Saving my own specifics…

“I’d been depressed for so long, hiding it wasn’t an option anymore, not by choice at least. My body took the choice out of my hands.”

Last night as I lay in bed thinking as usual, my mind drifted off and I began to wonder what the world around me sees whenever they look at me. In all natures, be it physically, emotionally, spiritually and even more so mentally. Only a substantial amount of people can give just a little bit of insight on what they think they know about my mental health and the struggles that enslave me on a daily. They see what they perceive as just the basic stressful day to day experiences one has to go through being at the point at which I’m at right now in life. It’s absolutely okay in their eyes that I’m stressed out about not knowing what I want to do in my life or whether I have a plan for the next phase now that I’m done with college. I can say with certainty that nobody sees what I feel or have to live through on a daily… not even a fraction of it. A friend of mine earlier last night mentioned to me that she has noticed that I’m extremely general on everything I relay to her and my response to that was that the world isn’t interested in the specifics of one’s life. People rather just know enough than know too much. It’s enough for them trying to be allies but too much to be a friend. It’s extending support but without having to be presently there, in the middle of it all. I would honestly rather not have any ally at all if that’s the case, therefore having to maintain my specifics to myself.

If there’s a chance that the world around me thinks I’m normal, then truth be told, I’m offended. In the stereotypical sense of the word, normal is boring and I would be highly offended if anyone considered me boring. I may not be your ray of sunshine, but neither am I living through the normal cycle of being this person who believes that everything sorta just falls into place… not to piss on anyone’s parade who might live by the notion that everything does sorta just fall into place. Alright, maybe I am, even if just a little. Entirely, what I’m saying is that, I don’t think I have been afforded the luxury to believe that my life is following a mystical path where I’m meant to entirely live through mental suffering just for it to get better in the far future and that I’ll look back at it and think that it was all worth it. Simply, I’m not cut out for normal…and I’ve learned to accept that and maybe even embraced it.

I’ve mentioned it before to my sister that the worst possible thing that could happen to me in life would be to be termed as cliché. Just the thought of it, makes me want to buff in my mouth and it wouldn’t be pretty. Cliché in my eyes would be anyone thinking that I self harm for attention. Just so you know, anyone who does self harm is seeking attention, just not for the reasons that the world thinks they are. It entirely could be a subconscious reaction to emotional pain but, from what I have felt in that moment, despite trying to hide it, there’s a part of you deep inside that seeks out hope that someday someone will see that invisible but obvious cry for help. That they won’t look at you like a loon but will take an initiative to get you help, the help that you might not have had the courage to ask for.

How can I afford to feel self conscious over my body but can freely walk around with no sleeves covering my wrist and with my scars bared out to the world.”

I thought about that yesterday and if that screams normal to you, maybe you need to check yourself. I don’t have an answer to that, just like I don’t have answers to a lot of other questions about things that I do but can’t seem to have an explanation over. How I can even afford to walk out of the house with my marred wrist but can’t wear a dress because it will show out too much of my curves or in better terms, my fatness… It’s intriguing, isn’t it? That I am more ashamed of what was God given more than I am ashamed of what I self inflicted on my own body. It leads me back to the question of what it is the world sees whenever they look at me. Do they see the internal turmoil I have to face just with having to decide if I look more fat in a dress or whether I can pass on the lie that I was in a car accident to explain the scars on my hand? Are they remotely aware that I want to die but not necessarily from my own hands. “That I’m not suicidal but sometimes the lines get all blurry.” I know they don’t see all that, and it’s why my friends can afford to read my blogs and tell me that they’ll kill me first if I ever attempted suicide. That it will be selfish of me to choose my life over hurting them if I died by my hands. Oh, how selfish I will be if I died anyway besides what is considered natural. Well news flash, suicide is as natural as it gets. Until they can see beyond their hurt over me taking matters into my own hands, they will never see what truly lies beyond my eyes. They will never see beyond the lies of the fabricated stories meant to explain the scars on my hands. It’s not until they are ready to hear more than just the general, will they be aware of just how truly miserable I feel just having to live through everyday without the knowledge of why I’m even breathing.

So if you think for a moment that I’m normal, then I think you’re the worst kind of ignorant. It’s like if you treated a cripple like you would treat an able walking man…you’d be of great insult. Don’t look at my scars and then express indifference. I had that happen to me once before and it’s taken me over five months to express just how of a dick move that was. To completely disregard of my pain, is to disregard me as well. Don’t deceive yourself into believing that you’re doing what’s best by ignoring the elephant in the room. If you’re not going to kiss those scars like you would kiss every other part of me, don’t bother touching me at all.

I wish that sometimes, I didn’t have to act like am normal as well. It’s a deception from me too. Why can’t I just scream my lungs out in the middle of the streets just because I feel like it will be the next best relief? Why do I have to hold the pain till I’m behind closed doors to make deep enough insitions on my skin just to bleed the pain away? Why can’t I just break completely apart and not question myself over it or care about what it’s consequences will mean for me? I wish I didn’t have to fight so hard to keep the crazy tucked in when all I yearn for sometimes is to disentangle myself to little bits and pieces. All I ever feel like is a sitting duck or so in this case, a sitting crazy. I can’t tick off cause I should care enough about the consequences of what it will mean to the world but what about me, what about what I’m having to hold inside to prevent it from breaking out. A jar can only hold so much of anything without spilling out. I can’t even be crazy enough to finally get the attention I need that will get me help. All I wanna do is be crazy enough to get help and maybe if I’m lucky, stand the chance to gain a little bit of normal, even if it means gaining a bit of boring.

Closing up my options ❌

Do you ever have those discoveries in your life that make you feel like maybe life might not be such a bad shit show to live through… Yeah well, I just had such a discovery a while ago and it’s quite alright might I say so myself. I knew that through this platform I could view the stats of how people engage with my blog but today I made a new found discovery that let me in on the amount of people who interact with my blog, this being on a daily basis, a weekly basis, monthly & yearly. Let me just say I’m quite surprised but in a good way. I didn’t realize how far and wide my blog has traveled and I can’t help but feel so grateful that people are interested in the ‘insanity’ I often spill. It truly feels good and despite the fact that I mainly write here as a form of therapy for myself, I hope it brings a little bit of familiarity to someone who shares in what I go through in my mental health journey. So before I delve into anything else, thank you to anyone who comes across this and reads it and picks out something they think is cool, or simply anyone who enjoys having a peek at my mind through my writing. To express my gratitude, enjoy this rare picture of myself smiling.

How often do you feel like your stuck in the middle of something? How often do you try to figure out where your thoughts or feelings lie concerning a precise matter? I don’t have answers to this either cause I very much never know which side I’m on, at least when it comes to matters concerning thinking & feeling suicidal …Yeah, that’s where I’m heading with this… I say this with the utmost calmness I can master. I realize how sensitive of a subject this is and the sense of alarm it raises anytime it’s mentioned. I truly don’t fully consider myself a danger to myself currently, therefore, please calm down if in case you weren’t at the beginning.

I believe I’m what I’d call passively suicidal. In the scale of normal human existence, living would most times be considered as something automatic to human beings. Technically, being alive is essentially living, at least the most basic aspect of it. The more complex aspects of living require for one to feel a sense of fulfillment and pleasure in more than merely just existing. The secondary aspects of living become unfamiliar to those who may feel ‘plagued’ by any kind of mental turmoil…you know, the kind that has you wishing you were dead rather than waking up to a new day. Don’t get me wrong, I am living, at least the basic aspect of it. For me at least, I regard my suicidal ideation as more of passive in regard to those occasions when I don’t exactly wish to die. I live through the waves of wanting to fulfill my hopes and aspirations in life as well as wanting to die all in a matter of hours. Ideally, it’s more of just a means to an end for me. I just think that sometimes I loose track of where to begin living. If living didn’t seem as such an impossible task for me, I doubt death would skim through my mind as often as it does.

If I could quantify the workings of my mind into one word, the word would be turmoil. It perfectly matches the back and forth, the up and down and side to side that my thoughts bounce off from every other day. It would explain how easily it is for me to tip over from reality and simply want to end things as they are, especially in moments of hopelessness. It’s a turmoil that evolves from basic sadness into what I’d call a gut wrenching hollowness that still to date has not enough words that could define it. Only unless one is accustomed to it, does it remotely make sense to you why dying would feel slightly more appealing than breathing. On those days when I feel an inkling of control over my thoughts, do I wonder whether the appeal of death is just that, an appeal. It gets me thinking over whether dying is a lot like keeping my options open, at least until I can figure out a better, less scandalous & less finalizing option. It’s on this days that I choose not to panic over my passive ideations regarding death and it’s on those same days when I envision for myself a life where I’ll have hopefully gained the capability to handle pain in whichever form it may come, but most especially, if it stems from my mind.

I sometimes do think of letting go of dying as an option. It feels hard to fully both consciously & unconsciously let go of the idea that dying won’t solve all of my today’s and the rest of my life’s problems. Am I ready to close that option? I can’t say for certain. I realize that it isn’t something that just sprouted in the recent years since I began comprehending my mental struggles. No, I do believe that death has always just been a silent secret option for me. I recall a time before my mum was ever sick, I always made sure she knew that if she ever died before me, I’d die right after her. There was no question about it in my head and even despite how young I was, I needed her aware of my plan to never exist without her and that it was always going to be her and I in this life or the next. I wasn’t scared of the gravity of what it would mean to die…and for sure, I did try. I may not recall vividly what exactly I did to try execute my plan but the truth remains that I tried regardless to follow her in death just right after she passed on for I saw no need as to why I was required to be left behind. It didn’t make sense then and part of it still doesn’t make sense now. Therefore closing that option out for me is a lot more harder than just deciding to stop leaning towards it as a solution to my problems. It’s the aspect of no longer existing in this life to experience my turmoils that makes dying look so appealing. It’s the escaping factor of it that makes it look not at all scary but just maybe life saving instead.

I’m not writing this to glorify or beautify suicide or dying in any form. Not at all. It’s a major symptom of mental disorders and should be treated as so. Don’t be mistaken, I have felt the shame and guilt it carries along with it. When I look at my dad & sister and think of what it would mean for them loosing another loved one, it breaks my heart. The subject on suicide has a long way to go in the world. To end the stigma it carries will take a lot but it needs to be spoken about and not shunned as this horrifying subject no one wants to discuss. I hope that this post doesn’t trigger anyone but shows how easily it is to fall into the head space of becoming suicidal. I know for me to begin living & fully erasing the parts of my mind that consider death an option, I must heal. I must start again. I hope to get there. To get to a place where I’ll be ready to begin living despite every little fear I have.

If I die young…

“bury me in satin, lay me down on a bed of roses, sink me in the river at dawn, send me away with the words of a love song… “

It just seemed right to continue with the lyrics of the song, as cliché as that may seem. It fits perfectly though with the context of what I wanna write about so I thought why not start it off with the lyrics to one of the most beautiful songs ever written. I listened to this song for so long while in highschool and it still felt right then just listening to it, despite its message entailing a subject most would consider mobid. I don’t think death is mobid personally but neither am I indifferent towards it to the extent of being unaffected by it. I find it narcissistic when people are cold and unbothered by the aspect of death. I’ve had different people use the phrase, “death is unavoidable, it happens to everyone and we can’t do much about it” … All those are facts about death but why normalize it like it’s your daily cup of tea. Death isn’t inevitable yes, but it’s not anything to throw a parade over, hence why I think referring to it so casually comes off as a tad bit narcissistic to me… Or I could be wrong too, and people just choose to view it as so as a means to cope with the inevitability and finality that is death.

Anyway, that wasn’t my train of thought when I began writing this update, no.. I presume everyone has how they wish or hope to be remembered when they die by those they leave behind. I too am subject to having how I wanna be remembered and not just by my family, but by anyone who may have ever come across me in any and all aspects of my life. We need not to have shared a special bond or relationship for you to have any kind of memory of me.

When I think about it now, it sounds a bit obnoxious stating to others how I want them to remember me but regardless of it, I think we all have a few aspects of ourselves we envision & hope that they will be remembered even after we are gone. Maybe it’s our unconscious mind’s way of letting the world know the parts of ourselves we might not have had the chance to express or show during the time we were alive but despite not having explored them, they still remained very much a part of us. Therefore, if I died tonight, this is what I’d want you to remember me as…

Remember me by the fact that I was secretly happy being sad. That I no longer knew how to want anything else than to express just how beautiful and aesthetic I hoped to be, even in the depths of a sadness so deep, I knew no existing way out of it.

Know that all I’d ever wanted in life was to seek and envelope myself in a life so tranquil, I’d quit searching for any other happy ever after. Remember me as the girl who was so lost of peace, it’s all she had ever hoped to uncover before the end of her life. Envision me as I had lived to envision myself, lost at shore staring at the sun sink at the sea. Remember me for the little peace I’d found within the depths of the chaos that lived within me.

Remember me as the girl who’s words never seemed to be enough for the world…as the girl who had so much to write but not enough words to articulate just how much she felt. The girl who one day hoped to have a best seller, that would shift the world’s view of what mental health truly entailed. Through her words, she hoped to bring hope to those who faced a similar mental battle with every breath they took. A girl who hoped her words could cross globes and touch hearts with the flowing sadness that rippled through her veins. I wanna be remembered as the girl who struggled to be vulnerable. Who felt she had to hold a shield to herself at all times cause she didn’t know if she was strong enough to take the pains thrown at her. Look and remember her beyond her exterior, beyond the broken shields and high up walls put up around her. She felt everything.

I hope you remember me for the unsubtle secrets I tried to keep hidden. The secrets of just how corny I was. Of just how much of a hopeless romantic I could get, especially after reading a very explicit novel. Remember me for the childlike dreams and simple pleasures that I kept tucked hidden in the small sunny sides of my mind. Remember that I wondered what the world would have been like for me, had I been made to be happy.

…and finally, think of me as I thought of myself, a wondrous creative. I considered myself an aesthetic being who could spend hours tucked away with a book to my face and a pen in my hand. Remember me for all the sad songs in my playlist that I’d drown in at the devil’s hour. Remember me for the love I yearned to feel that would have me so drunk, I’d never need liquor again. Remember me for the funny thoughts of myself dancing in just a shirt and a pair of knickers, despite the fact that I never once danced in my life.

I could go on and on about all the things I wanna be remembered by but I can assure you, none of it will truly matter when I’m gone. All I can do is hope to be remembered for all I hoped to achieve but never got to actualize…and if you can, light a cigar in my memory.


“Breathe girl, Breathe…”

Why does it feel so hard to do that simple but exhausting task…

Should it count that maybe I’m out of breath, out of will to live, out of options to choose from… Is it why I feel laboured just having to exist…

“Goddammit Breathe Mercy, you need to breathe…

If not for yourself, do it for your sister, for you dad… ”

I can’t understand why I just won’t breathe …why don’t I want to breathe easy… do I want to breathe at all ?

I expect this doesn’t make sense to anyone, welcome to the wagon, it quit making sense to me long ago…

Am I breathing yet. I’m still in pain so I guess I’m still trying…

Everyone needs me to live, I need to breathe instead… I won’t live if I can’t breathe, right ?

Once again I ask, why can’t I breathe, why I’m I lost at it…

I’m thinking too much again, no surprise there… If I could breathe as easy as I think, I’d have no chance of dying, I’d probably begin living…

I don’t want better, I don’t believe there’s any better… My mind knows it, that’s why I can’t breathe, I don’t believe in it.

One can only breathe if they believe they can and maybe, that’s just it for me…

I don’t like breathing anymore, it hurts to breathe, its exhausting.

I’m tired…

but I’ll breathe, for everyone besides me.