annacantdie

[annacantdie]

I wonder if i’m a lesbian. 1/1/2023

feminine touch. a craving unrivaled. I want to be held like a woman, but by a woman. I want to be kissed gently by soft lips and to run my fingers through long, wavy hair. I want to sob ugly tears just to feel delicate hands wipe them away. I want to receive all that I give. I found myself often as a child longing to be a boy; to laugh like a boy, to cry like a boy. though, I adored my femininity. I loved writing in my journal late at night, with only a lamp illuminating the soft pink pages, staring at myself in my vanity mirror with tears in my eyes, admiring the way my face blushed when I cried, and having slumber parties with other girls at which we’d share every one of our dark secrets to each other while painting our nails. I was torn between two romanticisms, one of which I had, and one of which I didn’t. as I matured I realized that as much as I did admire the idea of boyhood, what I really wanted was the girls that went with it. I was seemingly unable to receive the affection I was expected to give. my efforts only being met with half hearted attempts to guess at what i’d enjoy. I accepted these portrayals of juvenile affection by my male counterparts with a feeling of compassion. “they don’t understand!” I told myself. if only they did, they would surely provide it. there’s was always a sense that they were vulnerable, whereas I wasn’t. while every finger I laid on them sent them into a nervous excitement, on my end it felt like I was simply there to give it. I felt as if I was a teacher, even on my first times. like this was an experience for them, not I. I always enjoyed these encounters, but in a passive way. they were sweet and arousing, but I never felt that nervous excitement they seemed to protrude. with women though it was different. it is different. that sense of vulnerability, of fear, of lust, it all flows. it’s terrifying and amazing, it feels like how I always dreamed it would feel. it’s a light feeling, a timeless feeling. relationships with men feel like a chore, but with women a blessing. it’s innate. I wonder if i’m a lesbian.

[annacantdie]

written 8/21/21

All week long im a perfect little girl

I call my mom after school

I wear my smile in a way thats a little crooked

But not enough to turn a head

On the weekends i tend to be poor

I seem to make bad choices

I wake up in strangers beds completely hungover

Or i straight up just get high

Im a perfect little girl in the eyes of those above me

They always say my appearance is misleading

I get told i look like a stoner who doesn't give a shit

Truth be told my looks aren't too deceiving

I have a specific mindset and it’s really unhealthy

But im not looking to change it

In my sick head no ones above me

Im equal with even my abusers

[annacantdie]

written 5/11/21

I hate this school.

There are few aspects of this school I enjoy, but those aspects just barely outweigh the cons. Why is it so hard for me to follow the rules? I'm not a good student. But that is just me. I want to kill myself, and when i held a knife at work yesterday my wrists tingled. I’ll be done with school soon and i’ll enjoy my summer, and then soon after i’ll finish my last year of highschool and be done. No more of this petty shit, where they treat us like children. Instead I'll be treated to my actual maturity level. I won’t be told to take off my jacket. I won’t be told that I need to be more respectful.

[annacantdie]

written 6/30/21

2/2

I guess I tend to underestimate myself and so having that number, that proof, it screams at me. It reinforces the idea that this is what i’m supposed to be, a writer, an english major, a washed up 20 something in a coffee shop connecting to free wifi. It mocks me. But I should want this, shouldn’t I? I spend hours writing, returning to these asinine overpriced coffee shops just to mentally throw up on a document and then put it in Georgia font for no one to ever read. Why wouldn’t I want to use these skills I seem to overly attempt to hone? I think that’s why it bothers me so much. It attempts to answer that question that infects my mind. Who am I? Am I really a writer? Anna the writer? I don’t just intesley love writing, it’s not a passion that I work to become unrivaled at, I just can do it. I've just always done it. It’s a comfortable escape to let my stream of consciousness be laid out in a pretty font, but it isn’t something I choose to do. It’s like a skill I got saddled with. But no matter how hard I try, I can't become anything else, my other skills and hobbies are always diminished by this writing addiction. I am who I am, and I can’t seem to change it. And the sickening bit is that even though I act like I hate it, no one is forcing me to write. No one is holding a gun to my puny little face telling me to write introspective essays. I do it because I choose to. I want to spend my time on other things, but I’m not as good at anything else. When I write a song, I struggle to get something I like, but when I write a glorified journal entry, I always like it, it just works. It isn’t something I have to pry at, I can just do, with no struggle, and make something I’m proud of. I won’t say my identity is found in my writing, writing isn’t who I am, but it’s getting to the point that if I let this petty hobby get any further it might become that way. Anna the writer. I may have to get used to that. So I sit, the goosebumps long gone now, with a half drank coffee that is about to get pourn out and I still wonder. This didn’t help me sort out who I am in the slightest. I think I'll find myself considering this question until the day I die. Who am I?

[annacantdie]

written 6/30/21

1/2

It’s cold, and goosebumps are covering my body due to the seat I've chosen in this annoyingly trendy coffee shop. I’m not at my usual place, but instead at a grossly millennial shop in my least favorite spot to be, the college town in my area. I’m right under the air conditioning, and it isn’t very desirable. Not to mention the coffee I've ordered is utterly awful, and I’m debating not drinking it at all. But alas, I type away at my laptop, hoping that I can make something of this less-than-ideal situation. I had a thought, a few moments ago, that inspired this half assed Google Doc. All of these 20-somethings here, with their Birkenstocks and hollow smiles, make me feel a depressed state of grog. I’m young, not even 17, but if this is how I'm destined to turn out, a broke, starving artist spending my days connecting to free wifi and wishing my parents hadn’t kicked me out, I think I'll just end it early. I know what I look like, a pretty face clicking away at my keyboard during the summer, probably writing some half-assed hollow poetry that I’ll post on my Instagram story later with my coffee in the background. Any other time I'd seem like an innocent student writing an essay, most likely due the next day, but now? I look like the exact prerequisite to the people here. I’m writing my own destiny, spying through the looking glass of my future, and I haven’t accepted that yet. The question on my mind, plaguing my corrupted thoughts, is this. Who am I? Honestly. How often do I ask myself that. I know that at this point in my life I don’t really need to know persay, but it’s at least helpful to have an idea. I was a cute kid with an innocently curious and creative nature, I loved reading, immersing myself in any book I could get my hands on, and I loved writing, slaving away at my pink journal every night and writing fantastical stories during the days, but you would expect me to say that, wouldn’t you? You have an idea of who I am, a nicely dressed teenage girl with a coffee and a laptop writing extensintial half poetry to fill her empty slots of time, but you that’s all you know. Based on that knowledge, you hear about my childhood love of writing and reading and feel that it checked out, but in reality I could compare my childhood to almost any vaguely creative hobby. I took way too many baking and cooking classes, so who's to say I wasn’t destined for the culinary arts? I went through sketchbooks like an old man goes through packs of cigarettes, so who's to say I was destined to be a visual artist? No matter what I find myself enjoying now, my childhood, looking at it from a different angle, could reflect it. So if my childhood doesn’t define who I am now, then all I have left is the last few years. During my less than idealized teenage years experienced thus far, I've woven a tangled mess of my sense of self. We kicked off entering the teenage years with the idea of suicide washing over my mind constantly on my 13th birthday, and It’s just been up and down since then. I’d like to say my lowest point was and will be attempting suicide, but I don’t want to jinx it. I've had highs too, to be fair. But as for a sense of who I am, I find myself at a loss. Writing seems to be what I'm the best at, so that’s what my current and adolescent self has decided I'll try to do for the rest of my life, to have the telling of my childhood interests reflect, but it wouldn’t be a first choice. I love music and fashion, and if I could just weasel my way into a position where I could just immerse myself in those guilty pleasures forever, I would. But i’m a subpar musician, and my fashion sense is nothing to be awed at, and I probably shouldn’t waste these stupid, sticky fingers i’ve been given. I took my ACT test recently, and in a fashion so utterly predictable, I opted to take the essay portion as well. I wrote the shittest persuasive essay I think I've ever let spill out of my brain, but my formatting was good and so I did quite well. It’s odd, having tangible evidence that I'm a better writer than the average joe.

[annacantdie]

written 9/13/21

I do not find myself to be a comfortable person. Comfortable to be around sure, comfortable in who I am fine, but comfortable in life, it never has seemed so. Ever since I can remember I have always been uneasy with my existence in general. Every event seems so overstimulating, every change overwhelming, and every fickle expectation so overkill. Comfort is a feeling I only seem to feel in passing, and it takes a lot to get there. All throughout my short, silly years of existence I have experienced change after change, every fleeting grasp of consistency has been quickly snatched from my wobbly hands. There are few constants I can hold secure, which leads me to the only consistency I can count on, my always certain dreadful lack of comfort. Nevertheless, I can on occasion find myself in an ephemeral state of such an unfamiliar sensation, the aforementioned feeling of comfort.

[annacantdie]

written 5/22/22

The year I was fifteen was easily the worst year of my life. To be fair, I am young, so I don't have a lot of competition between the other 9 or 10 years I can actually remember, but it was traumatic nonetheless. I like to describe my life in ways that diminish the things that have happened to me. A mindset portrayed by hollow phrases such as “life just dealt me a shitty hand of cards”, and “i make the best of what i’ve been given” Those describing my generally dissatisfying life in a nonchalant way, but the way i’ve coped with my hardships has been anything but nonchalant.

I frequently wonder what I'd say to my fifteen year old self if I was given the opportunity to have a conversation with her. She was a troubled shadow of the person I am now, and while I'm in no way completely stable or healed of that girl I was, I think that my younger counterpart would be surprised at how far I’ve come. When i was fifteen i attempted suicide. That statement has been so ingrained into my speech, between having to explain to doctors, therapists, mentors, and friends, it does not feel like any sort of a big deal. Everybody goes through rough patches, my brain repeats, why would mine be any different? These statements heavily downplay the intensity of every emotion I felt at that period of my life. Every single feeling was heightened to an intense degree. A happy moment with a friend didn’t give me a comforting sense of joy, it gave me a manic state of excitement. A snappy moment from a parent didn't give me a quick sting to be shaken off, it sent me into a panic attack. I was far from but the mellow persona i’ve adapted now, I was an ticking time bomb simply waiting to go off at any moment. So many things had built up inside of me, I was absolutely unstable, and I truly couldn’t see a future where I wasn’t dead. I had no desire to be alive, and that statement isn’t said lightly. I genuinely lost my will to live, and the intrusive self harming thoughts that had haunted me ever since I could remember were becoming far more actual considerations for me than far off ideas driven by random emotional situations. I’d grown up always thinking I'd be better off dead, even happier dead, but those thoughts stayed locked away in a nightmarish area of my consciousness, never at the forefront where ideas were actually given a sense of consideration. Then, as was probably expected, I made the decision to end my own life. I attempted, failed, and woke up in the morning disappointed. But, unsurprisingly as the extremely depressed person I was at that time, I was not willing to put in the effort to come up with a new idea to try again. I could barely force myself to get out of bed to pee, I wasn’t about to come up with an intricate plan to take my own life after my first one didn’t work.

So, with the contextual nonsense out of the way, I think I've figured out an idea of what’d I’d say to that deeply troubled girl, and while I can’t present this to her, I might as well put it out there. Hopefully it’ll heal that part of me that's still that broken fourteen year old girl, or maybe it’ll help someone else. I don’t really care which.

Hey man, how are ya? Not well, I know, I was there. Literally. I don’t fucking know if this will help, like at all, but I wanna tell you all the things that get better. SO much of the shit that feels like it's suffocating you right now works out, and while things haven’t made it to perfection yet, as of now at least, there’s a much higher level of breathing room two years from where you're at now, I promise.

Let’s start out with the lighthearted stuff, you've got a killer haircut right now. You learned how to make your natural hair look insanely good, and you have the coolest shaggy, curly, healthy head of hair ever. And you got bangs, they look amazing. To top it off you finally learned to dress the way you want, and people finally associate you with having good style, just like you’ve always wanted. You still listen to the same music, but you've found so much other cool new shit that gets you through the day better than anything else can, and you still love to draw more than anything else in this world. You've got three amazing best friends, a plethora of other cronies, and a boyfriend you're absolutely head over heels for. Mom finally loosens up and you've got a phone with every social media your heart could want, completely unmonitored. And finally you’re comfortable with your sexuality and are generally out as a queer person. While there's so many more little things that I think you’d enjoy to hear, I feel like with those more significant ones out of the way we should address the elephant in the room.

We’re alive. Crazy, right?

I know that if you had to put everything you owned on it, you’d bet you’d be dead by seventeen. But look at where you are now! I know you well, you are me after all, and so I'm aware it is not comforting to you for me to sing your praises, to say how proud I am of you, I know it only makes you feel like shit. That pathetic feeling where people praise you for accomplishments, the ones that while are monumental for you would not be monumental for the average person, doesn't go away, but hopefully it’ll mean a little something coming from your future self. I’m proud of you. Of us. Of me. The road ahead of you is difficult, and does not come without challenge, new and old, but you kill it. Never does it become easy, you will struggle, you will scream, you will cry, and you will consider a take two on the whole death by your own hand thing, but you keep your head up. With every piece of shit that fucks you over, every freak of nature type accident that absolutley screws up your wellbeing, and every good person that unintentionally hurts you, you keep on walking. Sometimes you pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get through it, and sometimes a kind soul offers a hand. Life doesn’t get easier per say, but by god you get good at getting through it. Keep up the good work, stay stubborn, and stay driven. It’ll help you more than you know.

That's all for now I guess, I hope that provides you some sort of comfort, and I can't wait for you to fully experience the person you're growing to be.

L8R SK8R

Best wishes,

Anna-Claire Chupp

[annacantdie]

written 12/17/21

Chills run up my long legs and approach my cigarette arms as i sit in the cute boba tea shop I work at. Theres r&b blasting through the speakers, most likely the doing of my coworker Natalie, whose currently on shift. I sit typing quickly with my porn-star-secratary adjacenst nails on a friday night. All my friends are busy with their own valid things, so this is the best I can make up for me to fill time, though it causes a lonely feeling to swell. I currently, in the same vain as my long, intense summer, have no real home. I have places I sleep, but no where to go back to as a home. So, while I wait for my boyfriend to get out of his sports thing that while i’m proud of him for I don’t really care about, I sit in the shop and pretend to be busy. It’s embarrassing, isn’t it? No place to go back to, and so I must sit. I must imagine I have shit to do in front of my coworkers. Maybe I should work more. Times like these I have to sit and reflect, theres nothing better to do. Reflection comes in waves for me. It comes in the most sporadic but half predictable times. This time, it’s a choice.

A year ago today I was a completely different person outwardly. I genuinely believe my self was the same, those things represented by the suit of wands in an average tarot deck is my best way to explain it, those internal emotions and feeling, my thoughts, were the same. But outwardly, i’m but a vague shadow of the girl I was. A short haired flirt, characterized by her sweet and puppy dog nature, a girl next door. A varsity cheerleader with straight A’s, a sociable spirit, and a stuffed cat on her keychain. She was pretty, loved, and with just enough kick to be noticed, had a very cemented reputation. I was dealing with my own mind getting the best of me, as I always do, but my life was balanced, centered, stable, a complete contrast to what it is now.

Today, the mosaic of who I am shares aspects of that girl, but the presentation of myself is quite different. With lopsided bangs, wildly curly hair, and a ramona flowers adjacent outfit, the flirtatious puppy dog qualities once pertained have launched me into a bimbo version of a stoner loser. Going from 4.0 gpa to having meetings with teacher over finding “a route to passing” has fucked with my stick filled brain, but my emotions feel so sloshed that it almost doesn’t bother me. In only one short year i’ve gone from one extreme to the next, but I really don’t mind, loser-stoner-skater-bitches are less likely to get raped then straight-A-varsity-cheerleaders, though the odds have shown to be against me with that one.

[annacantdie]

written 7/6/21

I sit under the ping-pong table at my friends lake house. Paramore blasting, my friends laughing their heads off, you’d think were drunk but no, we’re just idiots. While sitting by myself under this table, I have an overwhelming wave of discomfort. I realize if I was intoxicated I would do this same thing. People might assume i’m under the influence because of this, but instead it’s a factor that means virtually nothing. This calls me back to a sense I hate. The feeling is specific and immature, but disgusting nonetheless. Remembering a moment I tend to relive as often as my teenage rebellion feels like striking it’s ugly head. While getting intoxicated with my friends, drunk, high or otherwise, I always start it out slow. My friends will start to giggle, associating the faces I make or things I say with the premature assumption that the substance is reaching me, while I know that i’m still sober. I feel trapped in these situations. I tell them that i’m not yet feeling the hit, but they don’t believe me. I feel tense and insecure. I hate this sensation. No, I abhor this sensation. Being reminded of this causes me to, for lack of a better term, spiral. I can hear my heart pound in my chest, I feel chills down my spine, and tears slowly form in my eyes. My breaths become slow, and I think that’s the tell. I know if my friend looks me in my foggy, pitiful eyes they’ll know. They’ll notice I’m breathing slowly, see my lip quiver, and they’ll know. I hate it when people know. So I hide, and act as if i’m entirely enthralled in a text conversation, but instead just typing away at a pointless Google Doc. A coping mechanism entertained by only the most intensely pathetic emotional pieces of shit. But hey, I can’t change who I am. I may not embrace it but i’m not going to go about trying to change it. Too lazy. Instead i’ll blame my adhd and move on, justifying my unhealthy, odd habits with a most likley completely unrelated attention disorder, and i’ll go back to feeling okay and hanging out with my chaotic cronies. Cronies. A funny word. I’m grasping at straws, and it’s doing me no good. I’m still sitting under this stupid ping pong table, but now i’m playing Beach Bunny and I feel a little less awful.

[annacantdie]

written 4/4/22

(she’s) just a phase

“if you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

I, timidly sitting in my music theory class the first day of school, didn't even have to ponder the question, it was a given.

“she’s just a phase, by puma blue”

“i've never heard that one, i’ll have to give it a listen.” responded the distant teacher.

I dropped that class, I needed to change my schedule to get a another required credit, but that statement I gave was true. that song has impacted my life from the first time i ever heard it. I don’t find myself listening to it often, but anytime anything impactful is happening it’s the only thing i crave to hear. from the first time I got high, to speeding down the highway with a car full of kids i've just met but can tell are going to become my close friends, to my best friend breaking our friendship off without reason; I just crave the way the song makes me feel in moments like these. but this subversive essay into my psyche isn’t about a silly song, instead it is a much deeper view into my placement as a character in the drama of life. i truly believe that the name of this song was a flirtatious hint by those who guide me into realizing my role in the relationships i foster.

i’ve dated many boys, had many best friends, and many social circles. I float, taking along with me nothing more than memories its seemed. people have always gotten attached to me very quickly, and as quickly as I meet a person they’ve integrated me into their life, and it always seems that just that quickly i’m tossed aside. this has never intensely bothered me per-say, i’ve never been to a school two years in a row, i’ve had three different jobs in the last year, and I just don’t tend to stay in one place. as much as I act like I hate it, change is a ever-present aspect of my life, truly the only consistent thing is how inconsistently life hits me. it’s a comfort at some points, knowing that if i’m miserable now I won’t be soon, things will flip, new lovers will be found, new best friends to cry to me, new homes to call my second, it’s all a matter of time. though it never is me that seemingly severes this close relationships off. these affairs, as i’ve taken to refer to them, always mimic the same pattern. someone falls hard and fast for me, whether platonically or romantically, they tell me everything they can about themselves, they crave my advice, my thoughts, saying i see things so differently, and that i’m one of the most interesting minds they’ve encountered. they cling to me emotionally, and see themselves in me. i reciprocate energy, i’ve been told by many people, and I think it creates an atmosphere where people read themselves onto me as well. they see their own qualities in me, and because of their admiration this makes them feel more secure about themselves. even if it’s all a mirage, it helps them. and then, two to six months later, it ends. either by drifting apart, or a quick cut, these people move on from me. they ar enow secure in themselves, and so my help is no longer needed. they look back on our time fondly, and sometimes they’ll even admire me more in retrospect, but the moment has ended. they’ve grown, they’re different, they no longer need an advisor, or a crutch, they’re ready to go out on their on. i am simply a phase. placed in peoples lives in their darkest points, and removed after they’ve maneuvered through it. short, passionate, and sweet. an affair. this happens to me time and time again, and i, today, have accepted it. i am no longer a prisoner to this cycle, to the emotional withdrawls, the feelings of being walked all over. these people don’t have bad intentions, I just wasn't meant to stick around. my entire life, of moving homes, churches, hobbies, friends, life styles, of traveling everywhere, of being exposed to every different kind of person, it was building me up for this. and as the cherry on top of my morbid and peaceful realization, my adhd has truly made me a genetic perfect candidate for this lifestyle. as the seasons have changed and my experiences grown, i’ve grown more into my spirituality, and through the reflecting thats accompanied it im glad i could come to this realization.

onto to the next,

fine

[annacantdie]

written 8/26/22

one of the first steps to overcoming something is to admit it. my mom was pretty adamant about this to me growing up, if i didn’t admit i had a problem, how was i supposed to solve it? it makes perfect sense, and i agree wholeheartedly. over the course of my life i've gotten better at admitting my faults, god knows im still a stubborn bitch, but i have continually tried to overcome that in the pursuit of bettering myself. recently i’ve come to terms with what could be considered the root of many of my vices.

i hate myself.

what a phrase. honestly, with the frequency this expression is used, it has lost much of the kick that should technically go along with an honest admission. so for the sake of clarification, this is not something i mean lightly. i truly hate myself.

what determines this hate one may ask? is it rooted in physical appearance or lack of skill in certain areas? perhaps in guilt or maybe shame? while all of these things can be seen as factors, it really simpler as that. i hate life, and therefore i hate myself for living it. i’m sure there was a time growing up where i enjoyed being alive. a time when i could have genuinely said that i would not trade it for death, a time when i may have even been scared of death. this time has come and gone though, and somewhere along the last six years or so i have shifted into a lifestyle where i simply tolerate being alive. i have at times been extremely suicidal, even in my drakest moments actually making an attempt or being dangerously close to it, but those moments are few and far between. in general i just am neutral to the idea of living. getting out of bed in the morning is a chore, eating is even worse, and maintaining a social life could be the worst of all. i sludge myself up everyday and get these things done, and it’s not like i find no enjoyment in things, because there are things that make me happy. the way i look at things is as if they were weighed on a scale. one side holding my will to live, and one side holding my desire to die. positive things generally find themselves in the will to live category, while negative fill the latter. but unfortunately, no matter how many good things are piled on, they never seem to outway their dreaded counterpart. almost as if someones placed a hand on that side, pushing to keep the scales from tipping. though, as illustrated with this analogy, there are many positives. and while those things don't make me want to live per say, they make it tolerable. which is all i can ask for at this point

i remember the first time i ever seriously longed for death. i think i was twelve, maybe thirteen years old. there was a mirror in this apartment my family stayed in for a brief time, and one day, as i gazed into this piece of cheap glass, probably hung by nothing more than a pushpin on our creaky walls, i thought the exact words, “i wish i were dead.” –now i cannot be completely sure that this instance was the first time i’d ever had thoughts like this, but i earnestly believe that this was the first time i ever meant it. that memory has stuck itself in my brain like a leech to a leg, and it has defined my entire outlook on life for every measly day since. these thoughts were not inheritnly suicidal in the beginning, more so about a guilty wish. but as years went on, the thoughts and feelings grew an edge to them, which has evolved them into a ghost i have to settle, because whenever it presents itself it is not good. though i have in any ways learned to live with this weight on my back, and for the most part it’s become an annoyance more than a problem. though to circle back to the point at hand, due to this general distaste for life, i don’t really find an immense amount of enjoyment in my physical being. i find myself okay looking, and i take care of my appearance, i do things i enjoy and i try not to be an asshole, but what i think is hard for people to grasp is that even though i like aspects of me, i resent myself for living. its hard to explain.

[annacantdie]

written 10/30/22

There is a cycle that haunts my quality of life. I can't remember a time in which this disgusting rhythm hasn't proven itself to me. It starts with me feeling great. I love my friends, i love my parents, i love my job, everyday is a new adventure that i enjoy in full. My anxieties and depressive feelings are still there, but more like a faint voice in comparison to the overwhelming love for life I possess at this time.

Then I start to get more into the mundane, everyday is the same, why am I alive, mindset. I work as many hours as I can get, I ignore my friends and parents, I eat nothing, and I am constantly either in my own head or reading a book in a desperate attempt to be in someone else's. I become a shell of a person, but a very productive one.

Then comes the final part to this weighing succession, which is the depression. I either don't eat or overeat, I can barely get myself out of bed, work becomes daunting beyond any comparison, and my friends are nothing but bodies. The best way I've ever been able to describe it is the feeling that I won't speak because I have nothing to say. While sometimes I experience a feeling in which I am at a loss for words, this sensation is different. It’s not that I cannot think of anything to say, I just have nothing I'd like to say. I feel as though life is meaningless, and it's revealed that anything I felt that I might have cared about was a facade, and I develop a distaste towards them for even tricking me that I cared in the first place. Then the cycle resets. Some silly outing breaks me out of my episode and I ride the high of serotonin, and the sequence continues.

I am very tired of this cycle. I wish I could just experience things like normal people. I want to have bad days and good days, and I want to have normal days in between. I hate that instead of my emotional states being confined to a day, they are in a predictable rotation. Instead of having a good day, I have a state of dangerous bliss for days or weeks. Instead of having a bad day, i have a depression that causes me to the brink of suicide for anywhere from days to months. To be clear— my medication has aided this to an extent. The highs are a little lower and the lows are a little higher. Closer to a balance. But the problem still remains that they come in a neat order, instead of being confined to the quality of a day. So while I am thankful that my medication has taken away my screaming crying freakouts where I can’t see or breathe and everything feels like a mush of color, and my manic highs where I feel like I could get shot and laugh it off, it hasn’t solved my problem. I’m not sure it can be solved, to be honest. I am sick of being a slave to this circle, but i’m not sure i have much of a choice.