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Death Or Lies

~ Reflecting on things that keep us together and pull us apart

Death Or Lies

Category Archives: Reflect

Shit, nothing makes sense. Still, I must think about it.

07 Thursday Aug 2014

Posted by MS in Reflect, Uncategorized

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#sayanything #paranoia #typhoonstruggle

Yesterday I unwillingly (no one likes a party pooper) joined my work in attending a baseball game.  Do not mistake me, every bit of will was bent toward making a good run of it.  Despite my not hatred of sports, understanding of spectacle, and general desire to please people, circumstances beyond my ability to immediately alter insured that I am still exhausted and miserable.  It has been days since I have slept more than three hours.  Be careful, saying that, some people think it means more than it does.  Perhaps there have been times in my life when a person would have been correct about certain assumptions made, but days of continued alertness and an inability to sleep well have plagued me long before I was old enough to think I could ever want to kiss a member of the opposite sex.  More to point, much of last night was spent in my being handed swigs of Tang and vodka, in an attempt by a co-worker to increase my volubility.  This doesn’t work, for many reasons, but there is only one that I want to share.  Much of my life is spent in silence, I am merely an observer of events.  This role has led me to make many flaccid yet poorly considered choices, as well, at times, as preventing serious injury to my person from occurring after these actions of poor judgement.  That one thing, though, the reason that everyone is always waiting for me to say just one more thing, is that the words left unspoken would, in my mind, confirm a diagnoses most often gifted to me frivolously by associates and close relations alike, despite sever implications.  What am I saying?  I’m crazy.  But only in my head, as long as I never say a thing out loud.  The laughable part is that, in reality, the state of my reasoning plays no part in the matter.  Am I right to think that just as I am pulling together the loose ends, shedding years of an unhealthy lifestyle, one in which I previously had intended to end my life, and making an effort I imagine to be fruitless in this battered and scarred body to do a thing that is good in the world, that events and people beyond my realm of influence would conspire to drag me down?  For the first time in my life, I don’t care if I am right or wrong about the things that keep me awake at night.  Insanity is not a failure of reason, it is a failure to subsume your thoughts to another without any factual evidence against them.  Whether your IQ is 140 or you become part of the jail system depends on your ability to maintain a logically functioning thought process.  Others, professionals, have assessed my ability to think logically and given me the gold star of approval, a B+ at the local community college.  Why, then, am I lying on the floor worrying that it is all over?  Worrying that tonight was not a coincidence, or a simple event, but a contrivance.  A contrivance meant to lull me places I wish with every fiber of my being never to see, experience, or be overwhelmed by again.  To those who are listening to what I am saying, this is it.  This is my full surrender.

My vow of silence over, not yet at peace

-MS

Food for thought:  Does choosing not to call your therapist at twelve thirty in the evening because it would be rude and selfish contribute to or detract from the obvious instability of a near paralyzing, back-breaking tingle that says you should be afraid, and on your knees?

“I haven’t slept for seven nights and I’m not tired. Who protects the ones I love when I’m asleep?”

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Dysphoria.

25 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by Ciara in Note To Self, Reflect, Ugly Words

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Cigarettes, dysphoria, lonely, reflection, self, words and stuff

With myself, always myself, never forgetting. I’m waiting for cigarettes to get so expensive that they eventually become some perverse status symbol for the ultra-wealthy. I can’t for the life of me decide, as I sit on my porch and look out at the rain, a trail of smoke from my mouth floating lazily upwards and becoming the fog in the sky, if I’m depressed or just incredibly lethargic due to some outside force like the weather or the pile of dishes in the kitchen sink that continues to grow. I can’t do anything anymore. My thoughts only exist in the form of singular sentences. They dissipate like the smoke from my cigarettes. A scattered, quickly fading cloud above my head. My words fall flat like a pebble being dropped into a deep well; these days, I think that by the time sounds leave my lips, people have already stopped listening. Everything comes out in whispers. My housemates have stopped asking me questions. I don’t leave my room. I don’t see my friends. I don’t want to. I’m thinking ahead even though it’s in my nature to reflect. Everything is temporary. Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s “reflecting” so much as it is self sabotage. I still cringe over things I said in grade school.

My mother and father had a weird way of parenting. When I was in high school they tried to discourage me from every dying my hair or getting a piercing or tattoo. They mentioned articles in magazines they read which shamed modified women. Girls with piercings and tattoos were promiscuous, had no self-respect, would never be taken seriously, were good fucks but bad wives, damaged goods. “What would a man think if you had metal in your face?”, my mother would say.

While reflecting on this, I’ve come to realize that even my most depressed state here is nothing, comparatively, to feelings of the past because I have had time to become more comfortable with myself than I ever have been. My sadness is caused by outside forces that I sometimes choose to internalize because I am sensitive, while putting on an air of being tough. I think the most important and uplifting part of being here, away from everyone and everything I know and (some things) that I love and spending so much time inside my own head is the realization that there is nothing more liberating than being damaged goods as long as you are also aware that you can rebuild yourself. Scar your body. Pierce it, mar it, cut off all your hair and make it yours. I’ve learned to find the beauty in broken things. It’s the only way I know autonomy.

There’s an application for that

06 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by MS in Story

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Absurd, Einstein, Etymology, Napa, Nexus 7, Physics

Having a sense for the absurd, and of the inclination that you may as well, I thought I would share.

It was the fifth store I had visited. My eyes were just above my toes and miles away as I reconciled my mind to the inevitable outcome of this quest. Without guidance my feet carried me into the building, arms recalling their necessary employment just in time. In limbo, disdaining even to observe the multitude of lead filled trinkets crying to be purchased, I thought about the possibilities of lunch. I agonized over the paltry bowl of grain with which I had broken my fast. I envisioned that, contrary to my presence here , it would be far more expedient had I currently been patronizing the place that I soon would be wishing had been the place I had first visited. A cashier became available and my body was drawn forward by some law of physics or economics.
Determined that this time, it would not be I that was made to dance in jest with bells tied to my hair, I took fully thirty seconds to raise my eyes and cast the scornful glance of one who expects instant gratification upon a face that… Is it possible for a human to chew their cud? Having been faithfully informed that this time, they had what I was looking for, I simply smiled and waited for the yellow bearded, spittle catching dunderhead to open the box. Piece by wretched piece he pulled out trivial accessories as if to whet my appetite. Finally, and with great flourish, he presented me with the palm of his hand, upon which balanced a cylindrical rubber boot.
“No, sorry. That isn’t what I need. ”
“Yes, it is!” The self deception is strong with this one.
“You see, my problem is that the boot I am looking for splits in half. That is just a solid boot.”
“Now listen, I was told specifically you was looking for a boot. This is a boot.” You can imagine I watched as murky brown eyes slowly blinked in a head that was waiting for mine to light up in understanding.
Know your enemies or you will be imperiled in every battle. Flag lowered, I conceded that my business must be accomplished elsewhere. It was then that I saw this:

image

Today it is popular to remind people that it is okay to fail, as if most of them had any choice. I often find it necessary to remind myself that it is never acceptable to err when it is wholly within means to be irreprochable. A motto branded on my soul from the moment of birth, my nature has always been such that I cringe at the thought of allowing another sentient being to continue in the purgatorial existence of perpetuating an acknowledged falsehood, and, it must be clear, I needed no source other than the one between my ears to suspect that our dear German physicist said nothing of the sort. Despite this absolute certainty, I took an entire five hundredths of a second to ensure complete veracity.
“I’m fairly certain Einstein said nothing of the sort,” were the words that came out as I looked up from my tablet, considering the absurdity of the man synonymous with genius wasting breath by decrying the paradigm shift which must occur after every new pandemic of information.
Eyes locked for a second time, the cashier responded, “Yea, whatever.”

-MS

Extracurricular reading:
http://www.word-detective.com/2011/07/dunderhead/

http://quoteinvestigator.com/2013/03/19/tech-surpass/

Packing

22 Saturday Feb 2014

Posted by MS in Reflect

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Fathers, February, Moving, Packing, Schizophrenia

Friday I will be moving for the seventh time since January, 2011.  My goal is to fit everything I own (excepting furniture, and Marlfox) into five boxes.  It averages out to one move every six months, but I did stay in one place for 20 months, so there is that.

Here is this.

V Bridge

||||||||||||| Venerable V_____ Valued at Great Value.  Wanted to No longeR live in a Vault.  Though V_____ is young, I call V_______ Venerable because ________ the mind of an experienced parent, type.  [GrampawRick Rubbing off onto]u  Some of us just are, “FAT.”  AS you are!  FAT is an acronym that means Faithful, Available, and Treachable.

VAL is FAT hahahahahahahahahaha

Yet Veryily, I Say, you have a great physique.    V____ I wanted you to write me a letter.  I was trying to get a visit with you, before I was picked up.  Anyway, that is not important.

[…]

I don’t know what kind of information you got or get from any Source about me, but it’s never as accurate as what you’ll get asking direct. FOR INSTANCE: when you asked my mother ______; of my whereabouts.  (where I am) She probably said; he’s in that place, OR on Vacation.  Something to that effect!  Rather than just saying he’s in prison.

Instances like these run rampant in my life.  My mother is very co-dependent, and knows nothing about it.  UP until NOW I made matters worse.

I got an Edumacation – I am Teachable

I would like to learn about my child.

That I may fit into your life as Value.

-That is God‘s will —OVER—

MS

Aside

15 Saturday Feb 2014

Posted by MS in Reflect

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Two fists were thrown, two connected.  The dead cats still sing, not a pig in sight.  God watches over the wicked and the simple minded

Darling

13 Thursday Feb 2014

Posted by MS in Reflect

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I have been scavenging boxes from work for days.  The Meticulous One has taken care to cross off all preexisting identifying labels before adding his own.  I will admit, he is the only one who has begun packing.  Every night I have come home with the intention of describing my adventures with the Lost Boys, but have found that said events are requiring a significant portion of my time.  This evening is the first that Marlfox and I have had the house to ourselves.  It will consist of doing the dishes and catching up on other small tasks.  I thought perhaps in lieu of adding this to the list of things I don’t accomplish by the end of the night, it would be appropriate to keep a running dialogue when the opportunity arises.

Chaos erupted Saturday morning with all the heralding of a straight to video release.  Confused at having overslept, I stumbled downstairs in my pajamas, hair a bird’s nest, expecting to find The Resident asleep on the couch.  Instead I found half of the living room missing and the front door open.

Enter title here

07 Friday Feb 2014

Posted by MS in Reflect

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Cat, Confessions, diet, German, Jack Johnson, Murder, Narcissism, Rage, Rousseau

“When disputes happened to arise, though conscious that I understood the subject better than any of them, I dared not offer my opinion; in a word, everything I saw became an object of desire, for no other reason than because I was not permitted to enjoy anything…  Thus I learned to covet, dissemble, lie, and, at length, to steal, a propensity I never felt the least idea of before…”

I am still writing, though not posting.  Most nights are spent dealing with the crushing weight of being myself.  This week I have spent more time in my head than drinking, drinking than writing, writing than eating.  It happens.  The above is from a block of text at the beginning of Rousseau’s Confessions.  When I accessed the Kindle store to make the free purchase, the top American comment (yes, Amazon operates independent comment sections for each language) was very enlightening.  “The autobiography of a Narcissistic Sociopath.”  I am reminded of nothing so much as Mathew 7:5 – “You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”

Although I have not traveled farther than his childhood and initial education, I find myself consistently empathizing when the author relates a lack of agency in his life.  Rousseau does not waste time recollecting his first experience of sexual arousal so that we, generations later, can laugh at the 1720’s version of “dat ass, though,” nor do I think he was implying that all who suffer corporal punishment before resolving their oedipal conflict (which must have had a different name sixty years before Freud’s birth) will inevitably wish to be dominated during sexual encounters.  Life isn’t: if A then B.  What I take from the text is that in any particular environment one has two choices: leave or act in accordance with your intention.  The behavioral models in Rousseau’s early life were, pleasant or foul, inexorably dogmatic.  Relatives, educators, employers all expected a certain behavior of him and his every consequence was a direct result of their preconception.

Perhaps when I am seventy I will have the grace to recollect what we shall term my formative years from a benign state of senile sublimity such as the aforementioned Narcissistic Psychopath.  I am young, though, and full of anger.  You would not know it, looking at me.  People describe me as sweet, caring.  My name actually means caretaker, helper.  But, I have rage.  A rage suppressed to such a degree that I display it by crying.  Even righteous anger begins as a creeping weakness in the limbs after the nature of delirium tremens.  I am learning not to suppress these feelings but to allow them to pass through me.  When my boss put his hand on my shoulder this afternoon, though, I could have released the rage right through his kidney with a knife.

Wednesday evening I had accepted that there would be no cooking in my immediate future.  After a meal of kidney beans I summoned the energy to acquire canned organic vegetarian chili from Trader Joes to mix with the remaining beans for the rest of the week.  It was this I had in front of me when I felt him standing behind me; some have a presence detectable without sight.  With a smirk (I am still determinedly not looking at him) he placed his hand on my shoulder and commented on my lunch.

I would like to take a moment here to explain that my only insights come from watching Marlfox.  She is a most particular eater.  It is a rare occasion for food to disappear from her dish unless I am present and have shut the door to our room.  She also refuses to consume more than two thirds of a serving no matter the size.  Oh, wait, bad behavior in animals is learned.  I used to experience the previously mentioned murderous rage any time my then lover would take from my french fries as I was compulsively trying to finish them at exactly the same time as my soda and sandwich.  I stopped carrying a knife for a while, it was that or give up fries.

Back to my boss.  He says, “Well, I know you did not make that chili!”  My habit of preparing fresh meals has become a running joke at the office.  Heaven forbid my willpower fails and I partake of the Friday doughnut festivities, not because I receive inappropriate harassment constantly but because not a single person notices the inconsistency.  What fun is there in mocking something mindlessly, speaking on a subject of which you know nothing?  My assumption is that the tofu looked like ground beef to my boss because he only sees what he wants to.  Therefore, I was eating meat.  Therefore, I had not prepared my own meal because I am not a meat eater.  I try not to refer to myself as vegan; it isn’t something I aspire to.  My goal is eating habits that are sustainable and respectful.   My diet is often described as vegan by others, however, as they grasp for a way to explain my personal beliefs without ever having to understand them.  But, hey, words don’t matter.  We can all just grunt at each other and see who is perceived as having the most power.

My boss may have thrown out a, “Looks good,” but I was not in any condition to notice.  That man isn’t any different, the occurrence any different, than my co-workers and the times I am patient enough to lower my headphones in order to participate in their circular conversations; he just happens to be the boss.  There is no dastardly design, no enmity, and it is nearly impossible to fight apathy.

“What will be the consequence?” the reply was ready, “I know the worst, I shall be beat; no matter, I was made for it.”

MS

P.S. The traditions of Arthur and Cortez aren’t so very different in that they are terribly inaccurate.  If you find your font, drink until you fear you may burst; then, drink again!

P.P.S.  Google translate the German Amazon website for stellar reviews on electronics and appliances.  Or learn German.

SSL

29 Wednesday Jan 2014

Posted by MS in Reflect

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Apocalypse, cognitive dissonance, Narcissism, Popcorn, Revelation

A week has passed and I have written nothing.  That isn’t entirely true, I have written things.  What I have not done is begin and finish writing a singular thought.  There is ever a latent lassitude waiting to encroach upon any productivity I attempt.

This year centers entirely around my intention to move north; wait for me, Bay Area.  The particulars of how I will go about this have yet to be ironed out (do people still iron?) but that isn’t what interests me right now.  I am no longer confused when the way I approach tasks/goals/problems in life befuddles others; instead I attempt to discover what is causing cognitive dissonance.  Whether solving for x, tying shoe laces or eating waffles, the look I receive from others clearly says lo haces más dificil.  I remain obdurate in my commitment to taking the scenic route.  What really gets my goat (check that off the bucket list) is the smug sneer that consistently follows my assertion that I am, “Over this city of angels,” which is my response to any critical comment concerning the plans I currently have in place.  These plans, they don’t matter.  What is, to me, of utmost importance is getting the fuck out of dodge (check) and abandoning the poor, soulless vesicles of narcissism that infest the southern coast of this state.  These tragic vehicles of apathy are so entrenched in the fairy-tale lives which exist solely in their heads that, prior experience not withstanding, they are unable to conceive that maybe things are different.  They have this idea that in every theater across the globe they are playing the same movie to a room filled with the same popcorn munching, media absorbing bags of flesh.  The past may have been more moral but you can’t improve your situation simply by relocating, they say, not realizing the contradiction in their “beliefs”.  I don’t think things will be better, but they will be different.  I’m told that things get worse before they get better; am I the only one ready for things to get downright apocalyptic?

P.P.S.  My boss blows raspberries at me.  Sometimes he claws the air and makes hissing noises at me.  How does one respond to this professionally?

Howl

14 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by MS in Reflect

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Death Cab For Cutie, Fathers, Letter, Mask, Prison, Schizophrenia, Thanksgiving

If you expected sense the night before a full moon you are a fool.  If I am an exhibitionist, this is for me.  If you are a voyeur, this is for you.  If neither of us are either, what are any of us doing here?

Papers2

11-26-08

Dear ______, I love you…  I am now in Ventura City at a reform house called Kep Khepera.  I am here for 5 months, and upon Completion I will be discharged from parole and free to pursue the life that is for me that includes a better relationship with you.  Today we are celebrating Thanksgiving.   I am one of the cooks.  Will be my first time Cooking a Thanksgiving dinner.  You Know I really miss having females in my life.  Though sometimes they don’t seem worth the effort, With good Communication and correct understanding they can be an ultimate companion.  I have a girlfriend Whose name is Brenda, she lives in Vipomo, Very understanding.  I like her a lot.  I’m not so lonely anymore, but have high hopes for a better life now.  I just completed a 15 questions workbook.  Did not like it much, Cause it was all rehash of old mask, that I have already accepted procured and planted through God to grow differently and better.  How was your birthday and thanksgiving?  I would like if you could Visit me, Yet it’s a long distance, + you have to make three appearances to a class, or make(?) 3 hours on a saturday.  Sucks being so far away.  I didn’t see you much when close.  Write and tell me What’s going well with you, _____, and whom you associate with.

Love Always Dad…

This song perfectly describes my twelfth Thanksgiving.  Salvation Army makes an ok turkey.

13 Monday Jan 2014

Posted by Ciara in Story

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death, story, suicide

I have a strong desire to prove myself. Perhaps one of my best and worst talents is my ability to disappear completely for weeks, months at a time and then reappear shortly after. I am shiny and new. I have a new hairstyle and new makeup and my clothes are clean and wrinkle free. And I talk fast and about many new things and I bake and drink (but not too much to cause worry) and go to parties and dance. Nobody asks me where I’ve been. Nobody wonders because I am fine! I’m thin (but not too thin to cause worry) and clean. Look at me, I’m great, so there’s no need to ask. No one ever wonders unless you tell them. Nobody will care if you’re actually okay as long as you give the impression that you are.

Sometimes I slip. I guess I’m not afraid to disappear, to die. I am careless with my drug use, I never wear a seat belt until someone brings it up. I tend to stay in bed all day if there are no other obligations pulling me away. I like to lie in bed watching movies, listening to music and the footsteps of my roommates outside my door, with the covers tucked up to my chin and a glass of wine perched between my index and middle fingers. No one to bother or expect anything from me. I forget to eat. I drink entire bottles of wine. The hardest part about being an adult is that you’re supposed to feed yourself and bathe and work; you’re just expected to do all of those things on your own.

The first time I disappeared, I was eighteen and I was a mess. My parents and I had not been getting along for some time so I packed a bag with cardigans and summer dresses and left home. It’s difficult to imagine that bad things can happen when the weather is so dang nice. I moved in with a boy that I had been dating for not much longer than I had known him and proceeded to fuck up every good thing remaining in my life. I stopped talking to friends, I called out of work sick too often, I smoked packs of cigarettes a day, I spent all of my money on things that I don’t even own anymore. I smoked weed constantly, I took acid, I took mushrooms, I did DMT, and ecstasy, anything I could get my hands on to distract me. I slept very little and I stayed up all night reading and writing feverishly and when I got tired I put my cigarette out on my thigh to wake myself up again, leaving a perfect circle of burnt flesh in it’s wake. When I ran out of vices, I made a friend who sold heroin. The months passed by in a daze. I threw up at work constantly, I was listless and pale, I lost weight, I stopped going out in the daylight. Pieces of balled up tin foil littered the floor of the room I shared with the strange boy who touched me but didn’t know me or even try. No one ever said anything. We began to sleep with our backs turned toward each other; two strangers sharing a makeshift bed. After almost a year had gone by, my parents took me back into their home. They fed my decaying body and gave me a bed and clothed me and sent me to a therapist that I could never be honest with and bought me an expensive haircut. I still had my job and my old friends decided to converse with me once more. I cut off ties from the heroin dealers and the addicts and the people I had known. I stopped dating the boy I never cared for. It was almost as though nothing had ever happened. My parents continuously reminded me of how incredibly lucky I was, so I just decided they were probably right.

Years later, I attempted my disappearing act for a second time. The love of my life and best friend gave me news that he was leaving. His parents were moving two hours away to Riverside, California and he was going with them. He didn’t have a job, he didn’t have a home, so he couldn’t have me. He could have gotten a job, he could have gotten a home, he could have kept me. But he didn’t because I wasn’t important enough. The first week that I went without him, I did nothing but cry. My family stayed away from my bedroom and my friends would call every now and then, but mostly they stopped after I stopped answering. I had been dropped and cracked and forgotten like a china doll. There is no novelty in a broken girl. Something that year just clicked on in my brain. I began counting the calories of everything I ate in a day, if I ate anything at all. I panicked and cried for hours if I consumed more that five hundred calories a day. I meticulously wrote down every item of food I put into my body. I stopped going to class and started sitting outside Moorpark College chain smoking and listening to my iPod while eating my allotted amount of baby carrots for the day. Instead of spending time actually talking to people, I would go to the gym and run on the treadmill for hours at a time in an over-sized sweatshirt and sweatpants. It did not help me that my parents purchased the gym membership that I chose to destroy myself with. They never wondered why I was skipping dinners, the complimented my choice to be “healthier”. The most strange thing to me is that my parents eventually found the notebook in which I tracked my intake and instead of expressing concern, they asked, “When are you going to begin exercising again? We miss when you had such a healthy lifestyle”.

There was one night where I made a choice to have dinner with a few of my friends. I hadn’t seen them in a very long time so I pulled myself together and drove them to the restaurant and ordered a meal and ate. I then proceeded to panic about the amount of food I had just consumed. The chatter in my brain became so loud, I had to excuse myself to the restroom to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I came back to the table minutes later, my eyes slightly watering and everyone knew, but nobody spoke.
A year and a half and twenty pounds later, Kevin moved back and told me he loved me and suddenly (stupidly) my life was worth living once more. It was almost as though I had never been abandoned in the first place. He didn’t notice the way my bones lay awkwardly against him when he rested his head on my chest to listen to my heartbeat.

The third time I attempted to end it all was haphazard and disastrous. The weather became too cold again. November always breaks my heart. I got a new job after losing my old one. Instead of training me, my boss would give me prescription pain killers and muscle relaxers because once I told him my neck ached. He was prescribed them for problems and I learned how to fake pain to get what I wanted to make it through the day. My job became dull and arduous and I slipped into yet another period of my life where all I wanted to do was sleep. The drive to work was an hour long and I would chain smoke the entire way and stare into every headlight of every passing car and wonder what it would be like to veer into one headfirst. But I didn’t want to hurt anyone else in the process of my own destruction. I had friends over almost every night. They brought wine and beer and whiskey and rum and they drank as much as I did so I thought it would be okay. I spent the majority of my free time smoking weed and slashing my wrists in the bathtub while watching movies. One night I noticed my boss had left several of his pills in the office. I took them. I don’t know why. I pocketed them and left and later that night I ingested them one by one with a bottle of wine.

I waited. I laid down and slept, but unfortunately, my body rejected the poison and I woke up and vomited over the side of my bed before passing out again. The next morning I woke and I cried and I couldn’t move my arms or my legs and my head was a heavy rock stuck to my pillow. I had to call out of work. A few days later, I told my friend and all she did was buy me wine. I told Kevin and all he did was say that what I did was horrible. “That’s so dumb”, he replied to my sobs, without emotion.

I didn’t want to be thought of that way. I let it go. I moved on with my life and left my hometown. The breakup between us was so bad that I had to move to another city to get over it. The lack of interesting, caring people I knew hurt so much that I wanted to go somewhere where I could get away from everything and meet completely new people and be the person that I was without judgement from anybody. Judgement stung too much and I was too sad. I didn’t know what it is about my move, but everything looked and sounded and felt so good, like pictures and songs and air. I felt as though maybe i had been drugged or something, but everything was so vibrant then and just months before that everything was so bleak and blank and flat. It’s weird what being in a new place can do for a person.
I was so happy, but it felt undeserved. I was always waiting for something bad to happen. And when it did, I spent four days in bed. I was fired from my job. I was so afraid that I would have to move back to my parents’ house. One of the last things Kevin said to me was, “You’ll be there six months, run out of money, and have to move back”.

Those words resonated in my head. I locked myself away in my room and ignored everyone. Even the one who cared so much about me; the man I left my heart with. Vance noticed. He was the only person in all of my life who noticed when something was wrong with me and he didn’t take it lightly. He called me every day, he said he worried for me, he sent me photos of his blood. He bled for me. And when I realized that I wasn’t alone for the first time in my life, I called him and he listened to me. And I moved on. And I found a new job. And I stayed alive and I thrived and I overcame and I survived and I made goals and plans and had dreams for the first time since I was sixteen years old. I was alive.

Sometimes, I want to die. I know it would be easier to cease to exist. I know that people in my life would be sad, but it wouldn’t matter. I would be gone. There’s so much in me, though, that I can’t make sense of, both physically and not, and sometimes I think I should take an anatomy class to understand how everything works but then that would probably just make me think even more. The way things work and humans minds work is wonderful, there’s so much connected to everything but I feel like my synapses are always misfiring, I can’t say what I mean to say. And I think sometimes it’s worth exploring. I can’t wreck people or myself anymore. I need to get my act together. I need to chill the fuck out.

-Pixie

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“Not much music left inside us for life to dance to. Our youth has gone to the ends of the earth to die in the silence of the truth. And where, I ask you, can a man escape to, when he hasn’t enough madness left inside him? The truth is an endless death agony. The truth is death. You have to choose: death or lies. I’ve never been able to kill myself.”
- Louis-Ferdinand Céline

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