spaces between my fingers
when I’m clawing for sanity in my sleep
and the moment mid-clasp, when I stop.
Now that I’ve “bottomed out” in my depression and don’t do anything, I’ve had a lot of time for massive amounts of unproductive, introspective analysis.
I’m the least functional during the nadir, but interestingly enough I prefer this to the “crash” phase. Less of a constant feeling of distress. Less crying. But still anxiety-inducing enough to do basic functions like go outside that I don’t.
I am also experiencing tremendous amounts of embarrassment about some of my behavior over the summer and during the subsequent crash. Some things I did have some basis in reason and intent. Others seem to have been wedged in distorted or exaggerated thinking, and I can only recognize it all now as the batshit crazy bullshit that it was.
I am also embarrassed about some of the mental gymnastics I pulled to rationalize things. There’s a few people to whom I want to personally acknowledge, but I’m too avoidant to bring it up right now so I’m just going to hope that they still read my blog occasionally and know who they are.
Thanks for calling me out when I needed to be called out. This is an open invitation to tell me I’m batshit anytime.
I hope that my partial self-awareness prevents further batshittery, but I think part of being batshit includes being blind.
(I spent like a week writing this post and I’m still only semi-satisfied with it. Finding the right words and putting them in the right order is hard for me these days.)
This is Allie Brosh.
You’ve probably seen her webcomic if you spend any significant amount of time on the Internet.
She wrote a book with the same title of her blog and then a long subtitle. You can buy Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things That Happened on Amazon.
And watch Allie read new content from aforementioned book, including a story in which a 10-year-old Allie writes a letter for a 25-year-old Allie, right here.
I’m a sucker for haunting female indie vocals and lyrics about being a terrible person.
Her work is fully downloadable for free under a creative commons license.
Listening to the album Hydrophobia right now and it’s beautiful.
I’ve been largely AWOL from gchat and facebook this past week, which is atypical for my internet-addicted ass.
This weekend, I got a few text messages from my usual buddies wondering what I was up to and if I was okay.
I am not okay and don’t have any advice for them to give me, but It was nice to know that people notice when I’m not around. (Just for the record, I’m only a little bit of a creep and/or weirdo.)
I’d also like to note that I’m happy to see webcomics lightening up serious topics and getting more exposure and understanding for mental health issues like anxiety and depression.
And to my depressed internet, buddies out there, also hibernating for the winter: Surround yourself with friends (if you’re up to it) and love yourself.