mental illness

9/8/2015 – Day Twenty – Two.

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I was suppose to go to a baseball game tonight.

Everything was going to be alright. I printed out my tickets, laid out my clothes and had every intention of going. Anything to get out of the house and keep driving. Anything to clear my thoughts. But I didn’t want too. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. People will say it was because my team has been playing terribly, but I knew better.  When you’re depressed even the things you love become burdens in your life. Going to that game felt like a burden to me. I didn’t have it in me to go and feel stuck. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be alone, I just didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to go through this whole routine, this whole superstition.  I didn’t feel good, I didn’t feel safe, and for the first time, nothing felt right.  I hate admitting that. Admitting I have flaws in all the wrong times for all the wrong reasons. I just couldn’t bring myself to do something I loved, out of fear of my own emotions. I can’t control them anymore.

I drank for the first time in a long time last night. Drank just to keep my nerves from going insane. It’s weird how alcohol makes you feel when you haven’t had a lot of it. Maybe I am crazy. Everything that I once loved is turning into everything I hate, and I can’t understand it. I feel as I am not good to anyone. I have disconnected myself from the world and watching everything happen in fast forward. Alienating myself away from everyone. I don’t want my negativity to rub off on anyone. Therefore I keep everything to myself and just find way to pass time.

Anything, everything and moving on.

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I was suppose to go to a baseball game and prove to myself, I could still do things that I love. Still have this feeling that at any moment I could fall in love all over again. Instead I opened the blinds and watched the sun rise and the sun fall from the sky. Cascading vibrant colors and begging me to go outside. It didn’t seem right to waste the day. Didn’t seem right to feel this way, but I did. I couldn’t help myself but continue to look out the window and watch the seconds turn to minutes and then minutes to hours. I don’t want to be here, but I’m too afraid too leave.

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9/7/2015 – Day Twenty – One.

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I spend a lot of time in my car. Which is normal to say the least when you’re living in the central valley or any other region in California. We in the State of California spend a lot of time in our cars. Our cars take us to and from places. Our car takes us where we need to be, from point A to point B. Being in my car after three weeks of walking and cab rides, makes you feel more isolated. I always thought walking was very solidarity, then when I get in my car I didn’t realize how much space I had. I found myself talking to myself to see if the words would fill the empty spaces in my car. Then I started to realized how much time I have spent in my car and it made me want to be home alone.

Obviously that is an exaggeration. The only instances where I feel any sense of privacy is in my car. From the moment I turn on the engine and start playing my favorite song, this is my time. I could lose track of time being in my car. Driving down familiar roads, getting lost in the melody of songs that intertwine with the street lights. It’s these moments when you’re heading home that you feel more alone with your thoughts. Alone with the sounds, the lights, and the lyrics that seem to carry you home. I could make a collection of songs the soundtrack to my life. All these moments spent in my car, filling all the empty spaces with thoughts I would never say out loud.

I love the way the road sounds in the dark. Giving into the soundtrack of melancholy you recite to yourself daily. Drive to a million places on a million streets but none of these streets feel like home. I could get lost here, there, everywhere. Get lost in the sounds that accelerate your heart rate. If my dashboard could talk, the thousands of stories of happiness, heartbreak and woe, it would tell you. My car knows all my secrets, all my fears, and all my wishes that I have wished upon a thousand falling stars. On the days where I can stand it. The space doesn’t bother me. I watch the inside of my car fill up with words, wishes and hopes for my next journey. On to next adventures and even more memorable journeys.

Lately, I don’t want to drive in my car. I don’t want to be lost in my melodies of my favorite songs. I don’t want the roads to lead me home. I just want to stay home and be completely silent. Be completely still and not think about a thing.

This is 33.

On October 31, I’ll be 33.

I’ll have a few more strands of grey hair. I’ll have another wrinkle between my eyebrows. Another year under my belt. Another year of adventures, experiences and memories. Another year that I survived from this mental hell that I feel daily. I could have died a thousand times, but here I remain among the living. I didn’t think I would live this long. I never expected life to turn out in the way that it did, but in a way life has a way of surprising us.

I will be 33. Further away from my 20’s, even further away from my teen years. Further away from my past and midway into my present. Yet, still I sit here feeling that I have cut myself wide open, exposing all this pain I feel before me. It’s hard for people to read it, it’s hard to people to hear it, and it’s hard for anyone to understand it. Still its hard to say that one day I won’t be here, and one day all I’ll be just a memory to my peers and to my friends. One day I will cut myself deep enough that it will let the light in. At 33, I feel too old to feel this way. Too old to continue feeling each and every single strand of these emotions. Every single pain, every single happiness, every single bit in the emotional spectrum. After 33 years, I am tired.

I spent my 20’s conforming to everyone else’s expectations of me. Doing everything that everyone else wanted and paying no attention to how I was feeling and how it made me feel. I closed myself off from the world and pretended that everything was fine. Getting into my late twenties, I spent those years making up and apologizing. Making it up to everyone that I’ve hurt in the process, apologizing for my actions and the way I am. Once again accommodating my life to everyone else’s expectations and needs. Because to people I am not allowed to be human. I am not allowed to make mistakes and to make attempts to redeem myself from these same mistakes. I am suppose to be happy all the time. I am suppose to make everyone else’s life easier and watch myself fall beneath and in-between the cracks. I have to apologize for being too vocal, too emotional, too contradicting, too human.  Nobody wants to hear when you’re hurting or upset. Nobody wants you to express your emotions in the only way you can. I’ve watched people fade into and out of my life, more times than I can count. I have seen people act differently around me or just ignore me.  I am tired.

All I do is find ways to apologize for who I am. That’s all I can muster up these days. I am sorry for being this way, sorry for who I am, sorry if I have hurt you in any way. I am sorry for my past and sorry for what spills into my present. I feel guilty for feeling all this pain. On average I feel like I am the worst person in the world and everything I do is wrong. I can’t help but feel like the worst daughter/sister/friend and everything I do is wrong. I apologize constantly and people may think it’s insincere but the reality is it’s the most genuine I can be.  It’s this paralyzing fear of letting everyone down and knowing I can’t do anything about it. Yet, all I do is spend the next year doing everything in my power to make up for my actions. All I can do is spill my guts out, out into the open for everyone to see. Truth is I am not okay. I am not even close to being okay. I am going to make mistakes until I can make everything okay. I am going to contradict myself. I am going to make plans and fail on them. I am going to hurt, cry, and fight myself through all of this emotional bullshit. I am going to be honest about how I feel. I am going to admit to myself that it’s okay to be selfish. It’s okay to say “No” every now and again. It’s okay to feel this hurt when the whole world is telling me it doesn’t exist. I can’t hide these scars anymore than I can hide my feelings. Long sleeves can’t hide scars, when all we have left are our hearts on our sleeves. I can’t sit and pretend it doesn’t hurt when people pretend that how I feel or what I am feeling doesn’t exist. Because it’s a part of me that I can’t escape.

At 33, I just want to be selfish. Say “No” to a lot of things that do not fit in with my life. Start accommodating myself to my own life. Stop apologizing for who I am and just find my own ways to be happy. At 33, I am not going to feel guilty about my emotions. I am not going to feel bad about who I am, when I know deep down there is good inside of me. At 33, I am going to do things that are going to make people upset but they are not living my life, I am. At 33, I am going to be okay with people leaving because I can’t make everyone happy. And at 33, I am going to do everything in my power to find happiness in everything that I do, even if it kills me, even if it scares me, even if it gets me out of my comfort zone. At 33, I am going to be okay, I won’t be perfect but I know I’ll be fine.

This is 33 and I’ll gladly accept the charges.

9/6/15 – Day Twenty.

I gave myself a break. Where I didn’t think about anything with the exception of what is in front of me. Something simple. Something sweet, anything to occupy my time away from these thoughts. How do you explain that one day you woke up hating everyone and their existence? That words from everyone close to you, make you shudder and shut down. Or that you can’t explain this need to be alone but you need to be. Why can’t words match what you feel in your heart?

People already think I am crazy, what’s more insanity with a little more misunderstanding. I don’t blame them for thinking that way, they’re only thinking what they can’t understand. I feel so misunderstood lately, that no one really understands me.  Not that it matters. I just don’t feel like painting my face like everyone else, when its not how I feel. I can’t force a smile when those are not the feelings I feel inside. Explaining yourself when you’ve run out of words to say. Its easier to talk about the weather, than say exactly whats wrong.

Half of the time I am not even sure whats wrong, and I am not sure I even want to say how I feel. But today I moved back from those feelings and washed those feelings right out of me. After a few days of living in my filth and not wanting to release these feelings, I am ready to start. Clean, brand new. Find new dreams and polish off the old dreams. Everything else just give it time to regroup itself. Through marathons of old shows and starting over with new shows. I watch what I love and what I fear, keep time with itself. Slowly coming in, side by side. I know I can’t hide from the world. I know I can’t pretend this isn’t happening. What I love and what I fear, will eventually walk side by side. Its then that I’ll admit that this pure fear is knowing that being alone is my burden and my strength. Every day I get closer to overshadowing my fears. I feel myself getting stronger. I feel myself getting better.  But everyone thinks I am crazy. That I have always been the crazy one.

It’s just hard to make someone understand, what they’ll never understand at all.

9/2/2015 – Day Nineteen.

I am not here.

My things are here but I am far from here. Can you grow up in a course of a few weeks? Can you change your perception of things in the course of a few days? As I sit and look at everything in my room, I have never felt so detached from things. Its as if all these things were placed without my permission. Without my knowledge. I am seeing everything and wishing everything would disappear. I wonder why did I care so much for these material things, when I don’t need them. I look at these things collecting dust and filling up empty spaces with clutter, and wonder, why?

I want white walls and bare spaces.
I want a simpler way of looking at things.
I want to take everything I have and get rid of it all.

Take everything and give it all away. Nothing in this space feels like me anymore. Take every last piece of materialism and give it to someone else. It’s not welcome here.

I can’t hide forever. I can’t keep pretending that at any moment all these things will disappear. That someone will come and stake a claim on everything. Everyone deserves the world and to leave me with the scraps. I just don’t want anything anymore. Everything must go. As much as it pains me to unpack, I have to resume as everything is normal. That everything is okay. Even when it’s not in place.

The clothes back on the hangers, the socks in the drawers, and the toiletries back in their rightful place. But it still feels like I am gone. That I am going through the motions. I could state at the ceiling, wrap myself in blankets and wish it all away. We all know wishes don’t come true. As much as I close my eyes I have to wake up into this chaos. Separate what I want from what I need and hope with it comes bare spaces and white walls.

Simplify.

9/1/2015 – Day Eighteen.

I didn’t think I would make it.

If I had to be completely honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted too. I counted down the days dreading this trip. Then before I knew it, I was pleading to stay. It doesn’t make much sense to run from one chaos toward another. Running away just adds more to the wanderlust, instead of satisfying this hunger of leaving. It’s watching all the darkness in my life transform into different shades of color, instead of variations of black and grey.

I am not ready to leave. I am not ready to return to familiarity. I am not ready to state how I feel to the faces that believe they know me best. Maybe I’ll never be ready. How often can you hide from the world and remain in this hidden bliss. Where no one knows what is going on, because you keep your feelings hidden so efficiently.  If I stay here any longer, I’ll be hiding forever. If I leave now, I have to admit that I am not okay. Going away doesn’t change your problems, it just hides them with better scenery. I am running out of time. Running out of resources to get me out of this mystified existence. Its good to go home. Going home to regroup and start right back all over again. Back to the people who know me best and want nothing but what is best for me. Everything happens for a reason. Even goodbyes are never really forever. I just feel rushed. If only I could just jump back into that mind frame. Jump into these good intentions wrapped with best wishes. But I can’t.

I stand tall on the rooftops staring down at landscapes. At the countless rooftops of these buildings in my memory. I could draw this scenery with my eyes closes. How the storms have settled and gave way to the clear skies that lie in front of me. The wind in my hair and I don’t want to go home but I know I have to. With my bags packed, everything organized and placed in its right place. But home doesn’t feel much like home when you’re gone. Home is just where my things are but its not where my heart lies. Its not where the wind blows straight through me, into my bones cutting me to the core. I can paint my smile, watch the planes come and go, but they don’t lead me home. I don’t know where home is and sitting in chairs people have sat before me, I am not getting close to it.

 

8/31/2015 – Day Seventeen.

I have a problem with my wrists. It’s something that I can’t exactly figure out. I stare at my wrists more than humanly possible, as if they are going to change in appearance or size. I memorize the veins and how visually transparent they seem against my skin. I feel the cracks in the bones and how phantom the pains from the past can come knocking. Sometimes they ache when they bend, but most of the time I am making something out of completely nothing.

Through the years, I see scars that were once scabs on my skin healing. Understanding from salt of words that never allowed themselves to heal properly. I remember wanting to tattoo sleeves on my arms to hide all the bruised scars, so nobody would find them. Where not even I could place the tiny lines that haunt my skin. Lines that no longer exist to the naked eye but always exist to me. I could tie a thousand ribbons on my wrist to hide from all this pain. I could paint a thousand words and sayings to take this grief from forming. I could lie to a million people that look toward my skin as a badge of honor. Some days it feels like a loss instead of an honor. I can’t help but feel guilty that I seem to always do this to myself.

Only I know my scars secrets. I know its whispers that call on me to remember things long forgotten. All the stories that come forth every time a new scar forms. I am better than this. I am stronger than these scabs that turn to scars and leave my stories on my wrists. Yet, I sit here thinking of stupid shit I should have forgiven myself long ago. I forgive myself countless times, but just muster the courage to forget.

Because I never forget.

Swing away.

You never mean to hurt the ones you love. You say the words that cut down their roots, but you never meant to break their trust. You love and protect, you forgive and forget. Apologizes are just words that bleed rust but have no meaning anyway.

Everything hurts.

I didn’t mean to show you all my fears. I didn’t mean to cry when people said goodbye. I didn’t mean to pry in the things that had no meaning to me anyway. Here I lie with the words that seem unclean, that hurt the longer I pour salt on all these wounds. It only hurts if you cry. Only hurts if you focus on the pain. This blood is thicker than water, but the water has been washed clean.

4/12/2009

The dopeness.

You love to see everything in your perspective. You’re right, I am wrong, that’s how its suppose to be. The venomous words that poison through thought and well wishes. Poison infecting veins and reaching your blood stream, straight though your heart. Negative thoughts are better than positive ideas. All the light will never over power all of your dark. I sit, I watch, I listen, and it’s the words that you hide behind. False illusions, vicious dreams, that allow you to believe you were right and I was always wrong.

I am always wrong. Wrong in my mind, my illusions, and this imitation of life in ruins. I can’t help but want the silver lining. I can’t help but be a negative person with positive intentions. Who are you to judge an idea that isn’t as great as your own? Who are you to believe that being better than everyone else, makes you a better person? Once you start, you can’t be stopped, and you become a monster of your former self. Growing up has a funny way of turning you into someone you never wanted to be. Most of us change and a majority of us, stay the same. I can’t help but want to be better for myself, if I can’t be better for anyone else.

Am I not destined for greatness, instead of failing? Am I not here to be a better person, through all the bad things I have done? But you are always right, and I am always wrong. It’s how it’s suppose to be. At the end of the day, I can’t help but see the dopeness in everything, but you just see the wackness.

9/30/2015

8/29/2015 – Day Fifteen.

I have had a problem with food for as long as I can remember. Longer than I would like to admit. These days I wonder if those fears are my karma for my current situations. I haven’t been the kindest to myself and in this new era of body image, owning who you are, it’s easier said than done. I’ll be completely honest, its hard to transform 28 years thinking in a matter of a short months or years. For every 10 good days, there are 20 not so good days. For everything and in-between, food has been my scapegoat for every way of thinking. Food has a way of bringing the good with the bad. Triggering memories and forgotten expectations. You think about how much you didn’t care in your younger years, and now as an adult this need to be socially conscious about everything you put in front of you. Now a days, I fear food more than I enjoy it. I hold it at an arms length against me. Separating myself from my past and my expectations of my future, not realizing the repercussions of my present. It makes me think about everything I’ve done to distance myself from food, when all I’ve ever wanted to do was enjoy it.

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Recovery is a pain in the ass. Its hard to tell someone that hasn’t been through what you have, how you feel. I have felt really alone in my recovery. Its easy to put up a positive front, to post a photo of myself eating or enjoying food but reality settles in. I will always see myself as 70 lbs over weight. I will always think twice about what I eat. I will always feel guilty about over eating and feel this need to punish myself. It’s hard to tell someone that what I see in the mirror paralyzes my way of thinking. It has been a long time since I have truly enjoyed a meal. A good fucking meal. Something someone put heart and soul into. I am not going to be an asshole, I’ve had great meals but so many of these meals build up on my fears.  Its genuinely hard to enjoy them without feeling squeamish or guilt. Most of the time, I feel guilty about the things I eat. It’s something I have to live with that makes me so indescieve about where or what to eat. How do you tell someone I can’t eat what I love out of fear of the outcome? You can’t. Being in another country helps. I don’t feel guarded. I don’t feel the pressure to be anything. While the fear still plagues me, it doesn’t hurt as much as it does at home. Its weird to be in places with different customs then your own. To adapt yourself into things you have stopped doing at home. Sometimes I forget to eat in the rush of getting to and from places. Often times I overindulge in the things I love but mostly I don’t. Then I feel guilty of eating and I psych myself out. I don’t know. Being far from home I don’t feel as self conscious as I am used too.

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It’s easy to say I am on vacation, I can do what I want. To get in this gluttonous stage and have no self control, but I can’t do that. It’s lonely to eat alone but it’s lonely to have to come to realization that you can’t eat the way you are used too. We settled into a restaurant inside the town square. After looking over at the menu, we decided to take our chances on a little restaurant with it’s rustic pirate vibes. I wasn’t expecting much. Just enough to fill my belly and provide the energy I needed for the rest of the day. I get really anxious when I eat. A part of me still believes I am 70 lbs overweight and another part of me still believes I will make myself sick after eating. For the longest time my meals where based on what was easier to come out at will or what would get me full the fastest. If I ate exactly how I wanted to eat, I would open up the wounds that have been trying to heal. If I don’t eat, its another series of triggers, I can’t contain. I usually order to avoid suspicion and times I don’t like what I order. When you are comfortable you forget the silly instances that make up your anxieties. Sitting on the bench in the resturant, I didn’t look for an easy way out. I wanted to try everything. I wanted to eat everything and for once I didn’t want to feel guilty about what I ate. It felt like we were eating for hours when really it had been minutes, since we had ordered. Mere minutes as the plates started arriving. Each plate sizzling, oozing, and exhuming delicious flavors and tastes. It didn’t end at the first or second plate. It didn’t stop with the drinks, the momentum continued, as we talked about family stories, family traditions, and inner jokes between us all. As each plate reached our table, another plate would disappear.

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It didn’t hurt. This layer of anxiousness shed off my skin and I felt something I hadn’t felt in all the meals, I have consumed over the past years. I felt love. I felt hunger to try everything. Even if I felt guilty, it wasn’t going to hurt me. I had been feeling self-conscious about my outcomes that I never focused on my journey. How alone I felt in my battles and lonely I felt in my war. No matter how many times I heard positivity, I was focused on the negative outcome. Focusing on the mirror that was haunted with two faces. As the plates started dwindling down, as my belly felt full but content, I looked around at the faces I saw before me. This is my journey, my battle but I don’t feel alone. This is love I feel in front of me and after every course, I am going to be okay. Maybe I’ll never get better but at least today, the journey doesn’t seem as bad anymore.

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