journel

[journel]

sept 30 2023

i have logged into tumblr for the first time in a while, simply because i needed to verify my account since i haven't been on here in years.

today i read my only entry on here, dated in 2017.

i am now 24 years old. i learn every day.

i sit in the sun, go on long walks, obsess over sudoku, struggle to get work done, think and talk nonsense (both alone and with my lovely friends), and i study the world.

the inescapable issue of being alive, what once felt like a daily battle and a crushing reminder of an inconsequential existence, now animates and orients my life. i'm hesitant to say that quality this gave me a 'purpose', but in a sense, my desire to interrogate what life is has kept me going.

while that statement seems contradictory, it is precisely that which i am grateful for: the things that, at one point, made me want to die are what kept me alive.

yet, at the time i wrote my last entry, i was 18 years old- just 7 days into being an adult, recently graduated high school. i was reflecting (as i usually did at the time) on my existence.

prior to making that post, i had only known what i didn't want– it was the life i knew so far because i felt that was all there was.

i will fill you in on some context: i had lost friends, made new ones, and repeated that cycle over and over as i moved around 4 places. i was uncomfortable in my body, in that community, and in this world.

existence, for me, was dominated by terrible feelings and experiences, amid permeating, unsolvable questions.

i was 5 years old when i felt this for the first time. i stayed up late a lot, and one night i asked myself what 'nothingness' felt like. for a brief moment, i laid in bed and felt the weight of this; it was terrifying and liberating.

growing up religious, mostly in a small community (i'm queer, mixed-race, and a leftist, hello tumblr community), i felt uncomfortable, but i didn't know why. i was poor, my friends were usually rich.

my mom mostly raised me, and was constantly ruled by statistics on 'children raised by single mothers'- god forbid an immigrant mother on top of that! my, at one point, separated-but-still-living-together parents would fight often and intensely. my relationship with my 'sometimes' emotionally abusive father was, and remains, complicated.

my parents didn't know how i could be unhappy. i felt like i was betraying them, but it also felt like no one wanted to listen.

i did a lot of drugs, drank, and lived recklessly. somehow, i also put pressure on myself in nearly every aspect of my life, even though i felt like i didn't care about anything. still, it felt like people wanted that from me and i knew at the very least that i cared about people (just not myself). i had a jam-packed schedule and stayed up at night smoking weed and making (really sad) art.

i hurt myself a lot – i battered, kicked, squeezed, and sliced parts of myself that i hated – because i wanted to feel something else. i think i was working up the courage to get used to embracing the scary and desirable feeling of 'nothingness' again. in my head, none of the pain truly mattered because all of this would be meaningless soon.

at the risk of sounding thankless, i understood, and understand now, how this was animated by occasional joys– sharing ideas, making art, taking care of my dog, or long walks in the woods, for example, made me feel good. i chased that, but it was never adequate. it seemed like everyone else was doing better.

so, what i knew then beyond botched interpretations of theory, the feedback loop of pro-ana forums, nihilist posts, comedowns, and the complicated inner voice of depression and inadequacy was that i was a) confused, and b) going to be 'sad' forever.

to be fair, i wasn't wrong: i think i have existential depression. if you've been on tumblr much, i want to note that this is not a harmful regression via self-diagnosis. instead, i don't feel like it's something i have to fight or maintain. i accept it as a part of me.

an inkling of who i am today was present then, however it couldn't be apprehended; it stayed dormant in the back of my mind. what limited me was my inability to see it, to explore it, engender it, and live a life without fragmenting myself.

without neglecting how 18 year old me was probably a fully-formed and constituted person, i was everyone and i was no one. i continued being like this for a bit, and to be honest, i still find myself fighting that feeling today.

that 18-year-old version of me didn't know i would move to a new city in autumn, and that things, would in fact, get pretty bad. i was left to my own devices (not a good idea). today i see that as a valuable experience, and i fight the feeling that it was wasted time.

it's simultaneously educational, sad, and comical, but here's a brief list of things that happened after high school:

moved to a new city where i basically knew no one

proceeded to not meet anyone (except weirdos 2x my age)

got a job that was emotionally and physically exerting

used this alientation to my benefit

at the apex of my eating disorder, lost 30-40 lbs

took 4-5 different types of depression medications

was cold, sick, and tired 24/7

lost my closest high school friends in a dramatic and terrible way

crashed a car that didn't belong to me, lost all my money

wept often and intensely (didn't lose that)

moved back home after admitting defeat

went off my SNRIs cold turkey (bad withdrawals)

worked as a marketing coordinator (???) at a car dealership (???) in a small town (???)

after 2 years, made some of my money back

decided to apply for university

moved to another city (where i am now)

life didn't immediately get better; it would be cheating to say i woke up one day and it was amazing. i did do a lot of work to heal though, plus started a new career and met pretty great people (external validation actually helps a lot).

since i moved, i have also encountered a lot of genuinely shitty stuff, but i feel like i needed to repeat mistakes and really struggle to keep going and realize i could actually live. it was survival mode for so long.

i had a breakthrough the other day in therapy, where i realized that my eating disorder and my perfectionist mentality kind of took me out of that sedentary depression. it's contradictory, again, to say this, but its in these aspects of things, things that were literally killing me, that i could be alive.

the concoction i ended up with from these ~formative~ experiences– that is of, confusion (a lot of questions about the world, my existence, etc.) and the desire to change, to push myself, and to struggle– mix together to form a version of me that wants to live and, in being alive, upset the damage my younger self accrued.

i'm still building up the courage to say i am actually doing quite well now. it feels wrong to admit, because right now i want to hold that 18 year old version of myself and just listen to her. i do listen, she was onto something– she just didn't have the words yet. she also didn't know what 'recovery' could look like.

this world can be described as terrible, great, wicked, scary, fun, boring, and every other adjective created in it.

it is in this ambiguousness that i find a strange bit of solace.

i realize that i made the right decision sticking it out.

sometimes you hate yourself, and you wish you didn't have to fight so hard. i can admit that this is the way i feel now in my (multiplicitous) use of the word 'recovery', and say i am doing pretty good. it still feels strange to say that here.

life is messy, chaotic, complex. it can feel arbitrary and stupid, happy and sad, but that doesn't mean it has to be over.

[journel]

june 18, 2017

<p>tried to spend a meaningful day with my dad because it’s fathers day. i literally broke down into tears in front of him numerous times. his advice was fantastic but i couldn’t help to think that maybe it’s wrong. i am not a good person due to what others think of me. i cannot stop thinking about what my friends think of me. i am currently laying in bed with the darkest bags under my eyes, contemplating about whether or not i really do ruin everyone’s lives. it seems like most people don’t enjoy being around me for more than a year. on one hand, i think i know how i feel about how shitty i am, but on the other i can’t stand up for myself and it seems to be never ending. why am i such a horrible person? why can nobody say it to my face but they can say it behind my back? what do i need to change? i tried to think positive and not ruminate but the thoughts were so constant and intrusive. i figure that if i ruin people’s lives, shouldn’t i be entitled to ruin my own? what is stopping me from killing myself right now? i am attempting to either starve myself to death or just drink myself to death. no one will notice too because i always look like a disgusting, fat freak. honestly it’s providing some solace to know that i don’t deserve friends, especially ones that think i am a bad person. why doesn’t everyone just let me die. i have been packing up my things and writing letters to everyone. i want to leave my room clean and organize so that when i do die i’m not such a burden. however, i’m too fucking fat and lazy to complete such a simple task. awesome. everything feels like a trick and i don’t know why. why does it feel like when i’m told i’m not a burden and i can open up then i hear i’m way to problematic and terrible. i just want to die and never hear a single on of those voices in my head… always, constantly, words that i cannot wait to get out- carved into my body, written in pen, symbolized through bruises and heavy drinking. cuts, scrapes, distancing. i’m an issue. i’m a terrible person. i should kill myself tonight</p>