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The Chaos Junking

I blacked out and came to in a state of euphoria. With my back against the door jam and my leg up on the counter, my mind gave up and I let my body experience the amazing feel of him inside of me.  Just as my legs were about to give in he had me over the kitchen table with my ass up in the air and my nipples pressed against the cold oak. At that moment the only thing I could comprehend was how good it felt to be taken by this man, for that moment I completely seemed to forget that he was a psychopath.

  It only seems fitting that the most intense and mind blowing sex that I’ve experienced is with a psychopath. I’ve never done normal very successfully, instead I seem to thrive on the chaos and thrill of the fucked up. It’s not just the excitement of the sex but also the draw to their twisted mental state. I guess my own mental illness is just not enough to satisfy this urge to pursue the crazy. Hence my current love affair with a self affirmed psychopath, with four kids by three different baby mamma’s, a few DUIs, a porn director father and an inability to be faithful or truthful. My vagina, clearly, shares my enthusiasm for the insane and the amazing orgasms that come from sleeping with crazy.

I myself have a pretty mainstream and tame fucked-up-ness.  I am just a suicidal depressive, I seem to be slightly incapable of over reacting or really showing any type of extreme emotion.  I go through the motions every day, going to work, the gym, a run and that’s that.  I don’t flaunt my disease, I don’t use it as a means to make myself more interesting or intriguing.  Instead I tend to keep it to myself and if it does come up I brush it off as if spending my days wishing to die is no big deal.  

I could utilize my own issues to fulfill my desire for disaster, but instead I seek out others who are undeniably and  unapologetically fucked up. This doesn’t just happen with men, even in my friendships I find myself involved with those girls who call the cops on their boyfriends, have multiple pregnancy and STD scares, and are just flat out nuts.  And I fucking love it, it’s as if I am a chaos junking.

I have spent so much time “working on myself” and “evolving” that I’ve evolved right out of having any interesting and crazy traits for myself.  But I carve it, I feel saddened and empty when life is just fine.  I find myself working for insane bosses who ask me to do asinine things, that I always end up doing. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to work for someone who is not a criminal of some sort, it seems as much a luxury as a death sentence for me. I wouldn’t last more than a month in a job that did not make me question my moral fiber everyday..

The awful part is that I, not so secretly, love all this shit, cause it gives me a thrill and a story.  It evokes an emotion in me that makes me feel alive.  I lie to myself all the time and say I want a simple and normal life, but the truth is I just want the tornado to go on around me while I stay safely in the eye the whole time. I want all of the benefits of leading the life of the insane without every really having to get my hands dirty. I am a mental illness voyeur, getting off on watching other people’s lives go up in flames, only offering water when I am fully satisfied.  



The Same, Only Different

I become genuinely heart broken and distraught when I get rejected by a guy I’ve slept with, even if it was just once. I have the tendency to believe that every man I sleep with is the one for me. I become infatuated and they consume my thoughts. On my long runs I’ll envision our lives together, and then, inevitable they reject me. It comes at all different points, sometimes early on, sometimes 6 years after they have taken advantage of me, but it does always come. And then I spiral into a tornado of self loathing and bewilderment.
I just can’t ever understand how it could be that these men can just not care. It seems nearly impossible to me, someone who does everything full force, that they can just move on to the next one. I have spent countless hours, days, weeks, yes even years wondering how it could be possible that I did not matter. I can’t seem to grasp that I made no real impression on their lives, that they could so easy just toss me aside. What was it that made them even drawn to me in the first place, if I am clearly so forgettable? 
After a fair amount of inner reflection and false hope,that these men who are rejecting me will have a change of heart, I move on to being angery, well angery for me. In my head I get all worked up and despise the fact that I’m just another notch on their bed post, another girl they “took down” or just another meaningless fuck. When I finally come to terms with the reality, I except how much it hurts and then I move on.
I’ve spent so much time getting worked up about the same scenario, over and over again, never once realizing that I too just get over it. It may take me a little bit longer, but I just stop caring. I have no problem falling just as hard for the next gorgeous guy that happens to spend a night in my bed. From there the cycle repeats itself, clearly indicating that I must have not been that into the last guy if my feelings are so easily swayed to the next one. So although it may look different, it is in fact the same thing. Each guy becomes a tick mark in the form of a blog post, if they are even memorable enough for that, and then nothing more than a memory, sometimes a fond one, other times just a memory. At the time though, they were the most important person in my life, and when it is over they weren’t. Although I like to think I’m above the assholes I sleep with, I’m actually just the same, only different.

Have to Laugh

I have to laugh, there is really no other way. At the time I do cry, sometimes uncontrollably so, or it may just be a slow silent weep. But when it is over, and I’ve got some distance from whatever it was that made me cry I typically laugh. I’m not sure if it comes with my mentality to never keep a grudge but I tend to make a joke of it all, which may be way I keep getting myself into such absurd and hurtful situations. Maybe if I viewed the situations with the sadness and disgust they deserved I would not have some many things to laugh about now.
I lost my virginity when I was 16, in my driver’s ed teachers house, in his kids play room, with no door, next to Barbie’s mansion. Luckily it was not to my driver’s ed teacher, but instead to an asshole whom I had been hooking up with for a while. He was 22 and had already graduated from Culinary Arts school. For some reason he felt that it was appropriate to come back home and hang out with his younger sister’s friends. He could buy beer, so clearly none of us objected. 
Looking back in makes perfect sense to me now why I liked him so much, he was so fucked up. I’m not sure what his damage was, because at that age I had not yet deemed myself an insightful non-licensed therapist. Thus I had not delved into what made him the way he was, but needless to say, if you are 22 and sleeping with a 16 year old there has got to be some sort of disconnect in your head. But again he could buy us beer, so I continued to lust after him. 
One night, the beer he did buy us lead to a very drunken night out at the lake. There were only a few of us there that night so I had a better chance of getting his attention. The other girl there was his cousin, so my changes were great. At some point I was in his tent, and I experienced my first hook-up, beyond making out. At the time I was pretty numb from all the booze, but the following day I was both emotionally and physically in pain. I had bruises all over my body and my vagina was sore. I went to work and tried not to think about it. Several weeks later, with many beers taken in the same thing happened, this because the pattern for over four months. 
We developed my first one-sided relationship. Having never had a boyfriend I had no reference point. I saw my other friends having boyfriends, but also having drunken hook-ups, so I didn’t think my situation was that unique. Eventually we fell into the routine of hooking up at parties then not speaking any other time. The night after I gave him a blow job, my first one, I told my friends that the next time we hooked up I would most likely end up having sex with him. At this point it had become a very pathetic and desperate situation that all of my friends could see. They told me I should stop hooking up with him in the event that I did end up wasting my virginity on him. I was too far in by that point, I was infatuated and wanted nothing more than to make us connected, and I believed sex was the only way to do it.
Which brings me to a night filled with booze, so much booze, weed and absinth. My fake and grossly pretentious friends wanted to have a wine and cheese party where they played trivial pursuit and discussed stuck up shit. What really happened was that a large shit show happened at my driver’s ed teachers house, where my friend was house sitting. Absinth is some crazy stuff that leads to insanity when consumed in large volumes. There were people climbing on the rooftop, walking around in nothing buy a quilt, and overall just acting insane. I only had one object that night however, and that was to create a relationship where one had not previously existed. 
Even at the time I recognized the absurdity of the situation, we had one sleeping bag between the two of us and all that was separating us from the rest of the house was a few stands of beads. We had to move Ken’s convertible out of the way before we were able to have the most underwhelming experience of my life. The actual act lasts less than half the time of the first verse of Jeff Buckly’s Hallelujah. I clearly remember thinking to myself…that’s it? After the very quick act I got up the never to finally put it out there, “so does this mean we can hang out now?” After a long silence he replied, “Yea we’ll go hiking or something.”
We never went hiking, we never even had sex again. Things progressively got worse until I was able to go away to college. I wasted some much time trying to make him want me. Endless drunken nights waiting for him to show up at a party and then being heart broken when he would leave me half naked in a field somewhere.
Looking back I laugh, not necessarily about how he treated me or how painful it all was, but I laugh about how I lost my virginity and often tell the story to friends as a source of entertainment. I have always convinced myself that if make light out of my life, especially the really dark parts that I will not be ruined by them. But perhaps if I ever treated them with the severity they deserved I would not find myself in these “laughable” situation so often.

Fast Mover

Life can be so funny sometimes. How is it possible that there are times where it seems like time may actually be moving backwards. And then there are other times when you see a cute guy one week, and then within a week his dick is in your mouth. It seems slightly exhilarated and yet with the current exposure to online dating it is becoming the norm. 
I have been online dating on and off for over three years now, and have had a very wide array of outcomes. A large portion of them where just boring, or fine but with no interest to pursue anything. Others were really bazaar, like call you up in the middle of the night to come pick them up in the middle of the woods because they “can’t go back to jail!”, type of bazaar. Some I fell hard for and was rejected promptly, others dragged out and the rejection came after falling even harder. Some led to a long term dating situation and some where just an awesome fling for a night or a weekend. 
Amongst all of my online date experiences the theme remained the same, meeting someone who, previously you had no knowledge of their existence, and then forming some type of relationship with them, within a few hours. I figured that this was just the way that life was now, and that I was simple following the norm of what I had been offered. It had been so long since I met a guy the old fashion way, seeing them, exchanging words and then progressing to a date. I honestly thought that it wasn’t actually a possibility for me anymore, not at my age. I came to terms with the fact that if I wanted to date I would have to be online. 
Last week I had a rare occurrence and saw a cute guy at a street fair, and I actually made a feeble attempt to flirt with him. Through this exchange I learn that he would be back the next week to work the same event. So the following week I took care to try and look cute…when not gross at least. My friends and I showed up again and after showing my true colors and not saying a word to said guy, my friend decided to give him my number, after I had left. I didn’t think much of it, but then he called that same night. Yes called, not just texted! 
As we spoke on the phone I thought to myself that finally I would get a chance to experience the old school dating experience. He called, we spoke, he invited me out! I was on cloud nine, he had even invited me out for that same night. I did little to prep for the date, thinking it was just a quick drink. I was relieved that I was actually going to meet a guy and I already knew what he looked like. I envisioned us chatting, drinking a beer or two and making plans to meet again, if all went well. Instead by the end of the night I had his dick in my mouth, realizing that it’s not online dating that makes me a fast mover, I’m actually just a bit of a slut.  


I must be doing it all wrong. I can’t figure it out, I really can’t. No matter how hard I try, how far I go, how long I work, I’m still so very very unhappy. I must be missing a big fundamental part of being a human. It does not seem reasonable that no matter what I do, that feeling will always control me. Maybe not fully all of the time, but it’s always there in the background and then out of nowhere it rears its ugly head. Sometimes I can tell what triggers it, rejection, finical failure or obligation, lack of career or a future are all easily identified. But what always gets me is when it just seems to sneak up and knock me over the head. These are the times that are most difficult for me to deal with, because I can’t see them coming and I can’t tell why they happened. Which means it just in me, there is something within myself that is completely and utterly opposed to happiness, or even contentment. That realization that I will never be happy or even want to keep living is so overwhelming and defeating. I can’t change it, I have tried. I don’t want to keep living like this, wishing I was dead. I can never escape it and it’s getting harder and harder to try to push myself though, just cause. It is getting decidedly more painful and pointless for me to keep going. I am wasting my life by wanting it to be over, but I have run out of things to try. I’ve always been told that I have great instincts when it comes to making decisions, and yet this is the one instinct I’ve been ignoring for the past 17 years. Maybe it is finally time to listen one last time to what my mind and body is trying to tell me. Because clearly I am doing something terribly wrong…and I hate doing things incorrectly. 






Weed would have been better.

I always thought it would be so terrible to be one of those kids who found out their parents still smoked pot way into their adult hood. Not that I personally have a problem with weed smoking, I’m pretty indifferent at this point. But I just always felt that would be such a blow to the mind and heart to know that there was a secret that large that had been looming over the family for all that time. 
 Luckily, for me, my parents never dropped that bomb. Although a lot of people do think my Mom must be on drugs to be that positive I know for a fact that they do not have that particular secret to share. For this I always felt very grateful. I perceived my parents very differently when I was young and it took time and distance for me to realize that they are just human and flawed like us all. Having children does not automatically make you the worlds best person, as everyone knows. However I took solice in the fact that although my view of them changed, they never misrepresented who they were or are now. Or at least that was the impression I was under until my last visit with them.
My visits back to Vermont are never fun to begin with. I reached the lowest point in my life in that gray, cold and cloudy, frozen hell hole. Every once in a while I work through it to go see my parents, this last time it had taken me 4 years to work through it before I was able to go back. But I did, and true to the Vermont I despise, the sun did not come out once in the four days I was there and the levels of gray were incomprehensible, and yet the weather was not the darkest part of my trip.
I have been struggling with sever depression since I was 15, one of my brothers has attempted suicide a few time and the other brother has sever social anxiety disorder. It is no surprise that our family has some serious issues. My father has always been a glass completely empty kind of a guy, he not only rains on your parade but tells you it will rain on every parade from here on out. We have all always known he is not the happiest man, but clearly he loves his family and in his own strange way has done everything he can to help us find a good life for ourselves. I know as he gets older it’s hard to him not to feel guilty about how fucked up his kids are and that’s hard to see. But nothing could have prepared me for how hard it would be to hear that he also has struggled with suicidal tenancies and thoughts for his whole adult life, and that he is still struggling now. He is 55.
I have always known what it feels like to love someone who wants to kill themselves, because I grew up very close to my brother. It was terribly painful and heartbreaking. I never forgot how it felt when I started to go down the same path. I tried to keep my feelings berried very deep down inside, so as not to affect others the way my brother affect me. Now that I have been investing a lot of time and effort into trying to overcome this disease I have started to be more open and honest with my family. But when my father told me that he has been living with this same feelings for so long, it killed me. The guilt he feels can be seem on his pained face, the sadness for still having to deal with it and the realization if he still feels this way at 55, there is probably no hope for his children. At that point I would have given anything for him to have told me he still smokes weed. Instead I have an extra layer of sadness, not just for my father, but for what my future will most likely hold…a little parental drug use looks like a piece of cake to me now. 

False Fucking Hope

It’s all gone terribly wrong. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. I never stood a chance, it was in my brain, my chemical makeup. Since the time I was young I didn’t want this life, and yet here I am with it, my never ending state of severe depression and hopelessness. It is not going anywhere; the only option is that I go. I need to go.

I try, really really try. I try so hard to make something of my life, I try to make myself happy, I try to find love and worth. But life is like a Chinese finger trap, the more you try the harder it gets.

People, professional mind helpers, say that suicide is a very permanent solution to a temporary problem. Well fuck them if they think this shit is temporary. A cold is temporary. A chemical imbalance in your brain is not something that will just go away with a little medication, although people would like you to think so. “Here take some fucking Prozac, if it doesn’t make you crazy it might actually help”. But what happens when it doesn’t? What happens when you can’t just medicate that shit away? It stays with you, it haunts you until you make that final decision. It isn’t until you finally stop trying, until you give in that you actually win.

I think I am ready to stop trying. I know that there is still a little piece of me that is holding on due to all the false hope bullshit I have been fed my whole life. I have had countless people tell me to hold on because my happiness is just around the corner. They cannot fathom that someone who has worked so hard on every aspect of their life could still be failing so miserably. Well guess what? I am! I am failing over and over again, and I’m ready to be done. I can’t swallow another pep talk nor another rejection. I think it time for me to make that permanent action for what so many people hope is a temporary issue. It may just be time for my one last effort to finally be done with it all. Life you lose, depression you win.