august 29th, 2019

because i need to make up my mind eventually, right? and that means it has to make sense eventually, right? even though no matter how hard i try, i still can’t figure out how to make all the pieces align. because of my stupid, anxious mind. and maybe you’ll roll your eyes, and call me a teenager, when after a week of not seeing you it feels like the entire world is over. or maybe you’ll tell me i’m a moron for not being sure. and if my gut instinct says two things at once, how am i supposed to tell you what i decide? and if i scream up at the clouds like a maniac, maybe everything will stop for a moment. and maybe then i’ll finally be able to tell the difference between wrong and right. because i can’t sleep, and  i can’t breathe, and my mind is made of origami paper, and i’ll laugh like everything’s fine, as you unintentionally crush me between your fingers. even though i can’t even think without my thoughts crashing into each other. because i don’t know, okay? i don’t know what the truth is anymore.


big decisions are always really rough for me. and confusion. honestly, confusion is one of  the most underrated negative emotions. i don’t know if a lot of people with anxiety go through this–but sometimes it feels like follows me everywhere. when i was eleven was the first time i remember feeling really confused, i think. i have this really distinct memory: it was, november or december, dark and stormy outside. my class was having a discussion about charles darwin. and i wanted to make a joke, because i wanted people to like me. but then i realized not everyone would like me if i made a joke. and some people would like me more if i was myself–but if who i was was constantly influenced by what other people wanted, who was that? what was an identity anyway? in the big picture, what did it matter what i wanted for myself–there were more of other people than there were of me, and so therefore if more people wanted me to act a certain way shouldn’t that have a bigger impact than what i thought of myself?

and i still remember that feeling–like you’re standing out there all alone in the middle of a blizzard, and you open your mouth to call out, but every time you try, nothing comes out. it’s gotten better, obviously–i have a lot stronger of a sense of identity than i did back then. and most of the time, i’m fine. but confusion definitely still impacts me.


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what the world has come to

trigger warning: school shooting mention. if you need to talk to anyone, no matter what it is that’s on your mind, please find a helpline in your area here.

because donald trump blames mental illness for school shootings. and because i’m too young to exist. and because i can’t stop picking myself to pieces. because when i see this all, laid out in the open, i can’t even breathe for a moment. and i want to be a hero. i just… i don’t know, okay? i don’t know what i’m supposed to say to fix this. don’t know how to bend the elements into stories, and bend those stories into solutions, and just make it all stop for a moment– and because the amazon is burning. and because there is such thing as school shootings. and because there is poverty, and famine, and corruption, and bribery, and pollution, and how do you grow up in a world that’s slowly killing itself off like this? how are you supposed to be a kid, when you don’t even know the circumstances of your adulthood? and how am i supposed to fake a smile when every time i look in the mirror, all i see is the light, and the glass, and the flecks of rain, and the look in your eyes, and the broken pieces—and sometimes, the only scrap of a safety blanket i have to reassure myself is that… historically speaking, as a species, we’ve survived 100% of our worst nights. and some days, i am a child. and i cling to that fact, and the sound of my own breath. like a small thread of hope. like it’s all i might have left. and maybe the thing is… i’m not special. i’m not a hero, and i don’t have to save the world. because no one person can fix this, fix all of this. it’s… it’s a group effort. or it’s supposed to be. or it has to be, i guess.


in canada–where i live–there’s an election coming up, which is really stressing me out right now–in a lot of different ways, to be honest. the last week, in general, has just been really rough, to be honest. so… i wrote about it. this is honestly just highly questionable emotional vomit, so if this made any sense at all to you, consider me impressed.

given the day this post will be published, the topic seemed fitting. (for those of you who don’t know, today is global climate strike day.)


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cat

cat

my therapist tells me it’s time to name my anxiety. like this is something normal, like i’m naming a child or something. like if i can just slice it away from my heart and leave it bleeding on the floor like it’s left me bleeding on the floor it won’t hurt me anymore. and i’d like to believe it works. i’d like to believe that just calling it cat spelled C-A-T will change everything. because you have this way of making it sound so easy. the words they’ve called me echo through my head which sucks because i just wish i could wipe this away like a mess off the counter or a hiccup in history but it’s not. that. easy. because pretending it doesn’t exist is the emotional equivalent of the smoke alarm going off at 1a.m. and me deciding to fall asleep to it. but i still kind of wish i could bury it under the carpet and can we pretend it never happened and because they do that in stories and it sounds easier than bench-pressing the weight of my feelings but the more i write about it the less it makes sense and god. this is such and inconvenient time to do this and did you have to fall apart right this second people need you. and why are you always so stuck inside your head?  my therapist tells me it’s time to name my anxiety, and i name it cat. like this is something normal, because it probably is normal, because we’re all fucking crazy, and we’re all fucking dying because the planet is dying and the economy is dying and what’s the point of falling in love with anything because we’re all fucking dying and i need help, but i don’t even know how much longer i’ll be able to afford it. and i just keep thinking back. keep thinking back. keep wondering. if there was ever a time before this. if there was ever a time when i was standing at the edge of an empty highway and my heart wasn’t heavier than titanium and my dna wasn’t a cage and everything was all right and therefore maybe if i tried hard enough, i could bring my mind back to life. my therapist tells me it’s time to name my anxiety, and i name it cat, because i’m desperate. and i guess i’ll believe anyone if they tell me it’ll get better if i just… try… this…


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11p.m.

did you know fun fact your perfect product comes at the cost of my mental well being? example: today, i realize at 9:30 i decide i need to finish two units of french for no apparent reason other than my skin is crawling and to leave anything half-broken makes me feel nervous. i finish a lesson. work harder, because my stomach is jumping out of my chest, and it’s hard to think clearly when your body works like this. it’s hard to sift through the lies desperately carving myself to the finish line because part of me just wants to keep moving, and part of me wants to do big things, but part of me just wants to grab your hand and never let go of it but even i know it’s more complicated than that. i’m trying to care of myself and stuff like my friends tell me to and stuff because i know they want me to be happy and stuff but it’s difficult to fill an empty mind with only other people’s love. and try to hold onto the good memories like lifelines, when the storm is telling you a hundred thousand lies. and i’m not a machine but i kind of wish i could be. but i also don’t because i think it would break me. seeing everything i could achieve, and still having to let go of all of it. so i chase after these concepts late into the night, over and over and over again. and yeah. it’s never gonna happen. but i still want it more than anything. i still sacrifice my mental well-being at the altar of my insecurity every night and every morning. it takes a long time to put the monsters to bed and now it’s too late at night. and the weight is blinding, and the only thought left in my empty head is that i don’t want to be normal or emotionless or whatever it is, not when it comes down to it. i just want to be accepted.


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how to bury a feeling (spoken word)

trigger warning: mentions of bullying, self-hatred, depersonalization, anxiety, depression


watch the youtube video (if you want to) below:

 


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