This is a list of things that bother me so much that I feel I am always thinking about them but trying not to.
1. I took up smoking for two reasons really. One, it helped me deal with my anxiety after crashing my car and was really the only thing that worked. Two, I used it as a replacement for cutting myself. Although it works well for both of these things, it makes it near impossible for me to quit.
2. I cannot explain these reasons generally to people when they ask me why I smoke. I also don’t appreciate when they tell me that it’s going to kill me because I know. I watched lung cancer kill my dad, I’m fully aware of the dangers of smoking, thanks.
3. I realize the above makes me the worst fucking person ever, don’t worry.
4. Even though I have not cut myself in months probably, I’m finding myself digging my fingernails into myself when I’m anxious to the point of leaving scars. This is how I started hurting myself in the first place. I’m trying to ignore it.
5. One of my least favorite memories was late one Christmas morning, I believe it was sophomore year of high school. It would be the second to last Christmas I would have with my dad. I had a ton of crescent shaped scars all over my arm from digging my nails into my skin and my dad questioned it and I didn’t respond. Instead, I hid in my room and cried for a few hours and came out later with a hoodie on, hoping the subject wouldn’t be brought up again. It wasn’t.
6. The only actual reason I can think of now for not hurting myself is simply because my boyfriend will see and I don’t want to listen to a speech about him being disappointed in me.
7. As of late, I feel as if I am either constantly on the verge of a panic attack or having one. I want to be able to breathe normally.
8. Either I am crying uncontrollably or I am finding myself completely unable to cry, no matter how strongly I want to and no matter how hard I try to force it.
9. I am a mess and I don’t know what to do anymore.
TW: mentions of suicide
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries, took the bus home, carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment and cooked myself dinner. You and I may have different definitions of a good day. This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill, worked 60 hours between my two jobs, only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks and slept like a rock. Flossed in the morning, locked my door, and remembered to buy eggs. My mother is proud of me. It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course. She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale” with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs” But she is proud. See, she remembers what came before this. The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles, how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks. She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide. These were the bad days. My life was a gift that I wanted to return. My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs. Depression, is a good lover. So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you. And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world, That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting. It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created. Today, I slept in until 10, cleaned every dish I own, fought with the bank, took care of paperwork. You and I might have different definitions of adulthood. I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college, but I don’t speak for others anymore, and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for. And my mother is proud of me. I burned down a house of depression, I painted over murals of greyscale, and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live But today, I want to live. I didn’t salivate over sharp knives, or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge. I just cleaned my bathroom, did the laundry, called my brother. Told him, “it was a good day.