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.

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

Stuff I Hate Part Two: People Who Do Not Let You Pet Their Dogs Even When Their Dogs Are Friendly

Welcome to Things I Hate Part Two. This is going to be fun. I considered titling this post "people," but I don't think that would be popular with my two-person readership, who are both people (90% of the people are me. I don't care if it doesn't make sense).

But dogs. Dogs are so fluffy and cute. Dogs are the one ray of sunshine in this crappy, dark world. Dogs are the best. Yes, I have a dog.

The entire purpose of dogs is petting. Dogs need petting. An un-petted dog is a very sad dog indeed. This is basically going to be a rant about how cute dogs are, because they are cute. It's people who ruin dogs petting-ness because people ruin stuff, except for the stuff they don't ruin (I'm smart).

Every dog I pet makes at least 2 animals feel better about their miserable lives. One of those is me. Now, I don't go outside often at all, but when I do I pet all of the dogs I see. Some dogs can be assholes. So can most people. But when there's a mismatch- an asshole person, a nice dog- that is when the world is a sadder place. That is when you are denied the pleasure of petting a dog. Those people are actively conspiring to make the world a worse place, especially for a suicidally depressed girl.

Man, fuck those people.

Stuff I Hate Part One: On the Predilection of "Creativity" in Art

This is going to be a really short and inconsequential blog post, but I'm really judgy, so its nice to scream my judgements out into the void of the internet, where no one will read it. (I suppose its slightly better than mumbling under my breath to no one. )

Basically I'm going to describe something and then say I hate it, without offering up any reasons why, because that would be too much effort. (Just trust that my judgements are always right, because I'm always right.)

This annoys me more than anything else, probably because both my parents are actual artists.

Description:
I don't know how to quite describe this, but this is the type of art that is usually drawn by girls, posted on Instagram or Snapchat (where leagues of adoring fans will say how that's "so good,"" and "OMG, I wish I could draw like that,") and contains beautiful women interspersed with nature, closing their eyes, or mandala-like patterns. Also a love of beautiful eyes.

Remember how I said I was an asshole? Yeah. I'm pretty much the stereotypical edgy teen, who's above it all because she reads Nietzsche. (More like "Thus Spoke Me, amiright? Huh...I should have thought that over better.)

Examples (This will require some link clicking)
Okay so I literally just typed "creative art" into my computer, and all of the results were the things I described.

The thought processes behind these are basically "what if beautiful woman looking thoughtful crossed with not beautiful woman?"

This
Also This
This too
Sighs
Is this just the world now?
You know, there's a reason I'm cynical
I found it. The most egregious example. Why world, why?