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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.  

 

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Wrong 

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.

I can’t win

For a while now I have been trying to convince myself that I can overcome any problem or issues simply by stating that it is a non-issue.  This has now worked for driving, interviewing, eating in front of people and so on.  Even though I still do not enjoy these things deep down, my fear of them is no longer holding me back from accomplishing these daily life tasks.  It has worked for some many things that I figured I could simply stop suffering from the depression that has been crippling me since I was 15.  If I just told myself that I did not in fact want to end my own life, or wish that it had never began in the first place that it would just vanish.  I wanted to believe that it was just a phase in my life that I could overcome now that I was older and enlightened.

How can it be possibly that I have moved many times, traveled, had new jobs, terrible jobs, stressful and wonderful jobs, met all sorts of people, been on an astonishing amount of first dates, been rejected by countless man and other people, been in several car accidents and have managed to over come it all, but something as stupid as serotonin can wreck me?  All it takes is waking up one morning and feeling that sense of hopelessness and purposelessness and I have lost everything I have worked so hard for.  It all becomes irrelevant. The past 8 years of focusing on becoming a better a person, all the years of waking up early to go to the gym, all the hundreds of miles I’ve run, all the crazy diets, self help books, self introspection and constantly trying, trying and trying to make myself happy and whole.  It all falls away the second the serotonin takes control.  It’s as if I might as well have spent the last 16 years lying in bed, I lost any sense of accomplishment or pride.  I am once again a child, unable to take control of my brain and emotions, instead they control me and all I can do is dream about taking control once and for all.  I just can’t bare the thought of this part of me always winning, always crushing everything else I’ve ever done in life.  It always wins.

I tell myself that I no longer have a problem, that I do not in fact suffer from depression, that I am a functioning human who has put way too much effort into fixing everything that has ever been wrong to still have this looming over my head.  But that’s just not true, I do have an issue, one that I can not fix, solve, run from, hide from, or self-help it away. I have a chemical in my brain that can ruin everything I have ever worked for and it does, over and over again.  It will leave me for a little while, just enough time to pick myself back up and start to convince myself that I can gain control once again, but then it’s back, making me realized I should never have tried in the first place.  There is only one way I will truly defeat it, but that is also how it will finally truly defeat me.

Flight Risk

Recently I have found myself getting hurt by the fact that no one wants to give me the time of day.  I have never had a problem making friends, which was always helpful due to the fact that I like to move and explore new places.  I truly value the relationships I make with people even when I know I may never see them again.
My mentality is not apparently a shared one in my new home.  After six months of living here I still feel like an outsider who will never belong.  I don’t necessarily have a problem not belonging, I have always been a bit odd, but I’ve always found people who appreciate it.  I was thinking that I was perhaps just too odd for where I am living, or perhaps too much of a hippy, or too ignorant when it comes to wine…but then I realized that there are plenty of those types all around, the only difference is that these odd balls, hippys and vita-culterlly challenged people where born here and I was not.
Many of the places I have lived and visited in my life I have found a certain type of admiration for being a nomad.  In a lot of places this is how I have acquired some of my closest friends, because they too were looking to expand their worlds and their understanding of life.  I feel incredibly lucky that coming from Northern Vermont some of my best friends are from Ohio, Washington, Michigan and California.  I feel as though knowing them has help me become a more rounded individual.
But now here I am, alone in a beautiful setting because I was not born in this area.   Other than the sheer loneliness factor I could not figure out why I was getting so upset that these close minded people would not let me in.  And then it hit me, they see me as a flight risk, that I could just leave at any point, because clearly that is what I have done in the past.  The truth of the matter is that I am so much more of a flight risk then anyone would ever know.  My current lack of friends is just a larger reflection of what I am missing in life.
 For the past three years I have been trying so hard to find love, to find an intimate life partner that loves me and wants to grow with me.  I know that having a boyfriend/husband will not make my underlying depression disapere, but it does seem like it would ease some of the pain.  I have always wanted to real love but it was not until a few years ago that I began really making an attempt, hell I even move to give my self better chances (I should have done my research a little better) but still I can not form a meaningful connection with any man.  I have no been single for over five years and cryed myself to sleep more nights then I care to recall.  But now I realize that I’ll never have a man love me because I am in fact a flight risk.  Who would want to love someone who is not committed to being on this earth?  I think about killing myself as much as I think about someone loving me.  Why would someone want to invest anything in me?  Here I was getting mad at people who didn’t want to befriend me because I may move, and the truth is that people shouldn’t befriend me or care about me because I may remove myself from this life all together…I guess I need to stop getting so upset with others who are just looking out for their best interests.

Off the Road Again

I still think about it, far more often than I ever assumed I would. Seems I was more delusional than I thought possible. I told myself it was something that I would grow out of. Not the depression part, I always knew that was with me for the long haul, it being a chemical imbalance and all. What I was hoping to out grown was the constant thoughts of ending my own life.
It happens all the time, even when nothing is particularly wrong, although nothing is ever particularly right either. I could be in a perfectly decent mood, or even a good mood and I still just think about the possibility of never having to think again. It’s not just the big things that I think about abandoning, like the idea that I am 30 and still single with no prospect in sight, or that I don’t honestly believe that I will ever pay off my school loans. But it’s also the little things, never having to pump gas again, grocery shop or let anyone down.
When I was younger my thoughts of suicide where very typical, sleeping pills, drowning myself, hanging myself, all the usuals. In all actuality I was pretty much always on the verge of starvation more than anything, due to never eating more than 500 calories a day. Above all it was always when driving that I contemplated death the most. That’s probably why I hate driving so much, fear that I may one day let my dreams come true.
Living in Lake Tahoe there are a lot of areas where the road travels high up above the water, and there is nothing but steep cliffs all the way down. In one certain spot there is water on both sides and the cliffs have to be at least half a mile down to the water, if not more. For some reason there are no guard rails, maybe the highway engineers figured that no amount of metal was going to be able to help if a vehicle was going off the side. Most people, when driving over the pass slow down to admire the view, or to ease their nerves. I, on the other hand try to speed throw it, because I can think about it how nice it would be just to let the wheel go. I never actually think about the middle part, the part where I fall to my death, or die from the car landing on top of me. Instead I think about the beginning and the end. How freeing it would feel to finally throw in the towel and just give up. I feel as though I have been fighting this battle with life since I was 15 and I just want it to be over with. I’ve never tried to win at anything else, why should life be the exception. And I think about the end, when I no longer have to keep trying, failing and starting over.
I find myself, subconsciously, doing things all the time that may lead to my demise. I eat under cooked or outdated meats. I bike on the highway without a helmet. I run alone in places where mountain lions have been spotted. I get hopeful when the plan encounters turbulence. I spend countless hours thinking about the ending of my life, and the other hours trying to convince myself to continue the battle to keep living.
Sometimes I wonder what life would be like without these thoughts, if I would like driving better if it wasn’t a consent metal struggle. Maybe if I could just give in to the fact that life has won and I need to accept it. I guess one way or another I need to stop fighting.