a2z: Giving up

man, I am so behind. the rest of the world is on “R”, and I’m still not even to the tenth letter of the alphabet. blah.

but I’m not giving up on this.  instead, I’ll talk about just that — Giving up.

April 2015’s Blogging A to Z:
Giving up


I don’t like failing; I don’t like losing.  I’ll sooner quit than fail.  I know many people see these two things as analogous.  but really, that depends on what your end-goal is in a given situation.

grad school, for example.  I enrolled in grad school for the Fall 2013 semester.  by Summer 2014, I was no longer a student.  I was taking online courses with a physical school; so despite the nature of the courses, many instructors were still expecting me to travel to their facilities.  it was proving to be impossible to manage that, my depression, and a full-time job, all while trying to keep Brian on his game about getting his PhD.  and I couldn’t do it.  I cracked.  I wasn’t good enough, or maybe I didn’t try hard enough.  or I don’t know.  but I withdrew.

I don’t give up often.  but that’s because I’m usually pretty good about not starting a game I’m not pretty sure I won’t win.  it’s not often that I enter into something unsure of success.

I still remember what a friend told me once: that I needed to leave Lafayette to learn what it’s like to have to try, because I’ve always been “the big fish in a little pond”.  I think I like it like that.  I think I have to struggle so much to just exist, that having to struggle to succeed is just too much.

speaking of “too much”, my court date is soon.  so we’ll see just what else in life I’ll be giving up — and possible it, itself.


Giving up

you want a *TW*? well, have one here.

I want to tear at my skin.

I want to take blade and just RIP it through each tiny thread of fabric of my substance that my body calls a Barrier and pull it apart.
every piece of life has a slip of skin.
I feel each string just tear the fuck apart when I cut.
there is a disconnect, an abandonment, a fucking Freedom.
yet, a forever Loss.

I want to bleed.
I want to open my Hide, and from there I see a red stream trickling down my thigh — or breast or arm or leg or stomach or wherever, depending on my affliction at the time.

I want to Hurt; I want to fucking Feel.
because it makes me real, it makes me actual — not just a goddamn statistic anymore.
I spend so much of this life feeling like I’m pretending, I’m faking, I’m applauding while appalling and generally alluding to Living,

yet never actually Leaving.

I am getting near Done.

I hear Him cry.
my Cat. my Child. my true Love.
I hear how He bellows when He feels alone because the doors are closed and He can hear and see no one and feels so alone.

but we all make that noise.
and so few hear.
and those of us who do, we are expected to Ignore it.

would I say these things “sober” (I’ve had two drinks)?
would I say these things in company of others (my boyfriend and couch-surfer friend are at Taco Bell)?
would I say these things if I knew someone was looking over my shoulder (when are we Alone versus just alone?)?

because we never say what we need to when someone is actually Listening….

we are nasty naturally self-destructive creatures.  and we should be forsaken.


yet instead, we talk.  we converse.

to ourselves, of course.

and sometimes, to one another.

to people of the same goddamn circle.

the same fucking circle

who can’t fucking do shit.



all these fancy pretty blogs that have gifs and images to break up the seriousness of their topics.  you want a picture?  well, fucking choke on this — it’s called the goddamn truth:

credit unknown(credit unknown) 

quitting the game, surrendering in war

I remember when I went to the mental hospital back in April 2004. I remember my mom talking about now they have no idea how to scold me (I was 17 years old then), for fear of causing me to have an attack or to cut. she was frightened to even approach me sometimes; I could see it.

Loneliness leads to nothing good, only detachment. And sometimes the people who most need to reach out are the people least capable of it. ~ Adelle DeWitt


and my dad? he told me that until I got out, until things got “back to normal”, everything would have to be about me.

he said it again when I started rehab. that lots of the plans and goals he had for the family and even for his own life, they were going to have to be postponed because everything was going to be about me … again.

say something; I’m giving up on you.
I’ll be the one, if you want me to.
anywhere, I
would’ve followed you.
say something; I’m giving up on you.

I don’t like reaching out. I’m capable of it, but it usually leads to negative effects in the end. and I’m tired of being the cause of bad shit in people’s lives. and in my own life, in regard to depending on others.

and I
am feeling so small.
it was over my head;
I know nothing at all.
and I
will stumble and fall.
I’m still learning to love,
just starting to crawl.

I also remember when Brian turned it off. when he decided it was time to stop fighting against me. and honestly, truly, I don’t blame him. I long wondered why he put up with it for so long anyway.

say something, I’m giving up on you.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.
anywhere, I
would’ve followed you.
say something; I’m giving up on you.

I remember him being in tears, telling me that — for now — he was done. he was done with it. Brian had decided that he wasn’t going to try to discourage my drinking, because the battle was too exhausting for him; he was tired of fighting.

and I
will swallow my pride.
you’re the one
that I love,
and I’m saying goodbye.

there was a boy many years ago who stole my heart. he helped me in so many ways, and he helped me at the time create myself into who and what I wanted to be. he put me on the right path. everyone considered us to be boyfriend and girlfriend, to be dating — we were carrying out all the dating rituals, even. but it wasn’t technically “official”.

I finally found the nerve to ask him, to make it official. and he said no. my Depression was too strong for him. when I hurt, he hurt. and he was tired of hurting.

say something; I’m giving up on you.
and I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.
and anywhere, I would have followed you!
say something; I’m giving up on you.

well so the fuck am I. why does everyone else get to quit, everyone else gets to run away. but for them, I have to stay and fight. I have to take on this beast alone. because when I ask for help, when I start to lean, I break them.

hell, an unnamed friend of mine who I’ve known since middle school, she occasionally comments on how she’s impressed that I haven’t broken Brian yet or at least haven’t forced him to flee — because, she points out, one or other has happened to every other guy I bot officially and unofficially dated.

say something; I’m giving up on you.
say something…

if everyone else gets to quit, I do too.

I’ve been cold with Brian the last few days, distant. it’s because I’m tired of being hurt too, I’m tired of fighting. and because of my illnesses, that’s what this is turning into — constant pain and battles.

now note, I do realise the issue isn’t with these other people, but rather with me. I recognize that I’m the broken one, that I’m the damaged one. I get that if I were actually better, I’d hurt others less, and therein they’d hurt me less. but that’s not who I am, and I’m starting to realize that’s not someone I can be. rather, I’m going to be forever Damaged.

Brian said I couldn’t quit dating him for his own good. I made a promise to that.  well, we’ll just have him break up with me for his own good.  I’ll continue to be distant from him — from everyone but this blog and possibly Twitter, honestly –, and I’ll let our relationship fall apart.  then not only will he be able to leave, but then maybe he’ll leave with less guilt — because I’ll be the one who things.  as always.

I realize this is counter to “recovery”.  but it’s apparent that it’s what needs to be done.  because I don’t want to be hurt again. and because I’m tired of fighting too.

“why bother? why bother with me?”

but when I got sick, they became totally focused on my disorder.  what I was eating, how skinny I became — everything shifted from our family to just … me.

I’m ready to quit.

I’m drawing up plans.
not necessarily to carry out;
but to at least comfort me.

I have felt so alone for so long.

the above is my plan for the next three weeks
(more about their extending my rehab time in the next post):
fake it till you Make it.

and Making it, in this case, is finally Leaving.

You wanted me to be normal, I know.  But I’m not, and I’m never gonna be.

“Caligula would have blushed”

I’m [broken].  Do you get that on any level?  You want me to be normal, and I’m never going to be.

~ Emma, Red Band Society


I’m tired, man.  I’m getting really exhausted.  how hard does a person how to fight to live, to wake up?

I was getting dressed this morning.  I put on my bra.  and then I started to put on my pants.  I remembered that with these pants, I actually had to wear underwear (I often go commando) due to comfort reasons; I realised this after the pants were already halfway on.  so that meant I had to undo what I just did, put on underwear, then redo it all over again.

I didn’t have that in me.  I took the pants off and hid under the covers in bed.  I stayed there a good seven or so minutes, because even the prospect of fucking getting dressed was too much for me to handle.

but eventually, I managed.  I got out of bed; I put on clothes; I went to the doctor’s; I went to work; I’m (kinda) doing my job.  and then tonight, I’ll go home; I’ll go to rehab; I’ll play nice; I’ll go home; I’ll pretend to be alive inside; and I’ll cry myself to sleep, again.

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour;
but heaven knows I’m miserable now.
two lovers entwined, pass me by;
and heaven knows I’m miserable now.
I was looking for a job, and then I found a job;
and heaven knows I’m miserable now.

while merely brushing my teeth last night, while lying in bed afterwards, even when I awoke this morning — I was pondering what tactics would work.  I’d throw pills up; I don’t own a gun; I’d paralyze myself before snapping my neck; I shake too much to cut a straight line.

I suppose carbon monoxide is a maybe; sneak out in the middle of night when no one is paying attention to a running car.  also jumping; that would actually be pleasant; but messy for whoever has to deal with it.

what she asked of me at the end of the day,
Caligula would have blushed.
“you’ve been the House too long”, she said;
and I naturally fled.

a student told me about a childhood friend of his who killed himself Monday.  then he told me how his own father was anti-suicide, calling those who kill themselves cowards.

I got up on my high horse and informed the student that sometimes people suffer so much that finally taking control of their own life is one of the strongest and bravest things they could ever do.  I believe that.  I strongly believe that.

why do I have to be alive for you?  you just want what’s best for me, right?  you want me to stop hurting, to be happy?  this is not happiness; this is pain, this is sorrow, this is longing, and this is regret.  this is despair, hopeless, and self-hatred.  happiness would be ceasing to exist; that would be freedom.

but instead, you not only ask me to stay alive for you, but to also live as you’d like me to, do as you want me to.

so you don’t really want me alive; you just want my life.

in my life,
why do I smile
at people who I’d much rather kick in the eye?

I’m not doing it anytime soon; don’t worry.  the holidays are a horrible time to do this, as it is selfish; it ruins the holiday season for the families.  but I do think I’ll start making my plan.  I seek out proper tools or methods; I’ll find a good location, a good approach.  that way, after all this holiday bullshit is over, after I’ve stayed alive long enough for everyone else, I can make a decision for myself.

in the meantime, I’ll play nice.

after the interactions I’ve had with my counselor this week (I need to write about that later), I’m ready to quit.  I’ll keep aiming for sobriety, sure.  but not because I want it; rather, I’m in the mindset that I need it.

I need it to keep people off my back.
I need it to have people believe I’m getting better.

lyrics courtesy of The Smiths's "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now"

chat with a friend

I was talking with one of my buddies from high school.  we keep in touch well.  he kept me alive back in those days, and he keeps me going these days.

anyway,  he was asking about how I was doing.  prior to this morning, last we talked was first week of November.  back when things were still really bad — as in I was drinking more often than I wasn’t.  he and I actually spoke just days after my arrest.

so here’s the convo.  it was good to be honest with someone about the advancements I’ve made in the last six days or so.

How’s it going?

s’aight, I suppose.
rehab is getting old.

I’m sure

I’ve been sober since Friday night, though.
I relapsed big time because of Thanksgiving. the food anxiety got the best of me.

so other than the relapse, are things going well?
you should be close to finished with rehab right?

I’m half-way through the seven weeks. but because of the many relapses, they’re probably going to keep me longer.
things are … well, they are.
due to several conversations last week, I’m actually determined to stop drinking. for a while, at least. even after I get out of rehab, I think.
however, that’s if I stay alive long enough.
I’m tired every day, and I’m having suicidal thoughts again.
no plans yet.
just … ideations.
more than usual, and with stronger.

That’s tough
not drinking would be good
but i know that isn’t easy

well, drinking used to make me blind to how much I didn’t want to be alive.
now that I’m spending time more awake and coherent, it’s hurting all over again.
I’m also having to face the stupid and sometimes wrongful things I did while drinking and/or drunk. no more ignoring it, ya know?

but there isn’t anything you can do about the past
and I get ignoring it will always be easier

yeah, I know.

Has rehab been helpful?

only in the last week.
prior to that, I wasn’t letting it help me, ya know?

And are you feeling more motivated now?


That’s a start

I realised that I can’t drink moderately at this point in my life. so until I sort that out, I can’t drink at all. I’m not saying I’ll stay sober for the rest of my life. but for the current time period, I’m abstaining.
I’m not “stopping” drinking, I’m just taking a break.
that break may be a month, a year, three decades, no clue. but if I look at it that way, I can approach it more easily and probably more successfully.
it’s a mere mind trick, I know.
but it’s worked the past few days.

Yeah it is
But it works

I mean, since Friday after Thanksgiving, I was getting trashed almost every night.

The fact that you’ve changed your mindset is big

but once I came to this “temporary” approach, I’ve stayed sober.
yeah, I agree.

You gotta take things one day at a time.
I’m sure you’ve been told that plenty
But its totally true
Just get through one day.


I mean, the Thanksgiving relapse was bad. I was drinking before I was going to my rehab meetings even. what. the righteous. fuck.

so I don’t know where I’m at now. I mean, I want to stop drinking. for a small time at least.

but I want to die.  I don’t want to wake up tomorrow.  I don’t want to face my Monsters and Demons, my past and my flaws and my mistakes.  I don’t want to make amends, and I don’t want to keep fighting.

Brian tells me often that he doesn’t know of anyone who works as hard as I do to get and be Better — whether health, drinking, school, job, hobbies, with family, etc.  and that’s flattering and all.  but I’m fucking sick of trying.  why can’t I just fuck away my life like so many others?  why can’t I just be happy with being fat or weak or poor or insufficient or mediocre?  why do I always have to fucking try to be Better?  it’s getting fucking exhausting.