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supersadonlinejournaling · 7 years ago

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lmao well, posting everyday obviously didnʻt happen. But to be fair, my laptop crashed on the first day of school and didnʻt get fixed and returned back to me until two days ago. I guess we can recap though. Itʻs gonna be a long one.

Itʻs weird. Growing up, depression, and anxiety, and suicide was something that iʻd only ever occasionally see during TV commercials. Like the antidepressant commercials where theyʻd tell you that suicidal thoughts or behaviors would be a side effect to their product. As far as I knew until I was out of high school, depression wasnʻt something anyone ever really experiences. My mind couldnʻt comprehend what it meant to be sad all the time. Even my mom would make comments about how “depressed” people arenʻt actually depressed. Theyʻre just sad and need to get over it. It seemed like such an easy fix to me, obviously, just do stuff you like and itʻll make you happier. Itʻs easy to give advice to someone when you donʻt know whatʻs actually going through their mind. But here I am, 21 years old and struggling to find a reason to keep breathing. Because I grew up with the understanding that depression is something that probably affects 1 in a billion people, I never thought it would happen to me, but clearly thats not true. Depression is so much more common than I ever would have thought, but it has this negative stigma to it, that if you feel it, then theres something wrong with you. Youʻre taking advantage of your privileged life where you live in a nice neighborhood, you got what you wanted every Christmas, you've traveled the world, youʻre in the upper middle class, you have family that cares about you, and no ones ever hurt you. Granted, the last one isnʻt the case anymore, which is why I want to start writing here again.

After my 6 weeks at the hospital, I honestly didnʻt feel that sad anymore. I actually went more than a day without jumping to suicide as the quickest and easiest way to solve all my problems. Although, of course, I wasnʻt fully cured just by going to therapy everyday in just 6 weeks. That would be magical, but it wasnʻt the case. I still wanted to hurt myself, and more in the ways that I have always done growing up: hitting myself during panic attacks, pressing my nails into my palms until I broke my skin, and pulling at my hair until it fell out. I wanted to bleed because I felt like I deserved it. Donʻt get me wrong, therapy helped tremendously, but I also left that place feeling stupid about the things I let myself do. I convince myself everyone hates me, that people laughing in the same room as me are laughing about me, that Iʻm pathetic, and useless, and that I donʻt deserve to live. The helped me realize all of that wasnʻt true, but I felt stupid because of course it isnʻt true. Thereʻs no possible way that each person that walks by hates me, thereʻs no way people sitting across the room laughing at the screen of their phones are laughing at me, Iʻm not pathetic, Iʻm not useless, and everyone deserves to live because thats why weʻre all here.

I went a week thinking that maybe ill be okay finally. I wasnʻt thinking about how to end my life. I was hardly even thinking about hurting myself. I was just excited to go back to school. I knew that being in Hawaii again will make me happier especially because that means I wonʻt be in the presence of my mother who constantly would make comments about my low weight and bad eating habits or lack of. She stopped making those comments when I asked, but I can see it in her eyes that she was still judging me. In Hawaii Iʻd be by myself again. I feel like theres much less of a beauty standard here considering little to no people here cake makeup on their face, everyone is very relaxed and its a nice vacation from the stuck up wannabe beauty gurus that live in San Diego. I loved the smell of the air when I got off the plane. I love how dark it gets at night. I love being able to see the ocean out my window, and I love all the people. Everyone here will be the nicest and most generous people that youʻll ever meet.

I ended IOP on August 15, 2018 at noon in San Diego, but exactly a week later, August 22nd, 2018 at 9 am in Hawaii, I got a notification from the guy that I really really liked. Hereʻs the backstory: This guy was in two of my classes during the fall 2017 semester. He sat behind me in one class, and in the second class our seats varied depending on which group we were assigned but we only sat close to each other once, and again he was behind me. No matter how I feel, depressed or not, I donʻt feel like Iʻm that attractive and I never have, but since this was the time when my depression and anxiety was getting worse and worse, I had never thought so little of myself, so I never bothered to even talk to him. What was the point? I knew it was going to end in a “no.” So I kept to myself hoping that, for whatever reason, heʻd talk to me out of the blue and then ask me out. Clearly that didnʻt happen because of the dates I just mentioned. Spring 2018, the next semester, I didnʻt have any classes with him, which bummed me out considering I spent all winter break convincing myself just to talk to him at least once when school starts. Both of us belong to the same major, one, if not, the smallest major at this school, so the chances of him being in more classes with me were pretty great. Unfortunately that didnʻt happen, andI was pretty sad about that. Either way, I got over it since it was out of my control, but by the end of January, I just couldnʻt take it anymore. Nothing happened, not that I can remember at least, but I have a vague memory of me crying while pacing in my dorm room and telling my mom how much I wish I had friends or how much I wish people would just like me and give me a chance. When I was done with that call, I didnʻt stop crying, I couldnʻt stop and that ended up being the closest I had ever gotten to killing myself. That night I had a plan, a date, and the intention of killing myself before the week was over. In my distorted, foggy, mind, I came up with the brilliant idea of doing something that I would normally regret. I figured that if I was so sure that I was going to be dead in 5 days, then I had nothing to lose if it doesnʻt work out. Just to note: if it did work out, then I was still going to kill myself. At 2 am that night I texted my best friend and told her my plan to message that guy I liked, tell him how I feel and then see where it goes from there. She wasnʻt aware of why I decided to come up with this idea, and she still doesnʻt know to this day, but maybe if we start talking again like we used to, then maybe Iʻll tell her why I made that decision. She hyped me up of course, and even sent the message for me when I was too scared to do it. I regretted it as soon as it happened, but I knew that there was no turning back, and I could only hope that he doesnʻt have message request notifications on. He did. Within about 45 seconds, my friend opened my Instagram account again on her phone to log out, and saw I had someone requesting to follow me, and it was him. He hadnʻt responded to the message, but he wanted to follow me, so I accepted him and followed him back. I actually convinced myself that this might turn into a love story, but 3 days passed and he never responded. The only interaction he had with me was occasionally watching my Instagram stories but that was it. I was left on read for 4 days in total, and the morning that I went to the bay to watch my last ever sunrise was the day I got a notification from him later that day. The orange 1 was in the top right corner of my screen and I couldnʻt be happier, but when I opened the message, he hadnʻt sent one to me. He only “liked” the message by double tapping the message bubble I sent and that was it. Nothing else. All I could think of was how much of an asshole he must be and that I'm glad this didnʻt work out. I wasnʻt scared of being rejected, well I was, but I was prepared for it, but if he was going to reject me, he couldʻve at least said, thank you for your interest but Iʻm in a relationship or something along those lines. Thatʻs what I wouldʻve said at least, but then again, I donʻt get messages from boys so what would I know?

Fast forward to 7 months later. August 22nd, 2018. What happened that day you might ask? Well, first of all, Hurricane Lane was predicted to rip through the islands so all campuses were closed so no one had school on the 3rd day of the semester. Second of all, I got a notification from the app called Hinge. The reason I downloaded that is because my therapist indirectly told me to. She said to download apps to meet friends, which I did, but I honestly, wanted a boyfriend more than I wanted a friend. If you get a boyfriend then you make friends with their friends, right? So I got Hinge. I chose Hinge because it was advertised to be an app where you actually meet people who want a relationship and not a hookup. If it wasnʻt already obvious, I havenʻt ever had a real boyfriend before so you can see where my hesitance to mindlessly hookup with guys comes from. The app gives you notifications every single time someone likes a picture of yours, and that particular morning, I was sitting on my bed, drawing on my iPad when I got the notification that “Nicholas liked you!” I couldnʻt tell you how angry I was. I canʻt even put it into words. I couldnʻt believe that the same person who wouldnʻt give me a second look 7 months ago, gave a shit about me today. I hated that. So in the midst of my rage, I matched with him and got his number.

We talked all day that day, and all day the next day. I loved talking to him. He was into the same bands I was into, he thought I was funny (which is a good quality if you're lacking in physical beauty), and he was just a genuinely nice person, and I was really happy and felt really lucky to be talking to him, but then we ended up in a conversation about how my laptop crashed a few days ago, so my access to Netflix is limited to my iPad that hardly stays connected to the internet, which isnʻt ideal for being in the middle of a hurricane with nothing else to do. He asked me if I wanted to come over and watch Netflix on his laptop, and I said yes. Just to repeat, this app was Hinge and not Tinder, so I assumed that he meant that weʻd actually watch Netflix on his laptop when I got there. But to be fair, I know that Iʻm stupid, I know that I shouldnʻt have expected that to actually happen, but like I said, THIS IS HINGE NOT TINDER. When I got there, he introduced me to his roommates, whoʻs names I didnʻt care to remember, and he led me to his room where he turned on an amazon prime documentary about some haunted house. Both of us liked scary movies, and that was yet another sign of him probably trying to make a move on me. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know Iʻm stupid. We cuddled, and Iʻll admit that in that moment I felt even happier. I felt comfortable. I felt weirdly like I belonged right there. This was the first time that any guy had ever ever liked me back, and it was a guy I thought was far out of my league, but there we were, cuddling on his bed, he was holding my hand, and rubbing his thumb against my palm. It was the best feeling Iʻve ever experienced, and I know thatʻs sad to admit considering cuddling with a guy at 21 was the highlight of my life right there. About 45 minutes into my stay we started kissing, and if I was more experienced, I maybe wouldʻve realized that he was trying to get me to kiss him before that, but just give me a break. Iʻm a slow learner. Despite how nice it was to cuddle with him, I canʻt say the same for kissing him. For some reason, I always thought that my first kiss, even if my first kiss was with a guy I didnʻt like as much as him, would be more exciting. I honestly expected to have a Princess Diaries moment where Iʻd get butterflies and my foot would pop up behind me. Thats not what happened, I just kinda laid there and hoped I was kissing alright. I just wanted to get back to cuddling.

Eventually we stopped, and cuddling didnʻt exactly feel the same after that. I still enjoyed being there but I was let down by that kiss, and I was also hoping that we could try again and see if it was better the second time, it wasnʻt and not for the reasons that made suicide tempting again, but because it was just dull. Heʻs my only reference as to who is a good kisser or not, so I have no clue if it was that, or if I just wasnʻt as into it as I had hoped. Like last time, we kissed for a while and I expected it to end within a minute or two so we could finish watching this movie, but soon he moved on top of me. and kept kissing me and before I knew it, his hands were between my legs and I stopped. If Iʻm being honest, I wouldnʻt have stopped if I didnʻt go through IOP. I wouldʻve sat there and took it even though I wasnʻt ready or having fun because I didnʻt think I had the power to say no. But I did, I stopped and shook my head and he looked down at me. I told him I had never had sex before and he seemed surprised, which Iʻm still trying to figure out if thats a good or a bad thing. I either looked like a slut that has slept with every guy at school and he was shocked that wasnʻt the case, or he's just surprised that a 21 year old virgin unknowingly agreed to come over and have sex with him. Either way, he told me that was okay and we didn't have to do it. I apologized, 3 times, and he really did make me feel better about it. He kissed me so I would stop apologizing which is something that I thought only happens in cheesy fan fiction or unrealistic love stories. I was happy again. I was happy to be cuddling with him, and kissing him was better. I determined at that point, that our kisses werenʻt that great because I subconsciously knew where those kisses were going to lead even if I wasnʻt okay with it. So we stopped, started another movie and eventually started kissing again within 15 minutes of the movie that I actually did want to watch. Knowing we werenʻt going to do anything I wasnʻt comfortable with made the kiss more enjoyable. Thatʻs where I genuinely believed weʻll have a relationship from this point on and be super cliche and obnoxious by walking each other to class and kissing one another good bye as we go on our day. Sadly that wasnʻt the case because my first “no” apparently wasnʻt convincing enough because he touched me between my legs again. My second “no” wasnʻt convincing enough either. Neither was the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth time. I started counting after three, seeing how many it would take for the man above me to listen. 8 wasnʻt the answer because at that point I just stopped saying anything. He was 6 foot 4, over 200 pounds and way too big and heavy for me to be able to effectively push him off of me, so I gave up. I shut my mouth and let him touch me even though I didnʻt like it at all. I hated it. I hated that feeling. He wanted all my clothes off, but I did muster up the confidence to say that I didnʻt want my bralette off, but that wasnʻt an issue with him because he pushed it off to the side anyway, as if I didnʻt say anything. I donʻt know what we did to be honest. I know he got off to something we did but I donʻt know if it was dry sex or something different, either way I hated it, but he clearly got what he wanted and that was it.

After he was finished, we laid down again and watched the last bit of the third movie he had put on. I laid down with my hands interlocked as I began my bad habit of pressing my fingernails into my skin. I can still see the scar from where I pressed the hardest as I type this. I was numb. It was a situation where I expected to have a crippling panic attack but I didnʻt. I just laid there. My legs were straight and my harsh grip of my hands were resting on my stomach. He was laying next to me, his phone in his hands as he scrolled through Instagram and texted some of his friends, as if none of that ever happened. As if he didnʻt completely violate the body of someone who has never been touched, someone who trusted him and he took advantage of that. I know that he never liked me, I just know that when he saw my picture on that app, he knew Iʻd be willing to have sex with him because I was already interested. He wouldʻve messaged me back in January if he wanted anything more than to get off. We didnʻt talk for almost 30 minutes before he grabbed my legs and swung them over my hips so we could cuddle again and I hated it. I knew my car was just outside the window and I couldnʻt wait to get into it and go back home. I didnʻt want to be here any longer, but I didnʻt even feel like I had the strength to get up. I just sat there, barely paying attention to the movie as I contemplated my worth as a human being.

When the movie was over, he turned on his bedroom lights, closed his computer and watched me get dressed, before walking me to the door and saying “see ya later.” He greeted me with a hug when I got there, so I thought maybe Iʻd at least get one when I left but I didnʻt. Nothing. He shut the door before I was even off the concrete porch, and I walked in the rain and dirt filled puddles to my car and back to my bed. I took a shower as soon as I got inside, feeling like I could get rid of the feelings and memories as I scrubbed them away on my body, but that did nothing but make me smell like me and not his cologne. That was the first night I had cut myself in 4 years, and it started a bad habit since then. I hated myself, I genuinely hated myself. I hated myself for so many reasons. I hate that I was stupid enough to think he actually wanted to hang out with me. I hate that I was stupid enough to apologize for not having sex with him. I hate that I thought he actually liked me. I hate that I ruined the only opportunity I had to actually be happy. I hate that I thought it was my fault, but I also hated knowing that it was my fault. I hate that Iʻm not good enough for anyone. Iʻm not and have never been a girl that gets any attention from guys. I never do. I haven't in years, and itʻs not that I donʻt notice it, itʻs that I donʻt get it. Ever. It took 21 years to find a guy that actually liked me back and I ruined it because Iʻm me. The whole situation makes me feel like some kind of dirty rag. A dirty rag that has been sitting in the cabinet in the garage for years. Itʻs waiting in the back with cobwebs and spiders nesting inside of it, and the one day it gets used is the day when all the nicer rags are dirty and needing to be washed. Iʻm the last resort. I know I am.

I felt worthless. I know Iʻm not though, I know Iʻm worth something even though it may not be a lot. Iʻm just some below average 21 year old girl who gets average grades, and has no friends, no special talents, no nothing. If I was gone maybe 4 people would cry, and all of them are my family. No one else would, I know that they wouldnʻt, so clearly Iʻm not worth a lot, but it is something. Although, I think other people determine your worth as well. Not to say their version of your worth is more accurate than what you feel about yourself, but people are gonna treat you based on how much they think youʻre worth. I could walk around with a sign on my chest saying I'm worth a million dollars, and I can convince myself that I am, but no ones gonna treat me as such. If I actually was worth a million dollars, then I wouldnʻt have gotten molested in the bed of the guy I could see myself marrying in my fantasy world that I came up with in my head. He thinks Iʻm worth far less than that, and thats how he treated me. No girls were responding to his messages on tinder so he downloaded hinge and I was one of the first people he saw. He didnʻt like me because I was me, he didnʻt like the things I had on my profile, he saw an opportunity to get himself off with little to no effort. He knew Iʻd want to come over, and he took advantage of that. To him, Iʻm not worth a relationship of any kind. He didnʻt want to ask me questions about me, he didnʻt want to know anything about me, he just wanted my body, and to him any body is good enough because as long as he keeps his eyes closed, then he can imagine me as any girl in the world, except who I really am. He makes me feel worthless, and I want to forget that night. I hate that I hesitate going to my yoga class in the schoolʻs gym, afraid hell be there when I walk in. I hate that I saw his car in the parking lot of the school. I hate that I see his face in album covers of music I listen to. I hate that anything can make me think of him, and I wish I was thinking good things. I wish the image that would flash in my brain is the image of his smile with the sound of his laugh. I wish I felt how happy I was when we were together. But I donʻt. The image I see is his shadow covered face as he looked down at me after the third time he touched me. I hate that I imagine his room and how I can see the door as if I was ready to run out of it. I hate that I canʻt look at my outfits the same if I grab something I wore that night. I hate that I canʻt even look down at my arm without being able to point out which scars were from that night. I hate that I think about it every day and its been three weeks. I make a conscious effort to keep my mind busy from the minute I wake up to the minute I go to sleep in fear that Iʻll flash back to that again, but no matter. what it still happens. No matter how much I hurt myself because I feel like I deserve it, no matter what I think of, it circles back to him, and I want it to stop.

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