Depression.

This one is going to get serious.

Just because it's somewhat of a serious topic doesn't mean I can't add some humor into it. Especially when the humor isn't necessarily appropriate to the situation. Let me preface this blog post by saying that I haven't been clinically diagnosed as depressed. I do have however, through conversations with people who have been diagnosed, have similar symptoms to depression. I wake up days, and cannot will myself out of bed for sometimes hours, I break down and just cry for little to no reason, I hate being around people because I feel that they always pity me - even if they don't, and on some level I know they don't, I still have the feeling that they do - As mentioned in my first "official" post I have self diagnosed myself with "mild-depression." Though others may see it as more severe than I do.

Be warned, this is going to get dark. Quick. So first, unicorns and rainbows!

Jumping right in now. I tried to kill myself twice. Either I succeeded and am now a ghost, or I wasn't very good at it, and thankfully so I guess. I'm sure that's how other people see it, and more or less how I see it now, at least on most days. Today, for whatever reason wasn't a day where I felt this way.

My alarm went off at ten, and I shut it off. and lied in bed awake, until the second one, shut it off at 11:15. When the third one went off at 11:30 and I still hadn't moved my eyes from that spot on the ceiling right above my resting head, I knew this day was going to suck. By 12:15 I decided to roll myself out of my bed and onto my floor where I then managed to pick myself up and pull myself together. I then took a forty minute shower, thirty minutes of which was me crying, over absolutely nothing. Literally nothing. I just burst into tears standing there, and then curled up into a ball in the corner of the shower crying.

This was me, in the shower, if I had clothes on, and darker hair. And, you know, if I was David Tennant.

Confessions time. I have self harmed before - I've told people I haven't but that's a lie. Sorry to people I lied to about this, but I feel I need to actually set the record straight once and for all. I have two scars from direct self infliction on my right arm, they aren't long, no more than an inch each. The cross tattoo I have, covers them both up to the point where they are practically non-existent. they were never deep or good enough to leave a super visible scar. It's like any other minor cut scar any other person may get. It just kind of fades into your skin tone and nobody thinks anything is up. The reason nobody knows is because I was a sneaky little bastard, and managed to hide it well. LONG SLEEVES.

So that's out there now. Anybody who reads this will now know more about me than my own family and my closest friends. I have literally told no one about the self harm. I've avoided it, and denied it, but truth be told, I didn't do for attention. That is the one thing I hate about cutting. The negative "they're doing it for attention" connotation. A few weeks back we were watching Thirteen (if you haven't seen it, watch it, it's a great film about women coming to age in the lower class) for my Women in Film class, and the scenes where the main character self harms comes up, and someone mentions that she was doing it because she wasn't getting enough attention from her mother. Nobody groaned, or immediately objected. I was fucking shocked. I've never been so put off by how little people know about why people self harm.

It's not attention seeking, or it nearly never is. It's about being able to actually feel something. Depression makes you so numb to the world most days, that cutting just allows you to feel. Masochists also self harm, but they do it for an entirely different reason that I won't bother getting into. Pleasure, they get off on it; there I went into it, you happy?

So today has been rough. It's the first day where I've broken down in tears for no reason (Derek did it to me some number of weeks ago - that was the last "real" time I cried) in roughly three years. But the last time I cried on a personal level was when a friend of mine died. But I didn't cry for some time after it happened. In fact, it wasn't until I had gotten the memorial tattoo on the inside of my arm, he finished working on it, and I cried right there in the shop. The artist waited and gave me a consoling hug, and let me wait for a little while before I returned to the lobby where my friend who drove me there was waiting. It took about five or so minutes for it to not look like I had been crying - my face gets blotchy and my eyes go all bloodshot, it's very easy to tell if I've been crying - The artist was very supportive. He does amazing work by the way. Billy the Kid, at Amazing Grace Body Arts in Geneva, go, give that man some work.

The memorial piece. The RC Cola logo, with Birth & Death dates and "Never Forgotten"

The outside of the half sleeve, the last verse of William Blake's "The Tyger" and a Tiger. You can also see like half of my face... ladies.

I've been doing a lot of self reflexive writing in my poetry class. Working of pieces that are close and personal to me. I wrote a scrambled poem today - as if my day wasn't already hard enough - that drove me to tears. It was a scramble of Bob Hicok's "Cutting Edge." It's about him noticing his dog has gotten old, and that soon she will die and the poem is sort of his way for preparing. I couldn't possibly bring myself to change what the poem was about, and I kept a lot of the images the same. But by God, my version broke me down. 

Just me, sitting in my room, hunched over my laptop keyboard, bawling over the beautiful poem about an old dog, and a man about to be in mourning. Why do I subject myself to this stuff, I just write things, and then I cry. I lie down, curl up in a ball, and cry.

I haven't ever been driven to tears by anything other than my poetry. But this one broke me. I'm not broken easily, it takes things like Derek, which is the saddest show on the planet - Available on Netflix (shameless promotions!) - to break me. Sure I've cried over my writing before, but never hysterically. My poem almost made me not want to get a puppy, a husky puppy to be exact, when I get my own place. Almost. Because you know, it made me realize that puppy, that I will love with all my heart, will die, and will turn me into a sobbing broken mess of a man no longer able to function in society ever again. 

I'm also glad nobody heard me cry this morning. So you know, this didn't happen:

Except you know, a guy instead of Emma Stone. A guy. I feel like Emma Stone would console me though, then we would fall in love, get married, and make beautiful children together. I can dream Harold! (if you didn't get that last bit, watch the video at the end)

And I didn't have to explain that I was crying for no absolute reason. Crying because I wrote a terribly sad poem about a dog that is about to die is a bit more reasonable than crying because you happened to be awake and taking a shower. The second one isn't even a reason to be crying, and yet, I was.

Anyways, it's 12:37, I have class in like... ten hours... so I should stop writing this, so I can catch up on some shows and get some sleep. And hopefully I won't wake up tomorrow a slobbering mess. Thanks for reading about my mess of a day. Enjoy the video.