How Can I Make Myself Sad Today?

Every day is like a game show and all of my memories are contestants. The name of the game is “How Can I Make Myself Sad Today?” and there are no points. The purpose of the game is to see how close to suicide I can get every day without actually killing myself.

 

Example of one episode:
Day is fine, starts out great. The weather is my favorite (warm, but super cloudy) and I have no immediate stress-factors. No one acts negatively towards me and I feel okay with my appearance. Sounds great.

Round 1: You should feel really bad about drinking on Friday. Your resolution was to stop.

Round 2: Remember last time you tried to kill yourself?

Round 3: Last time, you reached out to your “BFF” of fourteen years. Her response was that she’s too busy with her other friend(s) to give you any sort of relief that you desperately are begging for.

Bonus Round: Your stomach is already upset from lunch. Deal with that now, too.

To see how today’s episode went, stay tuned for further posts. If there are no future posts; Team Memories won.

xXscenekid4lyfeXx

Sitting at the red light listening to Goodbye Graceful, my car suddenly reverted to my ’96 Acura Legend. My trademark platinum hair wears a headband with a bow, just like it did a decade ago. I looked down and was surprised to see today’s skinny jeans instead of my ’06 skull and crossbone leggings (yes, they also had neon hearts and lightning bolts) with a denim skirt. Still wearing the flats and a skull-covered sweater. Not a lot has changed, I guess. But for a moment, as I sat there, I was 16 again. I could smell the aroma of my old car: cigarettes, weed, and a faint hint of Vick’s Vapo Rub underneath it all. I was tempted to toss my bangs back in the typical old emo flip and blast my screamo music, not caring who it annoys. Then reality kicked in.

I may be almost 30, but sometimes I’m still 16.

Letters Never Sent, 6.

I’m working on a new sporadic segment that will be a series of letters that I never plan to send. Writing is therapy for me. Names will be either omitted or changed for the sake of legal issues that could potentially arise. These will be personal, they will be honest, and they will be heartfelt. My life is an open book.

Letter #6

Dear Cactus Dick,

“If I had it my way I’d slit your throat with the knife that you left in my back.” – BMTH

Your unrelenting selfishness has gone unpunished for too long. Your abuse broke my mind in to thousands of tiny, scared pieces. Three and a half years later I’m still scrambling to find them all. Every red flag they warn you about, every bit of advice you’ve heard in your life is about people like you.

You showered me with affection at the start, convincing me we’re soulmates and should run away to Vegas to get married. The first two months were bliss. We were such a cute couple and everyone was envious of our “love.”

Then one night (seemingly out of nowhere) you broke your tooth from clenching your jaw in anger at me. What did I do to invoke such fury? Oh, right. We were with my friends and I was being the exact fucking same as always but suddenly around them it meant something else, right? “I never knew I was dating such a ‘bro.'” Yeah, definitely a justifiable excuse for dumping me on the spot.

Confused and disappointed, I let it go and went on with my life. One day of crying and I felt better. It had only been 3 months, after all. I got a cat and had a large support system of friends. If I knew then what I know now it all would’ve stopped right there and we’d be fine.

Nope.

You begged for us to get back together because you felt stupid for dumping me over such a small issue (ya think?). This is when your true colors became apparent to everyone but me. You’d constantly brag about how many girls want to fuck you, then you’d text them all night in front of me. If I so much as talked to another male without your explicit and genuine permission I would be accused of cheating or not loving you. You’d go hours without answering your phone when I’d call (but you’d answer for other people) yet if I missed a call from you I was in deep shit. You constantly gaslighted me by accusing me of confusing your likes/interests with my exes (which was bullshit because I still know what they like and it’s not the same as you’ve ever mentioned liking). It got to a point where I legitimately thought you had split personalities. No worries, I support those with mental illnesses and wouldn’t leave you over it. No, I’d fix you. I’d make it all okay. You always told me you wanted me (an atheist) to go to church but when I’d offer you’d shut me down. You’d constantly barrage me with ideas of what I should be like and how imperfect I am.

Then there were the fights. You sneaky cunt. You’d spend the entire car ride to a friend’s house/family gathering/social event riling me up and picking at my insecurities. You’d tell me things about the people we were about to see… awful things (that I know now are most likely not even close to true). I’d get out of the car with no smile; no motivation to be kind to anyone in my company. Then you’d flirt with the first girl you could find to make me jealous. You’d do everything in your power to subtly antagonize me until I’d snap and yell at you in front of everyone. All they saw was me “being crazy” to you; the poor, charming, sweet young man that they love so much. Later, you’d tell them every bad thing you told me with one major difference: you’d tell them that I said it.

Those, among other things, were the red flags. Stupidly, I went on to buy a house with you. You had no interest in it and were content with living with your mom and her boyfriend. I, however, wanted more so I pushed for it. We found the perfect place and bought it. Within a week you had kicked me out of our bed to the guest room. You started hanging with notorious cheaters from work. You’d get texts the length of college essays late at night from girls you never talked about to me. (I never read them but I sure as fuck saw that they existed.)

Feeling dejected and alone, I reached out for help from my friends. I then realized that you had sneakily isolated me from them and I had no one to turn to. I cried myself to sleep every night, alone in the guest bedroom with my cat. I had no idea what I could possibly have done to have you hate me so much so suddenly. You forced me to become addicted to your love only so that it would hurt more when you ripped it away with no explanation. You told me to move out the day that I finally finished unpacking everything (since I’d spent forever painting and scrubbing every single room of the house). You started staying at your mom’s (yeah right). In this time you’d IM me at work and try to get me to chat with you like we were friends still. You told me that I’m so good in bed you may just go celibate

Then you told me to move out asap (because you made me so depressed I started cutting myself for the first time in my entire life at the age of 23). I had no one to help me. No one. I was homeless for a while so you offered to watch my cat until I found a couch to sleep on. You and your vicious hag of a mother abused my cat until the stress almost killed her. That cat fucking loved you, you piece of shit. Abusing my pet because you’re mad at me (for no goddamn reason, may I remind you) is utter bullshit and makes me angrier than anything you ever did to me personally. Still homeless, I had to go get my cat because of this. She wouldn’t even let me near her. How could I blame her? I left her in your “care” for 2 weeks where she starved and got smacked around. Now she’s fine again, thanks for asking (fucking prick).

Then I started hanging with Neb; your supposed bff who you always talked mad shit about and treated like garbage in his time of need. In time, he revealed to me that you had mentioned celibacy to me because you’d been “fuckin’ a 19-year-old who don’ know what she’s doin'”. Your boss’s daughter, even. And the real kicker? She moved in right when you kicked me out. So, essentially, you found a perfectly normal and awesome person, turned me against myself while you tried to force me into a “perfect wife” mold that doesn’t exist, then when my mind snapped and I became unrecognizable you threw me away and replaced me with your next victim. I now know that she wears my ring every single day since you two got married.

I fucked my current bf in your bed.
I hope you slept on the cum stain.

 

Toodles bitch,

xoxo

bad memories, pt. 2

Sometimes our memories fill us with longing nostalgia; a brief flash to a simpler time. Sometimes, we don’t get so lucky.

I have many memories of unpleasantries, but there are a few I need to write about to ease my mind. I’m tired of these sick older men haunting my thoughts.

Many men are unaware of the struggles women face from birth to death. Even the women who are not conventionally “sexy” have problems with being sexually assaulted. If this bothers/triggers you, stop reading now.

Continue reading bad memories, pt. 2

I would have said “yes”

There are so many areas that appear to be grey to us when faced with sexual consent. It should be simple for everyone: “yes” means “yes” and everything else means “no.” Sadly, our culture sets us up for failure. Men are expected to be sexually aggressive and able to interpret women’s messages of playing hard-to-get. Women are expected to put up a small fight even when they’re interested. Not only that, but women are expected to look sexually available even when they have no interest at all in having sex that particular day/night. There are hundreds of factors I’m leaving out, here, because there are just simply too many contributors to rape culture.

When you’re at a party with close-knit friends you should feel safe to stifle your inhibitions and let loose. Even if one of those opposite-sex friends has a really cool snap-button shirt that’s fun to rip open when you get really tipsy.

That’s the last thing I coherently remember. His awesome blue and purple flannel shirt with the snap buttons. Then I passed out on the couch in the living room. I woke up naked next to him in a bed. No, I do not remember leaving the couch. No, I do not remember him being all over me all night. No, I certainly do not remember having sex; but I do remember a single flash of a moment of having my legs hastily thrown to the side so he could enter me. In that half second of clarity I tried to say “stop.” I don’t know if I did or not; I don’t remember anything.

The part that makes me the angriest about this is that I would have consented if he just fucking asked. Instead, he took it without my permission and left me scarred.

Moral of the story: Don’t rape.
Sub-moral of the story: ASK and you might receive.

bad memories

Sometimes our memories fill us with longing nostalgia; a brief flash to a simpler time. Sometimes, we don’t get so lucky.

I have many memories of unpleasantries, but there are a few I need to write about to ease my mind. I’m tired of these sick older men haunting my thoughts.

Many men are unaware of the struggles women face from birth to death. Even the women who are not conventionally “sexy” have problems with being sexually assaulted. If this bothers/triggers you, stop reading now.

Continue reading bad memories

Letters Never Sent, 4.

I’m working on a new sporadic segment that will be a series of letters that I never plan to send. Writing is therapy for me. Names will be either omitted or changed for the sake of legal issues that could potentially arise. These will be personal, they will be honest, and they will be heartfelt. My life is an open book.

Letter 4

Dear Downer,

I forget about you a lot, but not often enough. Right now is not one of those times where I can forget. My stomach sinks when I drive in the same neighborhood as your craphole dwelling. I spent such a short time there but I knew you too quickly; I caught on to your mental instability from day one. That’s not something most people can help, so I took it upon myself to try to help you help yourself. What a lost cause. It isn’t possible to help someone who can’t see that there’s a problem. It’s not that you won’t see the problem, you quite literally can’t until you make some major life changes.

You’ve done enough to almost have your kids taken from you, your credit destroyed, your health degenerated, and your friends against you with vehement hatred. Yet you still think you can do no wrong. Your own kids are disgusted by you and are desperate to leave, but they still have their internal dilemmas of leaving you alone to continue destroying yourself. You’re dragging them down in to your personal Hell and it is not fair to them.

How many tenants have you berated, lied to, annoyed the everlasting fuck out of since I left? I’m assuming one every 2-3 months; no one can handle your insanity longer than that. You don’t even have a mental illness or disorder, you’re just an angry person.

 

Someday I hope you find your peace. I hope no one else suffers because of you.

Letters Never Sent, 3.

I’m working on a new sporadic segment that will be a series of letters that I never plan to send. Writing is therapy for me. Names will be either omitted or changed for the sake of legal issues that could potentially arise. These will be personal, they will be honest, and they will be heartfelt. My life is an open book.

Letter 3

Dear Bonono,

There really is no way to start saying this, so here it is: I’m sorry. Sincerely sorry. You always deserved better from me and you never got it. You had me at my worst and stuck by my side only to be hurt again and again. Someday someone will treat you like royalty and you will make them feel complete. Someday someone will let themselves love you like I once did, but they won’t let it fade like I did. Someday someone will know how stupid it would be to give up and stop trying. Until that day comes I hope you never feel too badly about how awful I was to you; I want to know you’re doing okay.

For a long time I meant it when I said “I love you” and I am so sorry that that didn’t last. We were kindred spirits, watching each other grow and learn. Unfortunately, our paths pulled us in different directions and I let it get to my head. I became controlling, dishonest, and flat out mean. I hate that side of myself. I never want to see it again. You never have to see that side of me now that we’ve spent so much time away from each other. Being friends again would be nice for a time, yet eventually we would begin to wonder.

I’m happy now and I want to know you are, too.
If anyone in this world deserves more happiness than they’ve been given, it’s you.

I’ll always care.

ghosts in the graveyards

Cemeteries are empty of souls.

One common misconception that bothers me is that cemeteries are always haunted. No one can say for sure what happens when you die or what you would think after such a major event, but let’s think logically about this. When you die, would you prefer to hover over your rotting corpse or would you prefer to be around your loved ones/favorite locations? Some would even find the need to finish an important goal or to share their pain from their last moments alive. Would those have occurred at their grave? It’s highly unlikely. Cemeteries are spooky because we know we are walking above once-living bodies that are in varying stages of decay. Don’t mistake those empty husks for the energy that gives us life (and possibly afterlife).

One cool thing about being overly sensitive in all of my senses is knowing that energy is everywhere. It also isn’t always left by someone who’s dead. Sometimes a very energetic person can leave their own cold/hot spots during extreme emotional events. When something extremely negative happens between living people the energy remains for hours, sometimes even weeks. I lived in a house as a child where the previous tenant abused his wife. Both were alive when they left, but their grief hung behind and invaded my mind when I had nothing else to occupy me. It was very palpable to me, as if they had just left the room after punching a hole in the wall and screaming angrily at each other.

This may have played a major part in my tuning in to energy leftover from emotion; some call it being an “empath” (I think of it as being sensitive). With this extra level of awareness I have been able to sense things that others overlook. You can sense it, too, with proper training/experience! Next time someone walks in the room at your house, close your eyes and focus on the small changes in the room. Does the air feel heavier or lighter? Are you warmer or colder? Do you imagine a certain sound (like birds chirping or Darth Vader’s theme)? Then focus on how your energy feels in your body. Are you suddenly tired or excited? Are the hairs on your arms standing up? You will eventually learn to tell which energies are affecting you externally. You can use this to help you in your ghost hunts or simply in everyday life to weed out negative people.

This entry wasn’t really going anywhere in particular, so if you have any questions or comments please post them! If you’d like me to elaborate on anything in particular, I would be happy to do so, as well.

Letters Never Sent, 2.

I’m starting a new sporadic segment that will be a series of letters that I never plan to send. Writing is therapy for me. Names will be either omitted or changed for the sake of legal issues that could potentially arise. These will be personal, they will be honest, and they will be heartfelt. My life is an open book.

Letter 2

Dear Shitface,

Jesus, where do I even begin? From your very moment of birth were you as horrid as you are now? If not, how the fuck does someone end up as heartless as you did?

From the first time I saw your disgusting lard ass climb out of your P.O.S. car my gut sank and I knew this would be bad; very bad. It wasn’t just the ponytail, which is gross enough on its own for a fat man with thinning hair. It wasn’t the dirty clothes you were wearing (even though it was a date with my mother). No, something in my inner depths saw you and screamed “WARNING! BAD MAN!” Your very scent made my skin crawl with discomfort.

As a child, I had absolutely no say in my life events, such as you getting your foul tentacles deep in to my mother’s mind. From the beginning, you found a way to manipulate her in to thinking you mattered. You convinced her you were good and she listened, despite my constant warnings and worries I expressed to her about you. Before I knew it, you and your poor abused daughter were living under my roof.

Then the shitstorm kicked up.

You absolutely horrible, awful being.

Not only did you scream at me in public to the point of strangers intervening, you did even worse and made my mother cry night after night after night after night. She was (and is) the most important person in my life and you tried to extinguish the fire inside of her. It was not easy dealing with your angry outbursts, your attempts to get me to like you (which were disgusting), or your nasty perverted persona that makes me wonder if I have repressed memories deep in my subconscious because of you. Watching my previously clean and positive-feeling house deteriorate in to filth and sad energy broke my heart. Worse still was watching my mom go from a beautiful young woman to looking like she was 50 at age 30. You broke her down so hard that she never wore anything but sweats, stopped showering regularly, and looked sad almost all of the time. You broke her. Eventually, physically broke her as well.* Which is why she left your cancer-ridden ass in the dirt with nothing.

You must be a psychopath to be so heartless and cruel. You destroy everything you touch. You murdered your own daughter’s pets to show her how angry you were at her; something that should eat away at you every minute of your life.

The doctors said you didn’t have much time left. Yet here we are, 15 years later, and you still pop up from time to time. You didn’t recognize me at my first job and you treated me like shit even then. It took 100% of my energy not to punch you in the fucking throat that day. Weeks later I saw you walking down the street and heavily considered jail time for the satisfaction of destroying you with my car. Unlike you, I have a respect for life even if I loathe you with every ounce of my being.

Do the world a favor and die already.

 

*Mom is fine now; doesn’t think about him as often as I do. She is back to being beautiful and looking 30 now that she’s in her mid-40s. She even gets carded sometimes and is often thought of as my big sister by strangers (even our doctor once).