be patient with me, will you?

i fucked it up. didn’t i?

i threw my last chance away. i let arrogance get the best of me. because i’m tired, and messy, and i never mean what i say. because i make mountains from molehills. because i didn’t exactly… give it my all, today.

because today, i ripped myself to shreds for entertainment. since there wasn’t anything else on the menu. i watched tv until 2am. because that’s what normal, happy people do.

and i set my alarm anyway. i woke up feeling like shit. and so i made myself a coffee. and i cried, a little bit. because i think the world is ending. because i still can’t bring myself to admit… that i’m not your poster child. not your hero.

that i’m tired of playing the adult; when i’m the youngest in the room. i’m tired of overcompensating for other people’s mistakes, i’m tired of staying up late. i’m tired of telling them what to do.

and for all the times these words have been twisted from my throat; clawed hands and messed up jokes, i’m so fucking sorry. from every square inch of my tattered, ragdoll body.

i’m sorry i hurt you. i’m sorry i’m awkward, and confused. i’m sorry, because i’m still learning. how to cradle myself like a little fucking baby. and sing myself to sleep, like my mom used to. it just doesn’t come naturally. but i’m a good learner.

so just… be patient with me, will you?

it has to get better

you are the crash. and you are the burn. you are hypnotic blankets, you are the monochrome sun, watching as the world burns.

you are the snap, and the crackle, and the pop. you’re fine one moment and the next… you’re not.

your heart pounds. and you think you’re giving up. you have wanted nothing more in your life than for this. to. stop.

***

i will wake up to the drone of my alarm. and i will lie in bed, for what could be a few minutes. or what could be hours on end.

i will crawl out onto the floor. scroll through my phone, and always leave wanting more.

i will stare in the mirror, maybe just a little dizzy. i will make a mental list, of all the parts of myself i should probably fix. but i’m busy, busy, busy…

so i will put on a nice dress. i will ignore the dying tulips; the wilting rosemary out back. i will stare out the window on the ride to school. and i will do my best not to notice the crack of lighting down my skull. like a discount heart attack.

but it won’t last forever. right? i mean, it has to it has to it has to get better


This piece is very experimental, and maybe a bit weird, but I was in a pretty weird place when I wrote it. (Around mid-September, I think.) I was going through withdrawal symptoms, as I very poorly went off my meds. (Because apparently you shouldn’t just go cold turkey on a medication you’ve been taking for over a year, after halving your dose for two days. Who would have thought?!)

I’ve never experienced side effects, or any kind of withdrawal from medication. So although I knew it was technically a possibility, I didn’t think it would happen to me. But it did. The symptoms lasted about two weeks, but it was one of the hardest, longest, strangest two weeks I’ve ever had.

It plunged me into depression, for most of that time period. I got dizzy whenever I stood up, my mind was slow and sluggish–which absolutely drove me insane–and about every five seconds, these weird zaps went through my whole body–a bit like shivering, but if you shivered in your brain too, and your heart started pounding. Honestly, the scariest thing was that I couldn’t find good information from a medical professional on what I was supposed to do, or when this would stop–and for a while, I didn’t even realize what it was. Even once I did, I was too ashamed to tell anyone for a bit.

I had no idea when it was going to end, if this was messing up my brain long term, and I just felt so out of control. Eventually, I owned up to the fact I had gone off my meds wrong, and asked my mom to talk to a pharmacist, and a few days after that, I started to feel a little bit better.

So, in conclusion kids: do lots of research, talk to your pharmacist before you go off your meds, not just your family doctor on a phone appointment, in which his cell reception was so bad you could only make out every fifth word. (Although, to be safe, you should probably do that too.)

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

scotch tape and superglue

i remember. goosebumps down my skin. neon colours, and itchy wool sweaters. all that wonderful seventh grade fashion. and i was only twelve years old, but i remember just being really fucking sad.

so i’d read the obituaries. every tuesday, and thursday. memorize these strangers’ names, and cut out their life stories. i think i still have them in lying around today.

i remember the smell of kindling. remember pressing my hands right up to the flame, but the rest of my body still couldn’t stop shivering…

and i’d trace their legacies. out of sheer pity. i’d do my best; i’d complete their dying wishes, because i was twelve. and naive. and i wanted to save everybody.

it’s been almost three years now, since i’ve wondered if anyone would read my obituary. if my mom would ever find the will i wrote on my shitty old computer. because i think it’s still out there, held together with scotch tape and superglue.

but i don’t want to go looking for old demons. i don’t want to remember; living life in third person. paperthin dissociation, and a messy bedroom.

i don’t want to go to your funeral. don’t want to grieve a stranger. because it’s dusty, and cold. because i have a whole life ahead of me. i have places to be, i have things to do.

because it’s not my job to save you.

The progress bar

All my homeschool courses come with this little handy-dandy feature–a progress bar. Every time I submit an assignment, the bar turns yellow; and when it’s marked it turns green, and gives me another two or three percent of progress–and calculates the assignment’s impact on my total grade.

I actually love that feature–I can’t imagine how my public school friends survive without being able to keep track of their work like that.

But sometimes, maybe I take it too far.

***

I went into my sophomore year of high school feeling strong, and sturdy, and good. But something has changed since September.

I don’t get as scared as I used to, not to the same degree. Because instead, I just… I don’t care. I have to force myself in the doors, log onto a computer, and make a bar chart about, I don’t know, the logging industry or whatever. Because I’m just so tired, and I don’t know how to believe in things right now. I feel so jaded, and cynical, and cold–and sometimes at the end of the day, I’m so tired, I can barely stand up.

So I plot out my week in my planner. I cross things off as I go. I bite off more than I can chew. But I keep going.

Until I can’t do it anymore. Until I’ve gone two weeks without a proper night of sleep. Until I’m so tired I have to drag myself kicking and screaming into doing schoolwork. Until I don’t put out enough blog posts, until there’s not enough time… and suddenly, I can’t even fit my own rubric of success.

Let alone someone else’s.

The thing is, I thrive off working. I always have. I go insane without something to direct all this crazy anxious energy in my head towards–the same way a little kid goes crazy when they’re stuck inside for too long with nothing left to do. If you don’t get them occupied, pretty soon they’ll be taking a crayon to the walls. Without something to do, I slide into depression. I fixate on meaningless things, I stay up too late… it’s a recipe for disaster.

But at the same time, I can’t just overstimulate my problems away forever. Can’t just overwork myself in an effort to outrun my mental illness, only to eventually burn out and end up in the exact same situation I was so afraid of.

***

Depression, and anxiety; they can’t be battled the same way I handle my school courses, or my weekly tasks. You can’t just power your way through based on sheer determination and logical reasoning. You can’t measure recovery in neat little green and yellow boxes. You can’t suck up to them, you can’t bargain or plea… because they don’t care.

And maybe it’s time to admit, to myself–and to you–that I’m scared. I’m scared of my mind, scared of the place I go when it gets bad; because I don’t know how to fight it–only how to ignore it until it goes away.

I know what my old therapist would say. She’d tell me about taking charge; about showing my brain who’s boss. And I’d try to, for a while. And then I’d stop. Because I’m busy, because life is hard, because those are the excuses I make to get out of everything I don’t want to do, and I really should get better at seeing through myself.

I started a new medication. I don’t know if it’ll work or not, but I’m willing to give it a try. Because I’m desperate. Because I’m scared. Because I don’t know what to do, but I do know that I want to live. I know that deep down, I am not a cold-hearted, cynical person. I cry, and I get ridiculously attached to my plants, and I spend ten minutes psyching myself up to ask the lady at the grocery store where the canned olives are. And I hope. And I care. I care even though it hurts sometimes, even though there are days, or months, or years when all I want to do is quit.

Because I refuse to die. I refuse to back down, in a world that feels… like it doesn’t want me here at all, sometimes. Because that’s who I am.

A fighter.

And maybe today, my small revolution is just… making my bed. Finishing another essay; even if I do get a bad grade on it. Letting go, for just a moment, of that stupid progress bar in my had. Even if that’s futile. Even if tomorrow, I’ll be back on my bullshit again.

But it matters. I have to believe that it matters–that it’s worth it.

bonfire girl

i hope you gather my cinderblock bones. strike the match, and set them all alight.

and it’s fine. it’s all right. i was going to burn eventually; my kindling lips sending sparks up into night. but i hope that you blaze with me. i hope you wonder why.

i hope you know, how you’ve hurt me. how you’ve sucked me dry. i hope you know, that i still see you in the corner of my vision; sometimes.

i hope the dreary neighbourhood grinds your soul to dust. i hope you spend years relearning what it means to trust. i hope you know that you broke me.

and i hope you give a damn. hope you learn someday, that love is not a battering ram. i hope you’re angry. because i sure am.

and i hope you lie awake at night. as the autumn leaves slowly bury you alive. and maybe then, you’ll understand what it feels like to be paralyzed. i hope you miss your shot. i hope the basement floods this winter.

i hope you rot.