I’ve Got Friends…Not

It seems as though everyone has an easier time making friends than I do. Sitting in my history review sessions, my two pillars each go their separate ways with other groups of people whom they associate themselves with while I sit to the side by myself, minding my own business.

Since I started school, I’ve been the loner. Everyone would know each other and everyone would have friends, except for me. It seemed to be so effortless to others; talk, have lunch together, hang out on the weekends. It’s something that I simply can’t do. I don’t know how to. It takes so much energy, energy that I just don’t have.

I expect my friends to make other friends. I want them to. It just sucks that I can’t.

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Length of Love

The past few days have been difficult to say the least, particularly in dealing with my would-be significant other. It has been brought to my attention on multiple occasions that she ignores how important she is to me and takes it for granted. It is sad to say that it wouldn’t be the first time this has happened to me; this was actually what led to the downfall of my last relationship, this and the other person being significantly thick-headed. 

I guess these are the kinds of people I attract, individuals who are cynical and close minded. I recognize that they have these faults, yet I am able to overlook those faults for their better qualities, such as her calm and reassuring manner and ability to laugh and make others laugh with ease. 

What is most frustrating, however, is that she is only this cynical and close minded person really around people or generally in public areas. When we are alone, whether it be at her or my house or on FaceTime, her guard entirely drops and she becomes this easily-relatable and incredibly intelligent person. We have most of the same interests and really have very similar goals for our lives, but she only acknowledges this in our moments of solitude. 

I have enough patience to fill all of the bodies of water on this planet and the next, which I need in order to handle her; however, I get to the point where I don’t want to be tiptoeing over everything I say or do. I want to be myself and not be fearful of her quick and ready criticism. I also wish I knew where I stand with her; she’s admitted to being attracted to me, and we have shared a kiss. Other than this, I am only reassured in her feelings at rare moments when she becomes more affectionate than normal, or chances to confide some secret to me that no one else knows.

I care for her deeply. I hope to be a part of her life for a long time, and hopefully start an actual relationship together once we are older. But I need to know if she is as committed as I am and I am too afraid to confront her about it, so as usual, I will keep my mouth shut and become another speck on her floor for her to step on as she pleases.

A Crippling Blow

Let me tell you a thing about anxiety. I fucking hate that bitch.

I have spent the last 2 hours and 24 minutes cleaning my room in an effort to calm the shaking in my hands- and yes, I counted the minutes. That’s what anxiety does, it turns you into a maniac. You are now servant to its orders. This week has been chalk full with me wringing my hands in a desperate attempt to stop their tremors, reminding my lungs how to inhale and exhale, reminding my heart that it is a muscle that must relax every now and then, and reminding my brain that the world is not out to get me- or so I hope.

My lips have been chewed to the point of being perpetually raw and sensitive. The ends of my hair are being fried by my inability to stop toiling with it- ironing it one day, curling the next, braiding and putting it into a bun every hour or so. It has also been a battle with trying to discover what is causing my anxiety and the only answers I have come up with are my lack of self-esteem and confidence that render me intimidated by a fruit fly.

why am i shaking why is my heart pounding so fast and so hard its going to burst out of my chest what if it bursts why can’t i stop shaking i can’t write properly with my hands trembling this bad why can’t i do this why is this so hard why am i freaking out nothings wrong theres absolutely nothing wrong so why am i freaking out

And so it goes on and has not yet been alleviated. My biggest fear is I will sink to the place I was two years ago, even so soon as a year ago, when the only thing getting me through the day was the thought of my razor and the endless possibilities that could be done with it.

I don’t want to get to that place again; however, I don’t know how to ask for help. My parents do not believe in my poor mental state because they choose to turn a blind eye to it and pretend I am perfectly alright when multiple doctors have called advising them to get me help. The last time I spoke to my school counselor I was admitted to the hospital and would have been admitted to the psychiatric ward had my mother not stepped in. I just really need help but help is nearly impossible to get these days, but if I don’t get help soon I will end up doing something I will regret and I need to avoid that.

I just want to be alright again.

My Happiness and Depression

People talk about happiness as though it were something that could be turned on or off with the flip of a switch.

My happiness resembles a hypercoaster. I could be doing fine and going steady until I come to the drop. Suddenly, I am engulfed in waves and foam and I don’t know which way is up or down. I am drowning and I never learned how to swim.

This feeling of impending doom only retracts when I’ve stumbled across leveled ground and an angel comes to pull me out of the water. But angels have other duties and eventually must go.

I often worry about being a burden to the few who claim to care about me, and for this reason choose to refrain from telling them when I feel ill. That is depression. Not only feeling like you are a burden, but knowing you are a burden. It is wanting to lay in bed all hours of the day and wanting to sleep but not having the energy to. It it realizing you have truly hit rock bottom when even sleeping has become a hassle. Depression is sucking the life out of everything you once loved and abandoning you in a dark room where your only company is the voices reminding you of everything that led up to that point of you feeling drained.

Despite all of this, I still have my moments of being content. I have two pillars who keep me standing upright and push me along, neither of whom let me straggle behind, wallowing in my sorrow. It is with them, and only with them, in which I feel what it is to have motivation again. I am renewed with energy around them and begin finding pleasure in the small things, such as her pointed nose or his never-ending babble. And it is precisely because of these people that I am still writing this, and I have not relapsed to the calls of self-harm again, and I am not waiting out my time in the psychiatric ward where I almost landed myself two years ago.

I have come a long way from the person I was at that time, where I lived for the razor that was hidden in my drawer at home, and I had written up countless suicide notes and formulated a multitude of plans for ridding myself of the pain that was infecting every cell of my being. I still have a long way to go, but I am making progress. A wise man once said “I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on my way” and on my way I am.

Pale Black Eye

This past Friday I attended my first concert- and it was amazing. 20 minutes in I was kicked in the back of the head by a fat crowd surfer which caused my head to smash into the railing in front of me (yes, I was in the front row, am I hardcore yet?), resulting in a minor cut and lots of bruising. Other than that, the night was indescribable.

The opening band, Kevin Devine and the Goddamn Band, was a pleasant surprise for me. I hadn’t listened to them beforehand and had no idea what to expect, but was more than satisfied with their mellow rhythms and heartbreaking yet soothing lyrics. I also give Kevin kudos on the straggly ginger beard.

The next band, Balance and Composure, was when I got my black eye. I had listened to them a bit beforehand and considered them to be an OK band, and was once again pleasantly surprised by their performance. They also had an interesting thing going on with their backdrop, but that’s a story for another day.

Finally, Manchester Orchestra took to the stage and the urge to stroke Andy Hull’s beard was intense. It didn’t help that he was only five feet in front of me and close enough that when he’d look down to the crowd he’d look straight to me and my friends. That man is mighty talented, as is the rest of the band. They put on a performance, with Andy having even “written a song” especially for my venue. The hour and a half that Manchester was on the stage was the first time in quite a while where I let myself go and let myself be happy (happy, and not merely content).

I am now concert hungry and hope this will not be my last one for any lengthy period of time. I only pray that bands quit booking their performances on Tuesdays, which my strict parents refuse to let me attend since there is usually school the following day.

I still regret not being able to touch Andy’s beard.Image

My Problem

My biggest issue is that I care for the broken people. If someone is hurting, or in a low place of their life, or just generally do not like themselves, I tear myself to pieces in order to piece them back together.

I figured this out with the last boyfriend I had before I came out. I toiled with him for five months before finally giving up. I tore myself into smaller and smaller pieces until I was almost entirely inexistent solely to try to help him become a better person. I let him take advantage of me because I thought it was what I deserved and I should let him, if it makes him feel better.

I am currently facing a similar struggle once again. I want her to be happy. I care for her happiness more than I care for my own. I try to show her that I love her with every inch of my being, but my efforts seem to be in vain. She doesn’t understand that she is valuable and has more meaning to me than the Bible does to the most devout Catholic. Nothing I do can get her to understand this.

The worst part is I can never be mean to the broken ones. I let them walk over me and abuse me, but I always keep myself from hurting them. I can never bring myself to. They don’t deserve it.

I do it to find love. I hope that by bringing someone happiness, I will be repaid with their love. Until now, this has been far from the truth; however, I would still give up my happiness if it earned me an ‘I love you’.

Coming to Grips

I recently allowed myself to admit the fact that I am gay. I spent the entire morning crying when I was coming to grips with this. I realized it when I realized that I enjoy touching her more than I enjoyed touching him. She’s exquisite. She’s like this delicate china doll with frail limbs held together by fragile joints that you want to protect at the cost of your life. 

I kissed her once in my bed and I can still taste her when I think about it long enough. She put her arms around me while I slept and it felt like I was sleeping with happiness. I want to inhale her minty breath again. Once wasn’t enough.

Things feel right with her. At times, I am incredibly intimidated by her; she has so many parts to her and intricate little pieces that must fit together in only the exact right places in order for them to work and I usually feel like I’m not enough for her. But I also feel as though I could live a happy life with her. 

 

I kissed happiness on the lips and it’s been haunting me ever since.