Thursday, May 31, 2018

Stuff I Hate Part 3: 13 Reasons Why is evil

 Originally written 2 months ago but only now published,

 So I was having one of those days yesterday, and it was either laying down under my desk and looking at the beautiful whorls the plastic-wood made, or watch television. I chose the latter. Having already seen all the good shows on Netflix, I was forced to resort to 13 Reasons Why. And of course I binge-watched it, mostly because I didn't have the energy to turn my computer off, so I ended up watching all thirteen hours. Well, no, I skipped over most of it because it was terrible, and I could actually feel my brain shrinking.

There's been a lot of debate as to whether "13 Reasons Why" glorifies suicide or not, and, as someone who's struggled with depression for years, it totally does. While that was damning enough on its own, the fact remained that it was just a terrible show. Of course, most of the people at my school were talking about it, so I should have realized this sooner.

Let's start with the kitschy theme music. What is this, a light-hearted comedy? Edgy teen and her wacky friends get into a variety of solvable problems that ends with a darkly humorous revenge fantasy involving weird vintage cassette tapes and a silly misunderstanding about a razor's purpose?

Thirteen reasons why (not to watch the show)

1. What is the deal with That Guy?
Y'know, That Guy? The Latino guy who is apparently an extra in Grease, gay and is never shown to actually interact with anyone except Clay because he's slowly losing his mind and can either see dead people or has a split personality?

That Guy.

Apparently he was close enough to Hannah that she trusts him to deliver her psychopathic revenge notes, and yet is not counted among her "friends." She is also literally never seen interacting with him because, obviously it was Clay, Fight Club style. Maybe they didn't mean to make him Clay's split personality but he totally is.

2. I'm sorry but someone stealing from your compliment bag is not a good reason to commit suicide
Hannah could have narrowed her 13 reasons down to two: getting raped and watching her friend get raped. 

I've never been raped, and I can imagine that sucks, but quite literally all of the rest of the stuff she deals with is normal highschool bullshit: getting objectified, going on a bad date, having a friend say you have the best ass (I fucking wish. The only thing I have is the best glare or the most acne.), someone publishing a poem of yours anonymously and it receiving praise....actually, no, scratch that last part, that sounds fucking awesome, especially for a teen angst poet like me.

The show is ostensibly about depression, but it makes no mention of the word, nor does Hannah act like she has any mental illness whatsoever. I know it's entirely possible for people to be depressed and outwardly happy, I have experience with that, but if you kill yourself due to mental illness, you do not blame it on highschool bullshit, and you do not use those tapes to blame someone for respecting your wishes. I'm not saying mental illness is her fault, but it sure as hell isn't anyone else's either. Suicide was her choice, and no one else is to blame.

Also there's a bunch of other stuff, but I didn't actually watch that far in the show.


Where I was for two weeks and progress on the EYE DOOR.

I haven't posted for a while. Luckily, no one's following me. In fact, I only remembered this blog because Soap Masturbator Nigel (Dude. I won't forget that. This is how I introduce you to people. Nigel and he masturbates to soap *shows screenshots*) asked me for a link. Nigel, this one's for you.

I'll have to take a break from my usual witty repartee, as I'm tired, also its all disappeared in a fog of depression. Also 90% of my sentences are run-on. Well, not actually 90% but I throw around percentages as a result of a childhood spent annoying people with made-up facts. (Not really made up, more exaggerated. Like instead of saying that wombats poop cubes, which they do, I would say that they pooped human sized tesseracts.)

So... a lot has happened. I'm learning guitar, making huge amounts of progress because I have no life, my parents have finally admitted to hating each other, but my dad's unemployed so he can't move out, (Well my dad has been telling me for several years that my mom hates him, but he's seriously paranoid. Don't even get me started on Africa. To be fair, the college students were a bunch of cunt-y monster fucks, but not, you know, that cunt-y monster-y and fuck-y. Oh wait there was Sexual Assaulter Bill. While in Africa, he got brought up on attempted rape charges back home. So that was fun.), discovered Public Image LTD, This Heat, Magazine and Red Lorry Yellow Lorry , didn't let up on the black lipstick, got bulimic again, and tried to hang myself. To the goth song "Happy." (Red Lorry Yellow Lorry) On April Fool's Day. (Like my lord and savior, Rozz Williams.). My mom found me, I had bruises and I was sent to the Albertina Kerr Subacute Ward. Maybe I'll share with you guys (Nigel) my suicide note. But I learned my lesson. Next time, I'm killing myself to Flipper. No, but seriously, I do not encourage suicide for anyone- its shitty, I'm shitty, I'm just trying to use humor to stop myself from bursting into tears and it's not a good solution to life's bullshit. I don't know what is, but it's not and I felt I had no other choice, because it felt like I wanted to tear myself limb from limb and stick my head in a meatgrinder every day and it was too much. It was all too much.

Look at me. I'm shaking. Why am I shaking?

They did not allow us to be alone, and while we were sleeping, had a check every 15 minutes. This was probably good because I tried to hang myself with my hoodie after they literally did a cavity check. They did not allow tea. Tea. Or music. My one joy. (Once, I got released, I listened to Institutionalized by Suicidal Tendencies on repeat.). They had magazines, but they had no staples (you could kill yourself with staples) and they had no 
scissors (you could also kill yourself with scissors), so I was forced to rip the eyes out with my 
sharpened fingernails. This may have kept me longer.

The eye door. The eye door is why I was ripping out those eyes. I love this baby. 
IT WATCHES ME WHILE I SLEEP AND IT'S BEAUTIFUL.



 
Someday soon, it will be real eyes.

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

This Weekend's Suicide Attempt

 Trigger Warning: Methods discussed in great detail. Those with loved ones who committed suicide or are depressed may want to skip this post. Not that anyone will actually read it.

So I sort to tried to kill myself this weekend. I don't think it was so much of a serious suicide attempt as a cry for help, given I chose the method least likely to work and most likely to activate my survival instincts.

Anyways, I completely forgot my resolution to wait until I turned 18, and took an X-acto knife to my arm and cut "down the road." Fortunately, I'm a coward and all I accomplished was a couple hesitation cuts, pictured here:
Have you ever intentionally cut through fat, ligatures, muscle and arteries? It's a hell of a lot harder than it sounds. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to stop, and to go against billions (with a b) years of evolution takes determination and will, both of which I lacked last Saturday night.

I only wanted an easy way out of the intense suffering I was feeling. I hadn't prepared a note, hadn't tied a noose or anything. They say most suicides are done impulsively, and this is especially true for individuals with a past history of suicidal ideation and the knowledge that this is how my life will likely end.

Suicide is not cowardly or brave. Suicide is for the truly desperate and the impulsive, people for whom, at least at that moment, life isn't worth living.

Join me next post, where my topic will be "Fun things to do with sugar." Just kidding! It'll be "Panic attacks and self hatred."

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Drama

It's been too long since I had a good fight. Its been too long since I've spoken to anyone at all.

Recently, I had my first text drama. It was therapeutic, venting all my feelings. It was nice, hurting someone, a former friend who was nice-ish but the most annoying person since the Big Bang. (Studies have proven this. She is 74% of the most annoying people, condensed into one person. She has an annoying-ness radius of 2 entire earths. She is Donald Trump, but nice. She is an annoying person and she annoys me.)

I am an asshole. I used to create all these convoluted schemes to get "revenge" on my enemies, most often people who had been nothing but kind to me, just to see them suffer. Suffering brings them down to my level, while making myself slightly happier (the magical power of schadenfreude).

An example of creating convoluted schemes to get "revenge" on my enemies:
6th Grade I created a fake journal dissing this sweet girl in my grade. I then arranged it so she would stumble upon this journal. When it became apparent that I fabricated this journal for the sole purpose of causing her pain, she still refused to say a word against me. That's how nice she was.

There are countless other examples. My record for the longest I made someone cry is 3 hours. I am not proud of that. I am an asshole.  I lost my friends because I am an asshole.

It's hard to believe other people can feel pain when you feel so much of it, and they smile and laugh all the time. You know what they say. Misery loves company.

An example of misery loving company:
Person: Hi
Me: Glares. I hate you all.

I Cut Too Deep and I Almost Died


Another short and inconsequential post. You could take your cue from the title, which sort of describes it all, or you could read my snarky wit.

So I thought, "Hey, I have a great idea. I should cut myself with an X-Acto knife across my wrist. That is totally not how people intentionally commit suicide."

X-Acto knives don't hurt. I cut into the muscle and it felt the same as a scratch from my thumbtacks. It didn't even bleed at first.

Then of course, it started bleeding like that one scene in the Shining. 

"Now my computer is bloody," I thought, "This is not good."
 I didn't think about the fact that I might die. I'm totally cool with death. He's, like, my buddy.

I started shaking, I felt faint, and my entire room was red with my blood. It was also somehow on my ceiling. My parents weren't there, and cleaning it up was very annoying. I hate X-Acto knives now. I almost died.

So why do I want to do it again?

Good Days/Bad Days

I am very stressed. I have the easiest classes this trimester, and yet I am very stressed.

Good Days
Good Days are not good for me, emotionally. I am still fucking depressed. They make me much more stressed. But. I don't stare at the whorls in the wood of my desk when its a good day for hours on end. When its a good day I have to work. Constantly. Here are the list of tasks I must do each and every good day for it to work, for me not to feel like a loser.

⬜code at least 5 lines in video game project
⬜read 50 pages of Dubliners by James Joyce
⬜run 1 mile
⬜play 3 songs on the piano
⬜play 3 songs on the guitar
⬜play 1 song on the clarinet (Not anymore, thank god. I gave up the clarinet because it is objectively the worst instrument.)
⬜write 1 page (lately its been suicide notes)
⬜write 2 poems
⬜draw 3 things

Good Days have been happening less and less, but I start each day with the intent of turning it into a good day. My last Good Day was 3 weeks ago.

Good Days, I am allowed a 20 minute break to read 3 Cracked articles. If I read more than that, or if I am distracted by something else, (say engagements with other humans, new Nightvale episode, etc...) it automatically becomes a Bad Day.

Bad Days
Bad Days I can lie still for hours. On weekends I don't get out of bed. Bad Days I cut, Bad Days I binge/purge, Bad Days I feel cold and empty inside. On Bad Days I try to lose myself in daydreams, but even they turn sour. (Right now I have this daydream about this super sexy gay dragon who can't die and is also a mob boss and his wacky adventures trying and failing to commit suicide.)

And yet, on Bad Days I can watch shows (for hours at a time), go on Reddit (Sanctioned Suicide), and go to social engagements (I hate everyone.). On Bad Days, I occasionally get a spurt of happiness, usually by imagining myself dead or cutting up my arms.

Mental illness. There's nothing romantic about it.


 


Saturday, January 13, 2018

Pansexual

When I came out to my parents, they both said "Oh," and continued eating, possibly thinking that it didn't matter, since I was destined to end up alone and with too many dogs anyway. (The only noticeable change in their behavior was when they graduated from saying just, "He's cute! *winks*" at any boy I happened to be talking to, to doing it with everyone I was even physically close to. Or not. Anyone who happened to be roughly my age and was visible. This is part of he reason I do not let myself be seen by my parents in the public arena. When I was 8 I told them I couldn't be embarrassed. They took that as a challenge.)

When I came out to my friends, nothing changed.  Literally nothing. All of my friends were gay, bi or straight, so if anything, I fit in better. Now I have no friends. This is not because I am pansexual. This is because I am an asshole.

Coming out in middle school went something like this:
Me: Date me, Olivia.
Olivia: No. I think we would be better as friends.
We were not friends, but going up to someone and bluntly saying, "Date me," is as good a way to make friends as anything else, I suppose.

Coming out to my Grandma was an ordeal. She tries to be open-minded, and is generally pretty awesome, but she did not know what pansexuality was. Using her knowledge of Latin prefixes, she was under the impression that I was attracted to literally everything. ("All teenagers are pansexual, honey.") When she finally understood that I was talking about humans, not plants, she tried to make sure I wasn't gay or straight first, asking me, "Are you sure you're attracted to guys, honey?" (Yes, because Justin Trudeau and that senior with the dyed hair who's name I don't know.) and, "How about girls?" (Also yes because Emma Watson and that girl in my chemistry class.). She then looked at me and said, and I quote, "What about those queers?" (Oh. God, Grandma. Yes. GOD.)

Important: Of course I live in Portland, a very liberal city and the setting of goddamn Portlandia. Coming out experiences may differ depending on if you live with or near people who suck.