I can't believe how empty I've allowed myself to become.
I can never be happy.
The little holes all over me never allow me to hold the water of good things. I fill myself up and it spills out.
I'm filling with things that are too thin. I need something solid and steady.
I don't let myself feel anything. I fear feelings. I made my heart rock hard and immovable, there is no satisfying this chest.

When I can't figure out what to do, I act crazy. I would rather look psychotic than look like the hot girl. I don't want to try to turn you on, I want to turn you away. I want to strike fear in your soul and make you weary about getting close. But I still want to see you try. And I might have really fucked up this one. I know I fucking disgust and terrify and annoy you, but you will keep coming back because I am that kind of girl. I know you don't like me and it's alright. I don't really want you to because I don't want it to become more.

I know what you see in me and it makes me feel sick. I am sick. I hate this. I hate myself. I fucking hate you. But I want to feel you still. I don't know if it's a bad thing to be this way, I just wish it didn't suck as much. Getting to the point where I am this okay with being that kind of girl has taken so long, and I have so much longer to go yet. I'm just so good at knowing how not to love that I want to take advantage of it. I never realized there would still be other repercussions.

Sleep now in the fire.

I don't how how this happened.
I mean I do, though.
It's because I'm a bad person.
And I care about you, to some degree.
I wish we could live our lives separately and come together when we needed.
But every time I end up pushing you away from me.
On the outside, you're the evil one.
The deeper you gaze, the more I look like the devil.
It's why I can't look you in the eyes for too long.

You handed me a pistol and it felt perfect in my hands.
It fit better than the flesh of any lover, better than leather.
You handed me a knife and I held it to my wrist.
I tested how sharp it was.
I thought about how beautiful it would be to kill myself in front of you.
You took it and called me a psycho.
You were right.

I wanted to die when you cuddled me.
Stop it, I said.
It's deadly, it's poisonous.
It spawns a natural reaction within me that only feels right to resist.
It's so unhealthy for me to feel the touch of love.
I wish you would just use me the way I use you.

The worst part about being a cutter isn't the action. That's probably the best part.
It's hunting down your favorite razor blade.
Digging through shelves and boxes.
Like a heroin addict, looking for one more fix that you just know is in the room.
You can feel it. Taste it. Smell it.
But until its in your hand, nothing else matters.
Once you've decided you're going to cut, it's all there is.

I looked in the same boxes and shelves three times over. I couldn't stop. I was chasing the high of being low. Twenty minutes of me searching before pulling a handful of junk from a drawer and seeing the tiny box the razors come in, in my hand. It was euphoric, to say the least.

Then I get to drag it across the flesh of my arm and all is good. I wanted to go deep. I split the skin and saw the pink. It scares me how good it feels. I probably shouldn't do this. It's going to get worse. I never cut that often. I didn't want people to see the marks. But I realized I could just cover them with band aids. I'll probably be cutting a lot more now.


I have this trick—anything you can do to me, I do to myself already. And I hit harder than you ever could

Mental Breakdown #298

Another bad day in the life. About every six months, the slurry of anxiety and depression that grows like a fungus in my brain has to be bled out in a day of pure self-destruction. It's been a long time since I cut myself with a razor and I forgot how much better they are to use then kitchen knives. They separate the skin in these thread-like lines and the flesh opens to reveal a gorgeous pink undertow. And the feeling of indulgence and the rush of adrenaline flood my brain and drown the darkness. I tried to dig a nice swirl into my upper arm but I couldn't get it to curve properly so I gave up. The marks were starting to look ugly and the blood was making a mess. Knives just leave dark little dents and holes that don't bleed the way they should. So at least I know for next time.

I have to talk about this out loud because I have to make it feel okay. It's okay because it makes me feel something when I'm feeling empty and it's better than suicide. I don't see what makes it so bad and I don't want help for it. Sometimes it's all I have to feel alive. When there's no love, or music, or sunlight to soothe m psyche. Most of all I wish I could take some time away from my mind but it's impossible. I need a vacation from Earth but I wouldn't come back and that isn't satisfying either. 

This is how I spent my Saturday. I got a haircut and the woman asked what I was doing tonight and I stuttered and tried to think of any thing to say but I just told her "nothing, tonight." I realized I really wished I had more friends. To go to bars with. I wish I had the gall to just go home with some guy and not feel lonely for a night but I know that won't make me happy either. I had an anxiety attack from the paranoia that someone was following me when I took a walk. What the fuck? I didn't eat anything until 9pm. I thought being literally empty might fill me with any other feeling. Pain, aching, focus, determination. I fantasized about looping a belt together and tying the end to the bar in my closet. The tightness of the cinching felt fantastic before I pulled my hands away from my throat and swallowed a dry cloud of air. 

I feel somewhat better now. As best as I can. I'm really scared that I'm wasting my youth. You're supposed to spend your twenties discovering love and sex, making friends, chasing your dreams, and taking pictures. But so for I've spent them alone; cutting, starving, and wishing I were dead.

Move white girls like there's coke up my ass crack.

I don't "experiment" with drugs. I'm not a fucking lab rat. I research as much as I can about a variety of substances out of pure interest and should the occasion arise when I get to try something new, I won't end up dying. This is where most people go wrong, and many people die. Drugs on their own are not deadly. Misinformation, conservatism and being a stupid human are what make them so.

I watch Drugs Inc because I like to see how different drugs are made, but overall the show is pretty much a farce. I was watching the ecstasy episode with my dad when the show starting talking about comedowns. My dad tells me about his friend who did ecstasy and said he was depressed for days after taking it. I nodded but in my head, I thought "you have no fucking idea..."

I don't do pressed pills. Ever. If in this wake of people dying from dirty E pills, you still find the necessity to do them, I hope your funeral is at least decent. Don't be a lab rat.

I don't do mushrooms, acid or ketamine. I probably never will. I feel like I'm always on the verge of ending my life and I fear if I lose even the slightest grip on my self, I'll jump the bridge. So I don't put things in my body that might drive my mind down that road.

I thought I might have become allergic to alcohol recently because I was throwing up every time I drank. Then I realized it was because I was binge drinking every time I drank. Now I pay a little more attention because I don't want my liver to hate me.

In the end, I think it's fine to try drugs if you want to. I think laws should be changed and drugs should be regulated. But that time is far to come. What we need now is people to smarten up and stop experimenting. Stigma needs to die. I might try coke or heroin one day but not before I know what's safe to do. And if you think that might be fucked, then you haven't listened to anything I've said. I'm not a lab rat, but I'm going to push my brain and my body as far as I can in my time on earth.

I don't know where I am right now, but I know its a pretty bad place. Everything feels wrong, like it's built from puzzle pieces that don't fit together. I don't feel especially close to anything. My surroundings feel like they're just magnified from reality, like blurred holograms of what I should be seeing. Sometimes I can't tell if I'm hearing phantom noises or just getting used to all the strange sounds in the area of my new apartment. It's hard for me to focus. I can barley read anything I lay out in front of my face. My eyes just trace the words, from front to back, line by line, and nothing ever gets processed. I keep finding myself staring at the walls and the living room table. There is zero motivation inside of me. To cook, to exercise, to leave my apartment, to get out of bed before 12. I've become a zombie of what I used to be. I look at photos of myself from before and it's not the same face that shows up in the mirror. My hair keeps getting in the way and my face feels and looks dirty all the time. I used to think I was a pretty girl but today, that isn't me. I am void of purpose. The only thing I've done recently is make a dent in the seat cushions of the sofa. I just wait and wait and wait for midnight so I can close my eyes and shut my life off for a while. And the day after, I'll wait and wait and wait for calls, for jobs interviews, please, anything to make me alive again. There must be something wrong with my mind. I have so much but I want so much more. It isn't right to feel this empty when my life is overflowing with goodness. A lot of the time I feel like crying. A lot of the time I don't. My father called today, probably to make sure I'm alive. He forgot to say "I love you" before he said goodbye for the first time ever and for some reason, it made me want to die. I can't really listen to music. What could always cure my aching heart and down-trodden soul before, turns my head away now. It's inconceivable. Something's wrong here and I need to fix it. I remember feeling dead inside before. A long time ago. I thought that what I'm feeling was nowhere close to what it was like then but now I fear, it might be worse.

I don't quite know how to feel about this specific personal realization, but here it is: I really love attention. I like little bits of it every now and then, like an addict and their heroin. Someone calling my name, texts, calls, credit where it's due, the little window popping up on facebook from someone saying hello. And these things can come from absolutely anyone and they make me giddy. I figured this out at work yesterday. I was putting up the fourth leg on a canopy tent, which is always the most difficult and I can never do it myself. But I decided to give it another try and while I'm mustering all the strength I have in my arms to get this thing together, the people holding the tent up start cheering for me and encouraging me. Then suddenly, the tent is up. It was like all my fortitude fed off of the verbal supports of my coworkers. I felt strong. But then I felt weak for needing the attention to succeed. Later on in the day, a guy I find particularly interesting says "Kaylee, come with me" and I notice I'm prancing like a child at the sound of my own name. Me, being chosen out of the entire crew for something I wasn't even aware of. It ended up being "Help me ratchet down these tents" which wasn't so special, but goddammit, I love hearing my own name. I'm not so sure if my fondness for encouragement is so much more profound than other people's, but this realization struck me a little.

Because then I started thinking about how I felt when I don't get the attention I want. I do some strange things. Since I was young, I would do retarded things to get the attention of boys who barely knew who I was. And when I became aware of it, I tried to stop but it would always innately come out of me, beyond my self-control. I'm pretty sure I terrified every boy I liked when I was younger. I haven't done anything stupid in a while, but I still like to vie for attention. I try to joke and kid around but if a guy doesn't like it, then I shut completely up. I can usually perceive right away if he's going to be alright with "clever girl" or "strange girl who never speaks." I'm so fucking weird.

So when neither of these work, and I'm not getting attention, I flip the fuck out. Mostly internally. Some girls like to get desperate when they don't get the calls. Infinite texts, "Here, take my number. Please.", facebook add, facebook message, facebook wall post. I can't do this. I want him to come at me completely unwarranted. I'm so bad at sending signals sometimes because there is a specific way I never want to be perceived which is easy and desperate. And then the guy thinks I'm not interested, and he leaves my life, and I pine for him, and I die a little inside knowing that I'm too weak to "make a move." Every time I say "the next one, definitely." And then before I know it, they've come and gone.

Right now, my heart aches for guy I'm not sure I'll ever see again. He's coming here from Vancouver for Sled Island which is this weekend. I told him last month to talk to me when he's in town and wants to hang out. And that's the most I can do. I can't ask for his number. I can't give him mine if he doesn't want it. I can't start a facebook conversation with him because he'll think I'm desperate. But the one time that little window popped up, I could feel my heart skip a beat. And we talked until 2am, but now here we are three weeks later and we haven't spoken. I'm really hoping he'll let me know when he's in town. If he doesn't, he's not interested and it's over. I can stop my pining, but I will feel sad and unwanted. But only for a bit and maybe I can get my heart and head back together. I really hope I'm not sad about this on my fucking birthday.

In twelfth grade English, we were forced to read poems by Sylvia Plath. I didn't like it. I thought she was whiny and must have been insufferable in real life. Honestly, this bitch was blahing about how sad she was for no goddamn reason. It wasn't until I was older, experiencing my own variety of mental incapacities that I realized the utter, heart-crushing force between the lines of her writing. 

Because there's a million things that can make you sad and want to write a suicide note and just die. Starving children everywhere. Your home burning down, your daughter getting kidnapped, finding your dog's been run over. Or the worst of all; getting dumped! How could any just world allow its citizens to drive themselves into the arms of loneliness and abandonment.

I jest. Though I've never been dumped, I've seen it happen, and I agree it looks like it sucks. What I can't understand is why people who have been dating less than a year need to pine for longer than a day. Your lover didn't die. The love did. Love is certainly more resilient than people realize. If it deserves to flourish between two people, it will. People break up all the time and it is never over one little thing. Ever. Sometimes there is just no common ground. So why should everyone find it absolutely necessary to pour out their whole hearts to anyone who will listen? "He didn't like me, we're too different, oh god, why were we so different?!" Um, you haven't even lived out half your life yet. In all likelihood you'll find someone significantly better than him who will somehow stand your vapid presence. 

After personally listening to a simply unjustifiable amount of heartbreak sagas in my 19 years, I can't even begin to be moved by them anymore. I have a hard time being sympathetic longer than a day for most people. I've read that story and I know the ending. I don't enjoy hearing the beginning over and over. It doesn't make me sad. 

What does move me, is a book called the Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath. In plain view, she's a young girl with an amazing life ahead of her and just got an amazing opportunity to live in New York City. How lovely! Except that she's dreadfully unhappy. Why? No goddamn reason. I suppose clinical depression is a reason, but aside from her mental affliction, her life looks fucking awesome. 

So why do I enjoy this novel? I'm annoyed by girls who whine about being dumped by the men of their dreams but am enamored with the story of a girl with a marvelous life who wants to end it all. I didn't understand until now.

It's really the saddest fucking thing in the world, to be suicidal in spite of your brilliant life because your brain has genetic poison. Mental disorder has to be one of the utmost depressing instances of existence. And unless you have ever dealt with it, you really don't understand. You simply can't. You can't explain hunger to someone who has never felt it. Same idea. Something you're born with, that possibly leads to your demise, but only a choice few in the world ever experience it. The saddest thing in the world is to be sad without a tangible reason for it. Because you can't fucking fix it.

Then, there are these people like Sylvia Plath, who weave their neuroses into heavenly tapestries of words and euphonies. You can only imagine what depression feels like. In the same way a person who hasn't eaten for days could write so naturally about hunger. While you're reading, you find yourself suddenly starving. I never understood what Plath was saying until I felt what it was like to be stuck in an infinite spiral. To be intoxicated by the genuine brain cells you were born into. One day I'll write about the mental malfunctions I overcame. But that story is a long one and will be saved for another day.

  So I've never really been in love. I've been infatuated and I've cried over guys but I can't quite say my heart's ever been broken. Never had a boyfriend. My parents think I'm gay and my brother thinks I'm just too weird to get one. I really just have no desire for a relationship. I like being free and loose among the waves of existence without some buoyant boy to float on. Eventually I'm sure I'd like a lover, but I can't imagine how far away that will be. I've been considering getting a boyfriend for the sole purpose of practicing being in a relationship. Then I realize I am just too weird to have one.

  I went on okcupid or some website like that for about three minutes before I freaked out and left. I was on the page where they ask you all your values and interests and dreams so they can look for others with similar lifestyles. But I don't exactly know what my values are and I doubt they're even positive or matchable. Plus I don't want to date anyone like me, I think that would be seriously dreadful. Just for fun, here's what my personal profile would probably read as:

Hi. I'm Kaylee Rae. I'm an alien from space, possibly from Jupiter or the Moon, I'm not positive which. I was born in Calgary but I consider Vancouver more my hometown. I'm in love with the ocean. Music is my reason for existing and if I had to give up one of my senses, it would be sight so I could have perfect pitch and not be so shallow. I'm becoming more of a hermit as the days go by so I don't have an abundance of friends. I miss people too much. I like books and art more than I like nearly anyone. I think fascists get some things right. If you pray to an imaginary man in the sky, I will presume you're psychotic. Unless you're gorgeous. I usually don't find people attractive, in fact, I might be asexual. 

And that's me. Here's a funny story: I'm pretty sure my "one that got away" has come and gone. He was in Vancouver, and I met him at work. I was hired in October to work as a professional zombie. I got paid to scare the shit out of people. And it was fantastic. Anyways, the boy worked in the clown house but I never saw him in makeup. Just when he was supervising. I don't know how, but he was drawn to me and was one of the first friends I made there. Even with all my terrifying painted-on features, he would vie for my attention. This one time, he was singing something to himself when he was behind me and when I turned around to see who it was, he stopped and said "Sorry, I was just singing to myself..." I always have an angry look on my face until I'm driven to emote something else, so he probably assumed I was annoyed by his voice. I laughed and asked what song and he told me the new Tokyo Police Club album has been in his head. Sometime later he tells me Kings of Leon's new album is great too. Within the week, I had bought both albums and they are on repeat on the old iPod for about a month. I still think of him every time I listen to those songs. I don't know if I really liked the albums or if my infatuation with him was manifesting itself in the music.

The day before Halloween was my last shift. I was on my way out of the dressing room, anticipating that I'd never see the boy again and in a strange twist, he appears. He jokes for me to hurry up because he wants to change. "You can't tell me what to do!" I cooed. This is where he walks up to me and with about three inches between our faces he says "I'll tell you whatever I want." The way he said it sounded so filthy that I was basically swooning and fighting every urge to force him behind a closed door and tear off his clothes. All I can reply is "You're not the boss of me" and he grins as he points to his "supervisor" name tag and says "Oh really?" I laugh and push him away just to release us from the overwhelming sexual tension. I tell him it's my last shift and he asks if I want a hug. It was raining that night, so he opened up his black coat so I could hug him from inside and not get wet. He had a hilarious sweater that had a panda face, it was unforgettable. I need to find one for myself. I put my arms around him, underneath his jacket, and felt the warmest sensation I remember feeling in my whole life. It was like a homecoming. His blond hair was dark with water and it dripped onto my shoulders. And that was the last time I saw him.

I'm glad he never ended up a one night stand. That would have ruined it. I'm glad I never dated him and broke up some months later. That would have been worse. Of course I wish he could have been my one and only forever, but that's only possible if I ever see him again. And I hope I do. It does sound quite neurotic, to think my "one" was a boy I never even knew more than a month, but I enjoy the idea of it. That I missed out on my chance at a nice, happy little fate. That if he truly is that one, that I will certainly meet him again. That I don't have to worry if the next boy might be the "one". He's already come and gone.

I have a lot of qualms about religion. I was raised Catholic. I went to Catholic school and was trained to put my faith in an invisible yet still omnipotent being. And when I dared to submit to any of my naturally human desires and didn't ask said ghost man for forgiveness, I should expect an eternity in a flaming pit of agonizing existence following my death on earth. This is the kind of shit matured adults are telling children every damn day. "Have zero notions that your finite life here means anything beyond serving an almighty creator. If you're bad, you'll go to Hell when you die. Also, this omniscient man has yet to find a way to make his existence undeniable to humans, but questioning his existence is a sin against him, so don't do that. Oh, and you can just go ahead and base your whole life on this book that barely makes any sense even in the context it was written in."

Sometime after maybe eight years of age, I stopped having imaginary friends. Even then, I never thought they were really there. It was just a past-time when I was alone and finding ways to cope with that. Now, when you have gone through puberty, you've got a job, you go to school or you're bringing up a family, and you have an imaginary friend who you swear your entire life by, you are probably insane. But the second we call him "God", suddenly that's perfectly normal. It's perfectly normal that a major population of the world is okay with the idea that God only talks to one infallible man on earth at any time and that's enough to satisfy their doubts. Children are told that questioning is evil and are raised to pray to this imaginary friend until the day they die. This is actually psychotic. 

I personally fucking hate the Church for it's impositions on my life and more severely on others. I help my brother with his homework sometimes and for religion questions, I have to look them up online because they don't make sense I think logically as opposed to a brain-dead infant. Questions about God and morals. Why do I need to know about Jesus and God to know about morals? I'm pretty sure I can understand the good implications of the Golden Rule without knowing the history of Jesus. 

I can't converse with my family. I told my brother to stop playing video games for Lent. He told me to give something up and I said I don't have to, because I don't believe in God. This is where my mother yells for me to quit imposing my beliefs on my brother who is too young to hear about it. She usually has no qualms about my religious choices but this stirred her. Which I found laughable because apparently it's better to teach a child that they can only be moral if they follow the Catholic doctrine and if they deny it, they're going to Hell. He probably says prayers on nights when he wants a new game, or wants my grandmother to get better or wants school to be easier. He thinks someone besides the ceiling is listening. 

That's how I was. I used to pray every night for my parents to get back together. And they did. And I prayed every night, saying thank you for answering those prayers. But only six months went by before I was back in my hometown without my father. I finished grade five in the school that I left at the end of grade four. I was never supposed to come back. My parents were supposed to be together forever. I prayed every night, so what gives? Praying had nothing to do with it. We moved on my parent's whim, and they separated by their own accord as well. It had nothing to do with the quality and quantity of their small daughter's prayers. This is about the time I lost my faith in god. Prayers don't do shit. Cancers patients live or they don't. There is no decided prayer quota to determine their survival. 

My maternal grandparents are quite the story. Grandpa was raised in Europe and was an engineer his entire life. He is inarguably intelligent. He is also Seventh Day Adventist. I don't know what specifically differentiates it from being a Catholic, but he's pretty hardcore about the Bible. The family all got photocopies of a booklet on the End of Days, as predicted by the Bible and how we should prepare. "What a great sentiment at Christmastime, thank you Grandfather. I'll be sure to look out for the harlot riding a beast and the inevitable rapture. What does Jesus look like again? Just so I know it's him when the time comes."

My grandmother claims to be a god-fearing Christian who believes God loves her and will bring her to Heaven when she dies. But she's an insufferable woman and she should only be so lucky that there is no afterlife. In the hospital, she moans about leaving her rosary at home instead of grabbing it before the ambulance picked her up. Then she calls my mother a disappointment because she is uncomfortable buying my grandmother's medication and bring it into the hospital. My mother hasn't visited her since. My grandfather was somehow convinced to by the meds and they were confiscated by doctors the next day. My grandfather, the engineer, has actually been divorced from this woman for decades now and still pays all her bills. My grandmother treats the family like we're peasants. She has said things to my brother and I as children that only an immoral person could. She doesn't go to Church more than three times a year. All this, and she still gets to call herself a Christian. 

I hate the Church for this. For making people think they can't have a moral compass without an unshakable faith in something that doesn't logically exist. My grandmother is proof that there can be faith without morals. And it exists everywhere. I hate the Church for all the time I spent staying up at night and questioning god, fearing that what if, after all this, I will be spending an eternity in hellfire. Apparently the greatest sin against god is denying that it exists. How convenient for the Church! So yeah, not too worried about that anymore.

I can't believe that god exists anymore than I believe there is a teapot orbiting the earth or that Zeus has always been the right answer. There innumerable gods that have been designed by humans throughout time and all they do is fulfill our natural desire for understanding. That's it, that's all. The Church is just a business tagging along for the ride. 

And now, something about happiness. What I have come to know is that people are constantly making efforts towards being perfectly happy, instead of finding methods to maintain happiness everyday. I could ask anyone I know what the best day of their life was, and they could probably recite one or two, maybe seven, to me. Some pure and perfect impression of a flawless time they once lived in. Ask anyone you know what the best day of their life was and the majority will recall some time from the past. It's rather unlikely they might tell you "today" or "yesterday, actually." Some people have the ability to say "It hasn't happened yet." For instance, if you're anywhere under the age of 35 and in good health, in all likelihood you still have more than 50% of your life to lead. Imagine all the job prospects, relationship potentials and problems you've encountered so far. Imagine how all this becomes exponentially greater with the possession of wisdom and aptitude. 

Everyone certainly finds happiness in a variety of subjects and areas. Most commonly I'd say in love, money, and in living stress-free, overall. What I've realized is that as people pursue a harmonious future, they try to cling to their days in the past. We want time machines to take us back to when we were cuddling a sweetheart instead of being single or getting As in grade eleven instead of Cs in university. Working part time and no bills. Concerts, movie dates and climbing trees, oh please just take us back. Now all we have are interviews, seduction classes and guys who don't answer calls.

But in the depths of all the sadness, there is great potential to be happy. There's potential in music and nature; these impeccable entities that exist beyond the power of money or human interference. I sometimes wish I could live the life I had in high school. But this is unfair to the life I have now, for it could be marginally more desirable if I made the effort. It honestly is, though. I just have a hard time accepting that some days.

Because it is hard to realize that your life is ultimately meaningless. And everything you do is to be forgotten. And everyone you ever cherish will fade. All this is essentially where unhappiness stems out of. The incapability to wholly accept that everything but impermanence itself is impermanent. To acknowledge these unfortunate facts as necessary and liberating gives us the quality of finding happiness in everything. In simply existing. With this, we can be grateful for our tiny sliver of time. All the simplicity, the inconsistency, the constant rejection and acceptance we face. There is no god-given plan but this is the scheme or our lives and I am learning to embrace it.