My Friend

For seven months, I made excuses for him. He was my friend. That didn’t really happen. He’s a good person. He’s always been there for me. He was my friend.

But friends do not pin you down on the bed. Friends do not hit you when you refuse to comply. They do not muffle your cries with their hands. They do not force your thighs apart to insert their fingers inside you. And they do not rape you.

The moment he forced his dick inside me was the moment I stopped fighting. I didn’t want to get hit again. He was 6”4 and weighed over 200 pounds. I was 5”3 and weighed 97 pounds. I do not remember much about that night. I remember shivering. Was I cold? In shock? Was I nearing a panic attack? I do not know.

I stopped fighting because I was scared. I had already fallen off the bed twice. Or maybe I fell because he hit me. I do not remember. I was screaming, pleading, bleeding inside. Only inside. I did not want to die.

The clearest memory was the immense relief I felt after he left. I was safe again. But I no longer felt like myself. I felt… dirty. Like I had this disgusting poison spreading throughout my body. I just felt wrong. Something was wrong. Inside me. With me. Everything felt wrong.

I took eight showers that night, trying to burn away the rot and shame he left behind. I did not cry. I did not feel. I did not blame him. My skin was scrubbed red and raw from the scalding water but I still felt nothing. I was nothing. Maybe it was my fault.

The next few days I functioned robotically. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I didn’t shower. And for a while it was okay. Until I had to shower again.

I finally cried when I saw my naked body in the mirror of my bathroom. Who am I? What happened to me? I tried to repress the memories of that night — whatever little I had left anyway — but I couldn’t. It was seared in my mind. His body crushing me. My stifled cries. His shushes of don’t worry just enjoy it. His hands around my neck.

The next couple of weeks, I felt empty. A light had gone out of me. I had no energy. My eyes were dull. Lifeless. Bright fluorescent lights used to hurt my eyes. Loud traffic noises used to hurt my ears. But none of that mattered anymore. The world was muted and I was just a ghost.

I drifted in and out of sleep during those weeks, clinging to the warmth and safety of my bed. My clean sheets. I cried myself to sleep each night, taking sleeping pills and Xanax so I wouldn’t have to think. I was constantly crying when I was awake. So I self-medicated during the day as well.

Every night, I gripped my blankets and whispered sorry sorry sorry for hurting you, thank you for being here for me, thank you for wiping my tears away, thank you for keeping me safe and warm. Thank you for not touching me without my permission.

The tears in my blanket have seen the world hurt me. They’ve seen me hurt myself. And they have felt me tugging and ripping its seams as if they were my veins.

He claims he had no memory of that night. He still texts me every now and then. And I respond. After all, he is my friend.

Every text from him was a reminder. Shame. Hurt. Guilt. Maybe I deserved this.

After months of therapy and support from my boyfriend, friends, and my sister, I realized that I was not defined by what had happened to me. I was worth more than I knew. And I was loved. Unconditionally. Every single day.

I am not broken or empty or lost.

I love every day and I am loved every day.

And I know now that he is definitely not my friend. He is only my rapist.

naked truths iv

i haven’t been doing well lately

i’m cold all the time

i just want some peace and quiet

the days are bleeding into each other

it is getting harder to breathe

i could drown if i wanted

i starve myself sometimes so i can pretend the emptiness is from my stomach and not from my soul

i am hurting inside

but i’m also numb and… really angry

i am so angry it scares me

i want to destroy ~~things~~ ~~myself thingsmyselfthings mysel~~f

i don’t want to die

there is so much hate in my heart and guilt in my veins

i want someone to punch me really hard in the stomach so i can throw up my feelings my guilt my hurt my emptiness

the world is moving too fast and all i can do is stare blankly

i am screaming inside

i just want to fall asleep but i’m afraid of waking up

i’m angry and scared always so fucking cold

it is 5:19 a.m. and everything is blurry and muted and distant

i think i am lonely

there is an immense sadness inside me that i cannot shake

saying nothing

My head is spinning. I have so many thoughts. So many dots that don’t quite connect. All I’ve ever wanted was a sense of clarity. Why is everything so muddled?

It’s been almost a year since the incident. Almost a year since I’ve posted on this blog. I think about writing, about posting nearly every day but I can never think of anything to say. So here I am, saying nothing.

I’ve had really really good days. Days so good I didn’t want to ruin them by writing thinking feeling all my thoughts turn into words. Does that make sense? I’ve also had some really shitty days. Those are the days I want to write the most. My fingers itch and mind longs to write to post and scream and shout and tell the world that I am not okay. But I also didn’t want to disappoint.

People are so happy for me when I am happy, I cannot bear to tell them that I still get sad sometimes. It’s all so disappointing.

So, I am writing today. It’s not a great day but it’s not a terrible one either. It’s like the weather here in Revere. Foggy. Misty. Cloudy but bright skies. Overcast. The smell after it rains (there was a thunderstorm last night, the lightning was crazy).

I can’t think too much about the words I’m spewing or I’ll get scared and delete it all. So here is me, saying nothing. But also everything. I’m going to stop writing and publish this before I lose my nerve. Thanks for reading.

pointless

I want to be a good writer. I want to tell the truth and be honest with the world. But how can I do that when I’m always lying to myself? I’ve been writing and re-writing this post, but the truth is, I have no idea what I’m going to say. I want to say something but nothing is worth saying. My life is at the point where I’m sort of flatlining. Not in a bad way, but not in a good way either. Too many things have happened between the last post and this one. Even though I want to be as transparent as possible, some things just aren’t meant to be shared with the world. So, I’m sorry. Is withholding truth the same as lying? I should stop writing now. I don’t know what point I’m trying to make.

getting high these days feels easier than ever

help! i’m drowning

my lungs full of liquid guilt –

guilt. guilt. guilt.

why am i so damn guilty?

it’s like my heart doesn’t pump blood, it pumps guilt

i float when i’m high– ohhh i get it now hIGH hahaha–

off-rhythm heart beat

why is my breathing so irregular?

a million shards caught in my throat

i can’t swallow my broken-glass words

it hurts too much

i’m drowning and i’m floating and i’m choking

this is my life

those days are the hardest

tumblr_onwblkhEce1w0l6yoo1_640 Depression is a disease – a sickness that doesn’t go away with just chicken noodle soup. When the world is spinning and I feel like I can’t get back on my feet, I cannot tell people how I feel.

Sadness isn’t a feeling. It is a state. A constant mind-numbing state that drapes over me like a scarf that is too big – engulfing me with useless thoughts from the past. Remnants and echoes of “why are you here” and “you aren’t worth it” hang heavily around my neck, around my head, in my mouth and under my skin. Sadness feels like I am sitting at the bottom of the pool, watching the world go by in slow motion. You know that feeling when you’re underwater? When everything is muted, rippled, and stuck in time? Watching people wonder why I am just sitting and not swimming. Hearing people yell my name in frustration and tell me to “just swim.” How can I just swim when I’m stuck in a ripple?

Those days it’s hard for me to breathe. Those days I want to stay in bed all day and stare blankly at the ceiling in a dimly lit room. Yes, I would rather be wrapped around in blankets, than go out to parties because these blankets did not lie to me. These blankets did not leave me. And these blankets did not touch me without my permission.

The ruffles of these blankets have wiped away my tears, pushed away my fears in the dark, and hugged me until I fell asleep. The tears in the corner of these blankets have seen the world hurt me, have seen me hurt myself, and have felt me tugging and ripping at its seams as if they were my veins.

I want it to stop. I want this feeling of constant nothingness to go away. I want to stop breathing because, with every heave of my chest, I am just breathing in more water.

Those days it is so hard for me to breathe that I just want to stop breathing. I want it all to stop. Those days are the worst. Because no one ever gets it. “You were fine yesterday,” someone will mutter, and “It’s all in your head,” someone will state, with that matter-of-factually obnoxiousness that I have learned to ignore since the first day.

Those days I want to run and run and run away from the noise inside my head, from thoughts that trail after me like my shadow. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to hear. I only want to feel the thumps of my beating heart under my skin reminding me that I am alive.

The only thing depression taught me was this: people will say they love you and they support you and that they understand. They don’t. I realize that when I talk too much about my depression, people get uncomfortable. They try to butter me up with awkward ‘don’t you feel so much better today’s as if they can try to make me whole again. As if I’m something broken they think they can fix. But I’m not.

I am not broken. I am a person. I think, I feel, I am normal. Just a normal girl with perhaps too many feelings, too many thoughts – but a normal girl, nonetheless. Depression is a part of me that I’ve come to accept. Some days it’s easier to manage than others. Some days, my friends act like lifeboats and bring me above the surface. I can see the sun again. I can breathe again. Everything is fine again. But there will always be those dark, high tides that I cannot escape. I will plunge underwater and I will be pulled deep down again. But I will always find my way back to the lifeboats. I will always find my way to the surface.

To everyone: Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. And just because you don’t understand it, doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.

Think before you say something. Your words might be the last thing someone hears.

to my 12-year-old self, please stop crying

tumblr_o43352OCkH1s3jg9qo1_1280 Dear me,

I’m sorry you feel so scared. I want to tell you that it gets better – that with each passing second, your heaving chest will feel lighter and the voices around you softer. But it doesn’t get better. Not really.

Remember when you thought it was the end of the world when they chopped down your favorite tree in the park? You felt like you lost yourself and that you won’t ever feel complete again. It’s kind of like that. A part of yourself will always be missing, and you’ll always wonder what you did wrong. You will wonder why men and women try so hard to impress each other only to spend the entire night staring at a lit up box, concentrating on virtual people that aren’t in front of them. You’ll wonder why girls sprint to the bathroom after dinner only to stick their fingers down their throats. You’ll wonder why your parents argue in the middle of the night.

And then you’ll stop wondering. You’ll become one of them.

Nameless, faceless, lost. Your eyes will sink lower and lower into your skin, and they will lose the hope and curiosity they once held. You will scream and cry and question why you are never enough. You will drown over and over again, but no one will notice even though the walls are so thin. And you’ll worry. You’ll worry about the way you look. Society has ingrained into you that pretty girls are skinny girls, pretty girls are perfect girls with perfect teeth and long hair. You will spend many more years worrying about the way you look and questioning why you don’t look like girls in magazines and movies.

Your mom will tell you to stop eating. You will look down at your plate, trying to choke down a mouthful of tasteless leaves while you choke back tears. You will spend many hours sitting on the bathroom floor, your head resting against the door, wishing you were as cold as the tiles beneath your feet. You will hurt, and you will cry, and you will wish you didn’t wake up. There will be scratches on the pale walls made by metallic rulers. Names of crushes, dates of first kisses. Tally marks of days spent alone and nights spent lonely. You will spend time on the corner of your bed – curled up and alone, staring at the artificial fluorescent glow, wondering when it would all get better. There will be late night phone calls and tears that ended up with scars not on the walls.

But you will learn, and you will cope.

You will learn to drown out the noise, the endless whisperings and reminders of “you are a disappointment” and “no one loves you.” It will be difficult, but you will try. If I could give you advice, this would be it: Stop looking at your feet. The world is much more beautiful when you actually look up and notice the things around you – the skies, stars, people. See those old books and novels that line your shelves?

Read them. Live a thousand lives among warriors and princesses and dare to dream as far as they do. Stop focusing on what other people think of you – they don’t matter. Find a group of friends who will not judge you and who will love you for who you are. Trust in them and trust in yourself. But most importantly, love yourself. I know it’s difficult- I’m still struggling with it today, and it will still be a struggle in the future. Keep trying. Accept the love you receive, and give as much love back as you can. You are worth it.

Love,

20-Year-Old Me

i am enough (i think)

I don’t like myself.

I never have. I can’t seem to remember a time where I wasn’t full of self-loathing.

I don’t like myself and I don’t know why. Everyone has good qualities and I do recognize my own. I’m a pretty good writer. I’m empathetic and kind and I care about other people. I have awesome friends and an amazing boyfriend – surely, they must love me for a reason. I try my best and I try to do everything with love. But, deep down, I don’t think that I’m worthy of anybody’s love. I don’t know why I think that.

I know that I’m okay and I’m enough and I’m worth it. To other people, that is. I just want to be enough for myself and I don’t know how. I’ve only come to the realization of how deep my self-hatred runs inside me and I don’t understand how I can possibly fix it.

I also know that I’m not a broken toy that needs to be fixed. I’m just a girl, no, a woman, trying her goddamn best. I just hope that it’s enough.

being

“Slow down.”

The Uber driver looked up quizzically but it didn’t matter. Time stood still for me at the back of the car, as I watched the street signs change. The empty Boston roads stirred in me strange feelings that I couldn’t really pinpoint. I felt small. A speck of dust in the universe.

“Are you sure, ma’am?” he asked, bewildered.

“Yes.”

I had never been more sure of anything in my entire life. I wondered if moments like this could ever be my own. Moments where I did nothing and simply allowed time to wash over me. Moments to myself that I didn’t have to share or explain to anyone.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to do anything, I just wanted to be.

Life is a series of linear events that eventually leads everyone to the same outcome: death. It is inevitable. I don’t know why I spend so much time worrying about school, grades, and what other people think of me, when in the end, it is all the same.

Yes, I should strive to be the best version of myself, but isn’t it kind of pointless? Life is a game I’m not supposed to win. No one is supposed to win. We’re all here to play, aren’t we?

Like some wise person said: it is not the destination, but the journey. We need to stop thinking about the future and what could be, and just be.

Slow down, and think for a second; aren’t you where you’re supposed to be?

infinite ocean-pool

I’m floating. I’m lying on my back and staring up – basking underneath the sun’s rays. I am floating on an infinite ocean-pool alone. Floating, for the most part, sounds like something good, right? A good floaty feeling, perhaps. But this is not the case. Floating in water- body about one-third below the surface, bobbling and balancing – does not feel good. There is no support, and although my heart is reaching toward the surface, it is not getting anywhere. It will only ever be just at the surface of the water.

This strange trickly sense of floating reminds me of feeling numb. But, with a twist. Ears below water, and eyes on the clouds, I am both above and below at the same time. I’m here in the present, but I’m also not. The water beneath me sets everything in slow motion and the air above me reminds me that time is passing normally.

How do I push myself up from the water to get my entire body up to the surface? There’s nowhere to go, and I don’t want to use all my energy. I’m already using a lot of energy trying to balance myself between underwater and over-water.

So I plug my nose and close my eyes. I let myself sink. I drown.

liquid guilt

I’m supposed to be reading psychology articles for my discussion. I talk about that a lot. Not my social psychology class, but what I’m “supposed” to be doing. I say that so many times in my blog, in a day, in general.

When I say I’m “not supposed to” drop classes or not write or have too much fun, Joe always tells me that there is no “supposed to.” And he’s right. I guess it’s just normal (where I’m from, anyway), for kids to go to school, then college for four years, then grad school. But here I am, abroad. Living with my boyfriend, with seven animals in our house, barely passing my one class… and maybe graduating in four years. Or four and a half.

Most of my day, if I’m not consumed by anxiety, I feel a guilt that runs so deep inside me I feel like I want to throw up. I’m in the states because I’m in college. But I’m barely a college student at all. I’m struggling so much but I can’t return to Bangkok because I won’t be able to get the mental health resources that I need.

I’m not doing what I’m “supposed” to do. But am I really supposed to be doing? Studying? Taking care of my mental health? Getting good grades? Pleasing my boyfriend? Getting an internship? Going out with my friends? What am I supposed to do? I wish there were a set structure that I can follow. But all I have are splattered feelings everywhere – messy, inconvenient.

I have a guilt that runs so deep in my veins it has become a part of me. I’m not sure how to get rid of it. But you know what the most fucked up part is?

I’m not sure I really want to.

she doesn’t like girls

she has honey colored hair.

and honey colored eyes.

i wonder,

does she taste like honey too?

i get drunk on her breath

her lips so close

i close my eyes and i wake up — disappointed

in reality.

she is so beautiful and kind.

but i don’t think she likes girls.

i’m too afraid to ask.

i hope she finds someone who makes her happy.

4/22

I couldn’t make myself get up today.

Or yesterday, or the day before. Even on my birthday (420 btw.)

But after nearly two hours of rolling around, trying to make myself comfortable, I dragged myself out of bed with only one thing on my mind: coffee.

So, here I am, at Newton Corner’s Starbucks, wishing that I’d brought my charger. Oh well. I haven’t written in a while so I thought I’d just sit down and let out whatever comes to mind. I’m not going to edit this. Because I want to come back to this post one day and read only honest things.

Everyone expects me to get better. I expect myself to get better. It’s just happening so slowly. I do feel different. I no longer wake up disappointed that I’m still breathing. I’d say that’s progress!

I guess I’m kind of disappointed that the process of healing is going slower than I thought it would. I don’t really know what to do.

It draws me in every morning. My bed. Which, sounds ridiculous, I know. But it’s true. I feel as if I am made out of white bedsheets, tucked in neatly under the mattress. I try to fight the urge to sink into the bed. Because once I stop fighting, it pulls me under and I drown. I drown all day and all night, trying to escape. But I just can’t.

There aren’t enough metaphors in the world to describe what depression feels like. It just feels awful. And I feel awful that I’m always writing about depression. But that’s the thing, you see. Depression takes over your life. You can’t escape it.

Sometimes, I forget that I’m depressed. When I’m watching a really funny tv show, laughing really hard with my friends, or when I’m high. But it always comes back. No matter how much I distract myself, at the end of the day, when I go to bed – it is still there.

I’ve had two coffees now, both tall, iced caramel macchiatos with extra shots of espresso. Joe’s here now. He rode the bus from school to here. Thank god for him. I had my charger this whole time and there was an outlet directly below my seat this WHOLE TIME!! (He pointed that out to me).

He’s bullet journaling right now (which has really helped me), but I forgot mine at home.

The other day, Joe and I were carrying boxes down to our storage unit in the basement. As he was opening the door, the boxes wobbled and I let out this mix of a yelp-scream because I didn’t want the box to fall. Joe said something along the lines of, “it’s okay if it falls, they’re just boxes of clothes. If it falls, we’ll just pick it up.” THIS MADE SO MUCH SENSE. It just didn’t occur to me at the time that this was actually no big deal at all.

So, why did my heart race so fast when I thought the box was about to fall? Anxiety, I guess. My to-be advisor said that I liked to be in control, for things to be exactly how I want them. And that couldn’t be more true.

I like being in control. No, I LOVE it. I never realized it could become a problem. I like knowing that my pens are aligned right next to my desk lamp. I like making sure that the bedsheets are tucked in and the pillows over the sheets. I like making sure that my titles are exactly one-third the space of my bullet journal. It’s always been this way.

I used to brush my hair 100 times. Fifty times on each side of my head. I was 10. I wanted to be pretty, I wanted to look like an adult. So, I had a set routine (like adults do, right?). I had to do homework right after school. I had to shower RIGHT BEFORE going to bed. And I always applied lotion on my skin so I would always be soft. I didn’t want to age badly. Whatever that means.

Anyway, as an adult, I don’t have a routine. I definitely do not put on lotion or brush my hair (Joe brushes my hair for me, bless him.) And I definitely do not do homework. I’ve concluded that the adult world is a mess that my 10 year old self did not see. But I also learned that it is okay. Because messes can always be cleaned up.

4/10

The world feels distant. Muted. Like I’m floating in a dream that isn’t really my own. I’m in a one-person game without a goal.

I’m forcing myself to write this blog post. To salvage whatever is left in me that I can find. I’ve been dropping classes and missing group projects. I’m on new medication, upped-dosage medication and I still don’t feel completely like myself. I hope I’m not destined to feel this way forever.

Destiny. A strange word, is it not? I don’t understand it. I’m not sure I believe in it. Perhaps it is my way of coping with the world – blaming “destiny” for my problems and situations that I’m in. Because if destiny isn’t set and fate isn’t real, then what? All my problems are because of me, and I’m stuck here where I am, because. of. me.

I feel like a failure in more ways than one. I can’t write, and I can barely read. Depression has affected my daily cognitive functions, leaving me impaired and hopeless. I blame depression for most of my problems, but what if it is just me who is incapable of performing normally? What if I’m just lazy? I ask myself this question all the time. Why don’t I want to do things? Be normal? Go out with my friends? Why do I feel so small? Why do I feel like the world is crushing me slowly? Like I’m drowning in the middle of the ocean while there is a huge storm going on at the same time? Who will find me in the storm when I can’t even find myself?

I have never been more lost. Every time I relapse, I say that. I have never been more lost. It keeps getting worse and worse, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I am a prisoner in my own mind.

quotes

“i like your toes because they’re cute and they’re yours” – joe

“fuck me in the ass because i love jesus” – dena

“i want an in-unit washer and dryer for my birthday” – me

“your record for getting through hard days is 100%” – jen

“you guys i had a dream that i snorted cocaine” – dena

“are you coffee beans cause you just got roasted” – kristen

“when you’re not sober, time moves in waves, like lasers. It’s like 2D versus 3D.” – me, stoned

“yeah, it’s like squares and then triangles. Or circles, then ovals.” – dena, stoned

“when we think we know but we don’t actually know, because when we know, we know.” – dena, stoned

“you are not a sir, you are a serf.” – kristen

“you are not a mister, you are a mistake.” – kristen

“as springtime approaches, crushing suicidal thoughts give way to more light hearted and carefree suicidal thoughts.” – ken m (@horseysurpeise on Twitter)

“I won’t be in class today due to unexpected mental breakdowns… I guess I deserve a 0 for not being able to handle my own depression.” – me in an email to my professor

“What if I show up [to an exam] and tell him I wanna die lol” “he’d have you committed” – me and kristen

“It’s like you came out of the screen and stabbed me in the heart and it hurt. But in a good way.” – me, about kristen

“Dnee… I have arthritis” “oh my god we need to tell them” “no dude… I don’t have arthritis” – me and Dena’s sense of humor

“If you can’t love a man, think like one. That’s the formula.” – Dena