himindovermadi-blog

[himindovermadi-blog]

Chaos

January

I began the year in prayer and meditation, receiving updates from drunken nights out. I spent hours alone in my room, gazing at my newly bald head and plotting the year to come. Below me, my parents slept peacefully as the ball dropped and the world turned one year older. This year was going to be different. When I arrived at my apartment hours later, my downward spiral began. All the expectations I had set for the new year unraveled in just a few days, and by the 8th I was rocking myself to sleep on the floor of my closet, begging myself to live another day. From then on the fantasies would form solidly in my head, I set up lofty goals with no examination of the heights I would have to climb to reach them. Each time I reneged I saw my world shatter and solely out of fear of the unknown did I piece everything back together, bare hands receiving splinters, cuts, and stains. I crushed myself into this newly formed world I had built to the guidelines of those around me. I shrunk my body, my voice, and my mind to fit, instilling dangerous narratives that would prove themselves damaging time and time again. I’m still not sure why I did it, maybe for love, maybe for hope of the future, did I muscle up the courage to pursue this dream. I knew there was something worth saving and I did everything in my power to keep it from leaving me. Little did I know the very efforts I put forth to keep this dream close to me, would be all the things that pushed it away.

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f 12

So, I was a bit of a weird kid growing up. In fact, I was a really weird kid, and I loved it. I hung out with other kids in weird fringe groups, and I floated from person to person fairly quite effortlessly, occasionally finding myself in more popular circles just to observe and sometimes participate. I never fit into a specific group, I never felt ashamed of who I was, and I never truly intended to. . . until Middle School. As our pubescent brains and bodies began morphing into these foreign creatures, kids became meaner, insults became more real, and no one wanted to see me happy for no reason. When the hurtful words and actions came in, none of it truly bothered me, I had full knowledge that these people didn’t really know me, and the people that did know me loved me and cared about me deeply. I had built up a sturdy front for my happy life, protecting me from the misguided abuses and was confident it would carry me for years.

All of that changed when an argument broke out between my closest friend and I. It escalated to the point where she called me out in the middle of class in front of all our closest friends. Her words fell on me like icicles, piercing my thick skin to its core and freezing up my body with anger and shock. I looked around the table at all the people I had chosen to share the most intimate parts of my life with and none of them took my side, instead echoing her jabs and sending icicles of their own. I was devastated, successfully frozen. I felt there was absolutely nothing I could do. Get angry? Over what? Because people didn’t like me? Get upset? Make a scene in the middle of math class? Laugh? Fight back? I’d never won a fight in my life.

I decided at age 12 my best course of action would be to internalize everything. If they didn’t like something about me, I’d change it. If they hated my authenticity, I’d find a new one. My voice, my interests, my questions in class, I could change all of it. As the years passed I assumed I had moved past this heartbreak. I changed schools, found completely new friends, started dating. By 16 my entire life had changed since that fateful fall out at 12 and it was due time for me to move on. What I didn’t come to realize until much later, was that the pain I internalized at 12 had also given me a dangerous internal monologue that had continued to ravage life, my relationships, my self-esteem, everything. 

I’m not wanted.

I’m not good enough.

I have to change who I am to be accepted.

My home life didn’t help much. When I fell into a depression, my parents were angry and confused. When their bubbly, cheerful kid disappeared, they had no idea how to respond. They knew nothing about mental health, and I didn’t tell them much. I was forced to reinterpret my ideas about everything, who I lived for, what I lived for, my purpose. The love that had held me down for years through all my years of childhood had vanished, and silently, quietly, I moved on. And all these ideas played out daily. I felt like a second-choice friend. I didn’t let anyone close to me, I ran from commitment, from love. I kept reinforcing this narrative in all aspects of my life. In my romantic relationships, I stayed until deeper feelings formed, and I left at the first signs of anything deeper than a fling. 

I trusted no one, I turned away from my family, I couldn’t even trust myself. For the rest of my time in middle school I carefully analyzed the actions of others, how to be funnier, more beautiful, likable, accepted. As hard as I tried to put on these new shoes, they never fit right, always seemed uncomfortable, and I truly never cared to wear them. In college, the ideas I was reinforcing evolved. Instead of acting to fit, it was acting to stand out. Listen to this music, they’ll find you interesting, dress this way, talk like this, hang out with these people. I created this mysterious group of judges whom I had to impress at all costs. Different from the masses, but cool enough to be coveted. I judged each person I came into contact with. Oh, he’s cool, wait, why’s he doing that? Okay, maybe he’s a weirdo, stay away from this one. Her hair is so pretty, she’s probably only interested in dumb shit, nothing to offer, stay away. I even hated my parents, when Mom says this, that explains it, that’s why I hate her. Oh and look at this, my dad can never let anything go, that’s why he’s garbage. All that time in ill-fitting shoes, I hated everything and everyone that couldn’t make them fit better. 

When I was 19, I rediscovered God, and subsequently the scores angels they had sent me. Angels who showed me just how ridiculous I had become, angels who loved me no matter how hard I pushed them away. Angels who wrecked my life, so I could see what shoddy design I had created, angels that confused every aspect of who I was, again. At 19 I was tasked with another round of complete rediscovery. Who did I live for? And what? What was my purpose, where do I find love? 

I assumed that at this point, my experience in middle school was a bygone, nothing but a bad memory. Unfortunately, the ideas I had learned at the time were not bygones. There were still with me, eating away at my soul. As my angels continued working, I decided to pick up some tools and start working myself. I forced myself time and time again to introduce new habits, study new, literature, repeat new affirmations. I worked tirelessly for years, making progress, backsliding into oblivion, crawling my way back out, rinsing, and repeating. 

Looking back on that experience I feel extremely grateful for what it gave me. I still continue working, to this day, every day, to make sure I know who I am outside of anyone else’s opinions. I am an insular person, so when things go south I go within. I had the opportunity to closely examine every part of myself. I opened myself up to new opportunities, new people. I was able to look for deeper meanings within the world surrounding me, I did not take things at face value. In a weird way, I learned to stand up for myself. When I was sitting alone all those different times at rock bottom, the only thing that pulled me out was knowing I had something important to say. God doesn’t put me through anything just because, and while I am still letting all the reasons why unfold in front of me, I am learning how to trust that these things are all very important things. Each experience, each journal entry, each depressive episode, each angel. All of them incredibly important. Things don’t happen by coincidence, even things that seem like they have no reason to be happening to you.

So, to the little girl who had her heartbroken at 12, it's okay to be hurt, you do not have to be brave. They may not have known better, but what they did still hurt you. And that is valuable. You are allowed to be upset, allowed to be vulnerable, allowed to let people know you feel slighted. Just because you are able to move on alone, does not make it a victimless crime. That being said you can also forgive them, for real. They hurt you but they are human, and you have hurt others because you are human, too. Your forgiveness will not only free them but will also free you of the burden that their words placed on you all those years ago. And these ideas, these false truths, are just that, they are false. You did nothing wrong, you have nothing to be ashamed of, and you have absolutely not one soul on this planet to prove anything to. You are perfect as you are, skinny legs, high-pitched voice, unconventionally beautiful face. These niggas got nothing on you, my love. Prove something to yourself. 

You are wanted. You are good enough. You do not have to change or be accepted. Repeat those things out loud for me, I want to hear you.

I am wanted.

I am good enough.

I do not have to change or be accepted.

I am Madison Joy McCaskey.

[himindovermadi-blog]

suicide letters

I ran the bath. I took out the sharpest knife. I placed it on the ledge next to a candle and a lighter. The water taunts me. A perfect ending to a perfect life, botched. While standing in the water last night I received a text. “Take action,” it said. I placed my phone down. I stood in the water, too hot to sink. I went to sleep that night, dreaming of ways to disappear. I didn’t go into the bathroom. In the morning it greeted me. My phone now off, thrown across the room. No one to stop me. Would my body have been rotting now? Would anyone have known? I am met with apologies on my phone once on. What do these mean? The sunlight in my room reminds me of life and things I love. Things that have only carried me so far. I hang up the paper, I think about things I hate, like happiness. I told him I would paint, so I’m painting. It doesn’t feel like me. The water taunts me. I think about death, and loneliness. And choices. I am grateful not to break hearts, not to assign blame. Instead of buying paint, I add layers. Instead of buying groceries I eat rice. I sit on the toilet and watch the tub. Blue like the beetle I see on my smoke break. I watch tv. There is a suicide attempt. I cry, are these signs I should listen? I hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing. There is a conference tonight. I bathe in the sink. I hope my hair stinks of tobacco and they all sit far away from me. I think about him, and our perfect union, reunion. It’s the first time I have wanted nothing more. He sings to me when I am sad. He asks me if this is just a phase. I tell him yes, death is just a phase. Become your own light in a tunnel. Keep fighting. Fighting for what? I’ve stared my life deep into its belly many times. I’m not sure what a life is lived alone. I don’t know how these people make it years. Just kill me I tell myself. Turn out the light on a good life. It's peaceful here. I think about my refuge. safe within one man. it isn’t fair to ask people to save you. Not when you can never save yourself. I think about enoughness. And if I will ever measure up. I curse God for making me this way. It's about lessons they say. Why isn’t it ever about love? So I can remain in the cycle, two weeks of bliss, four of torture. Two days of serenity, four, miserable. What’s the use? It never lasts, it isn’t supposed to. But it always comes down to me, alone, again. And I’m tired, why can’t anyone see that I’m tired, and no one will help me, and I am supposed to make a life out of this? I inherited: life, on my experiences with life. I inherited: death, on my suicide. Rebirth: a mystery for the other side.

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poems about the concept called boys

Maybe I could write poetry and then you’d see me Maybe I could have dreams Where we’d be together Maybe you’d meet me for lunch and we’d laugh Part of me wants you to be real You don’t want that.

Boring days seemed less lonely with you Never bored of me, looking for nothing to do I was relieved When you never mentioned leaving And elated When you pulled me in closer And we sat together, At boredom.

Likelihood is my least favorite word Certainty is the scariest Time is my mortal enemy My mind is my closest friend And you are beauty personified And I am very confused about how My mind is my mortal enemy And you are my only friend

Sink me deeper into rejection place me on pedestals for your own protection String me to the river Cast me to the dogs The only way I can exist Is through nothing at all Wish upon a star tonight Catch my feelings Miss my flight I wish you were a constellation maybe in gemini

You need both sides to see me two eyes you need unknowable data Entered into centuries of tablets Which way did you turn? The labyrinth goes on for days Mazes were my favorite game To think I couldn’t figure you out i stopped getting everything I wanted.

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the never-ending party of pity

It’s there in that moment, you and your boyfriend are rewatching that clip of America’s Next Top Model when Tiffany gets eliminated and Tyra fucking flips on her. Tyra screams, Tiffany looks annoyed. Tyra suggests potential and criticizes effort, Tiffany gets angry and makes excuses. It’s in that moment you realize, tear welling in the caverns of your left eye, that Tyra was also screaming at you. You are Tiffany. You have “been through things”, you’re “angry”, and you continuously joke about how awful you are at everything, while simultaneously putting less and less effort into your work every day. And when you look around you it seems everyone wants their dreams more than you want your own. Then your mother calls, its about housing, and inadvertently your plans after graduation. And it hits you again, you have no idea where you are going, and you’ve done that thing where you’ve pigeon-holed yourself by deliberately blocking the pathway to any futures you don’t want and still not chasing after the future you do want. Existing anxiously in limbo, in fear of a life you don’t want and a life you do. So what gives? How did you get stuck in this well of self-pity, stuck too deep to see through the darkness, crying about the slippery walls, dwelling in your own isolation, you’ve damn near given up, thought about making the well your new home even, except for days when you think it would just be better to off yourself. 

Oh, and then comes that other argument in your head. What is a life worth living? What if you have none of those things? Is the answer, then, to just die? Is suicide pathetic? I mean all political correctness aside, don’t you ever think about the people who would just be disappointed in you? An artist dying before their magnum opus is just, another depressed dickhead dying, right? Okay so you see me projecting here, but honestly, how can you feel satisfied leaving the world without at least giving something back to the world, your soul’s deepest message, how can you leave before that? Isn’t it what you came for? 

I was talking to a friend last night about learning to love ourselves amidst all the bullshit we put ourselves through. She told me it was difficult for her to find acceptance and love while she was just so disappointed in herself. After having gone through a ‘self-inflicted’ difficult time, she felt like she came out on the other side severely underdeveloped and having accomplished nothing. It got me thinking about the ways in which we separate our ideal selves and our fucked up selves from our actual selves. I had a breakdown a couple weeks prior initiated by a realization similar to hers. After everything I had been through, after the constant scrutiny of my past, and consistent glorification of my future, I felt stuck in a spot where I was punished for fucking up, yet somehow still unable to reap the rewards of my own inner awareness. I thought that harshly critiquing myself was the only way to achieve true freedom, that maybe, once I was able to stop ruining my life so much, I’d be able to love myself fully. My friend was in the same boat. I believe her words were something along the lines of, “I don’t know how to love this broken, undeveloped version of myself, while my love is also underdeveloped.” 

And then it occurred to me, Love is not underdeveloped, it can’t be. Underdeveloped love isn’t really Love at all, its just tolerance, care maybe. But Love is something so much bigger than what we can control and what we get our hands on. Love IS acceptance, Love IS freedom. Love is not what happens when you learn to stop fucking your life up. Love is not what happens when you finally get the job, or the boyfriend, or the abs. Love is not what happens when you finally understand all your childhood trauma, or can finally break some generational curse, no. That’s not Love. Love is that feeling that comes when you look at yourself exactly where you are and you tell yourself you are okay exactly as you are right now. Love says to us that we are human and we are going to fuck up constantly even when we become self-aware. Love is that freedom that comes when you realize that fucked up version of you and that ideal version of you are both the You staring back at you in the mirror. Love is the realization that we can exist in extremes, we can be fucked up and valuable all at once. 

I tried for years to this idealized version of myself. I championed her when she did well and any time she missed an opportunity, burned a bridge, or said something a little awkward I punished her for it, for weeks on end. And I was miserable. 

But then you see yourself as a human being. Someone incredibly capable of fucking up, but also someone incredibly capable of making an incredible impact. And you begin to appreciate your story. You become more understanding of the decisions you made when you were afraid, or lonely, or confused. You understand that even if you did know better, sometimes you needed to make that mistake to understand an even greater lesson. And then you become truly accountable. No longer is there a never-ending pity party for all your mistakes, but rather a conscious effort to be more mindful in the decisions you make in the future. You realize that you still do control your own destiny, no matter what life or your own damn self put you through. So rather than victimizing ourselves with our own minds, we can recognize ourselves as victors. Because the truth is, a lot of decisions we made growing up were not necessarily good vs bad, but life vs death. And we had to keep ourselves alive. And once we are able to really accept that, and really forgive ourselves for what we’ve been through, then we can actually start to show up to life as our full selves, and not shadows or carcasses of who we think we need to be. 

Alan Watts says “accept yourself as much as you can accept yourself because then you are also accepting the part of you that does not accept yourself”. I think all of this is just a process to get us to remember what it's like to be human. To experience everything fully for what it is, and to get the fuck out of our heads.

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in the sprit of sexuality

“We’re all free spirits here, ain’t no one gone judge you” is what he told me when he blocked the door the first time I tried to leave. My face scrunched up in confusion as I thought to myself, “Nigga that is not what I am worried about right now.”

...

Sexuality has always been sacred to me. I discovered mine young. I played with it until i thought it was evil. I promised myself I’d save my first kiss for marriage. But, I’m not sure if i lost my virginity to my first girlfriend or my first boyfriend. In college, I turned to sex when I was insecure, bored, or lonely. I went celibate when I realized my life was a mess, I broke celibacy for an asshole that couldn’t tell me I was beautiful. I believed a lot of lies about what relationships were supposed to be. I fell in love. Maybe for the first time, maybe the third. When we broke up I went numb.

I found consolation in one of my oldest friends.

The two of us hadn’t spoken in months,  in those few months our lifestyles had become increasingly stratified and it was hard for us to agree on almost anything. At one point she had been a mentor to me. Now, we were learning to just be cordial again. And, despite our growing differences, I still trusted her more than almost anyone on the planet. So when she invited me to a hotel party, I assumed I'd be safe and we would stick together, just like we always did.

After the breakup I was intent on retaining some celibacy, my heart hadn’t even begun to process the thought of losing someone I cared so much about. But the idea of reviving one of my most favorite relationships with this friend comforted me greatly. When we arrived to party at the hotel room to much less than what I expected, I should’ve felt tricked. Instead, I laughed. I knew myself. I told everyone no. Firmly. I was celibate. But at the same time, I knew in my heart it wouldn’t matter. I knew in that hotel (motel?) room I would have to discover something incredibly new about myself, and even though my willpower was strong, it was to be no match for my curiosity.

It started with a shot of cognac. Then a cigarette, one blunt in rotation, then two, and half a bean google later told me was ecstasy. Things began to slow down and my hands started to shake. I felt the energy in the room deepen, all of us…connecting. My heart told me to let go and enjoy, but my brain kept thinking of the gunshots I heard outside the room earlier. And the two fully loaded magazines next to the bed, and the red shirt and hat the man in front of me wore proudly. The baby furniture next to the bed and all the doors broken off their hinges. People can be incredibly persuasive while under the influence. And I’m not sure I can blame it all on the influence. I gave in. I wanted to leave, I tried to leave, twice, but again and again I gave in after encouraging words. “I’m showing you my whole body, babe, why won’t you show me yours? You’re my best friend and this is the only way I know how to show love to you, and if you leave, we might never speak again.”

Her words didn’t matter as much to me. I had heard her stories before, and she knew exactly how to get inside my head. But, I think I gave in because I knew I couldn’t leave without it. Without finding out exactly how deep and how far I could go. My entire body was divided in half. Logic told me to run, not walk to my car, speed away and never look back. My intuition begged me to stay, and enjoy the fate that was always meant for me. After all, sexuality was about experiences, right? Taking a journey through the unknown, finding pleasure in the most unlikely places… right? After all I was never opposed to experiences like this. I begged my boyfriend for experiences like this. Why deny my body an experience I had once so desperately wanted in the past. If these were the circumstances under which my pleasure came, how could I deny them?

…

It still doesn’t make much sense to me. I feel like in another dimension I stayed, the whole time, and loved every moment. Maybe I felt sick after. Maybe I went home and sobbed and could never see myself in the same way again. Maybe we just rolled another blunt and watched cartoons for a while. I got home around 11 that night. My parents were asleep. The ecstasy kept me up for another few hours, turning over and over in my bed. On my left side I convinced myself it was my destiny to ruin all my hopes and dreams and start selling my body. I was known to switch up for no reason. When I flipped over to my right side I knew I had been sexually assaulted, by my best friend. I should be angry, furious! In the political climate we live in, how did I let this shit happen to me?!

However, in truth, I don’t feel angry. After seven months I hardly remember what they looked like. I never spoke to my friend again after that night. In the car on the way home she kept trying to tell me she didn’t set me up. The next day she sent me incredibly long messages about how I chickened out and abandoned her while we were high. She told me she was better than me for wanting to stay. She told me I was a weak bitch, and part of me believed her. I went to go see two therapists that week. One of whom (white) called himself an honorary nigga. I laughed harder after that session than I had in months.

After that incident, I ended up taking a film class where we watched this Luis Buñuel film, Belle de Jour, about a French woman with vivid fantasies of working in a brothel. In his film, Buñuel doesn’t shy from sexuality and approaches it with a deeply intrusive yet completely objective approach. I was shocked by how seamlessly he moved between assault and pleasure. I went from being re-traumatized to intrigued to appreciative. Often times with sexuality, our experiences are not black and white. We love and hate some parts, we love and hate the same part. They are all different shades of gray— oh my god, I get the book title. Sexuality traverses the entire spectrum of our emotions and sometimes does it all in one take. Maybe sexuality is just this powerful force to be explored and respected, ultimately neutral on its own.

[himindovermadi-blog]

On Love and MERMEN

There was never a fear of going deep with him, only a fear of going alone. Of never wanting to see the sun again, or growing gills and fins and forgetting what it’s like to be human. I was afraid he’d turn me into a fish and then leave me, swimming back up to the beach to find another girl who enjoys the sun, or even worse, to learn he was in love with the sun, and never wanted to be consumed by water again. But then we both left, in a way. Half transformed mermen (me a merqueen?) Not quite knowing where to fit, dropping scales on the sand, sometimes suffocating. Do we love each other or the way we transformed together? Do we love that we are the only mermen that live here, the only mermen we know, the only ones who can do both? We can run away from love and embrace it simultaneously. We can hope and fear for the exact same things. We can see how bright our future is becoming, while shadowing or present moments in darkness. Maybe we loved the challenge, it made loving you more exciting. Maybe we love the reunion sex, it’s the sex I remember most. Like the first night of spring break when all our friends were in Miami and we made love like actual grown folks and we were high as birds until Wednesday when you told me this wasn’t what you wanted. But I met every challenge you gave me, constantly one-upping you without prompt. Like the time you said if we dated it would have to be for marriage and I said yes knowing I would break your heart. I did a lot of stupid things for love. I believed in love: the concept, not love: the lifestyle. Love didn’t live in our misery, love lives in the light of the sunshine, in the waves of the ocean, the bellies of sharks, and the mouths of sea urchins. Love is in the darkest corners of the ocean, continually willing the earth to move. Love lives in the scales, in these half-fish, half-human bodies. With gills and toes and fins and arms. Love lives in these bodies, no matter if there is one or two.

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Notes From Today on Yesterday’s Dilemmas

From August 2018:

I don’t think I was cut out to love, I wanted a kid for a while, wanted a job working as the CEO to my own company. I wanted to save the planet, I still think there’s a lot worth saving, although most days I don’t see anything that couldn’t be sacrificed. The other day, someone offered me a congratulatory gift, something totally unexpected and lovely from the last person I expected a gift from. I felt in my heart at that moment, the reason why life is worth living, and things are worth saving. I realized that life isn’t about these lifelong commitments or finding the one, it’s just a series of moments that make your heart sing inadvertently. There’s a lot of things I hate. I hate waiting for the one, I hate the idea that the one is even out there, I don’t need the one, I’ve had the one, and frankly, the one kinda sucks. Its great that someone is there to understand who you are and is there for you and wants you to be happy but then what happens when they start to linger around too much and become clingy and try to make you a more emotionally available person and think that they know you better than you know yourself.

I don’t want to do anything you know. When other people ask me what I want to do when I'm older I just want to tell them nothing. I want to do absolutely nothing. I just want to be able to exist for one fucking day without worrying about the opinions of someone else. After that, I don’t know.

From today, February 2, 2019, on before:

I’ve never actually reflected on any of my writing before. On the day I wrote this I was deeply confused about love. The person who loved me wanted me to reveal much more of myself than I even knew how to. I resisted quite a bit and as a result, we flip-flopped between heartbreak and heaven. Now I don’t resist as much. Resistance ruins the body. I allow myself to feel angry and then I also allow myself to have the hard convos about why I was so pissed he added Rotel to my authentic Italian pasta dish after I said no. I had to be careful not to demonize myself in all of this. Its easier to call yourself a piece of shit and sulk than it is to admit you’re just a human that had it wrong or confused or just resisted some natural flow. Because when the Rotel-tainted pasta turns out to be delicious, you have to look your boyfriend in the eyes and ask yourself if you have actually invented all your own problems. And remind yourself that it doesn’t make you a villain, or even an idiot. It just makes you human. Another one of the masses, equally as deserving of love.

As far as the direction of my life goes, I’ve learned its better to just surrender. I didn't need to have a five-year plan, because I wasn't going to use it anyway. And I also didn’t have to find my niche at 20, wallowing in my bedroom after marathoning extremely problematic television. What I learned is to exist where I am, be grateful for my own existence, and from there follow what makes me happy. Stressing about making money or finding the right career that mixes fun with profit was just not going to get my ass anywhere. But just doing things I liked, even if I was shit at them made me a whole lot happier, than any stress-induced Sex and the City binge could.

I still just want to exist, every day. I still hate things, I hate fewer things. And open minds/open hearts don’t really feel that great to open, but they invite inside a lot more joy.