It’s About To Get Real

For the love of bullet points …

  • I do not like not knowing how to do makeup.
  • I do not like this side of me.
  • I do not like knowing where every scar came from.
  • I do not like looking myself in the eye. The mirror magnifies.
  • I do not like the way hair grows on my body.
  • The way it makes me feel like a man.
  • A man trying to make it as a woman.
  • How black and coarse the hair is.
  • I do not like how it grows on my toes.
  • It’s gross.
  • I do not like my “below the waist” self.
  • It is physically exhausting to carry some days.
  • despise my spider veins.
  • I do not like how my stomach bulges out every single time I eat anything at all.
  • I do not like how when I try to suck it in, it’s painful and obvious.
  • I do not like feeling as if I look pregnant after I eat, when I’ve never had sex.
  • I do not like the life long struggle of having acne.
  • Seriously, it’s old and tired.
  • I do not like being tired!
  • I do not like that I am 32 and in my first relationship.
  • I do not like feeling this way when my boyfriend tells me I am pretty.
  • I do not like keeping all of this inside …

Deactivated Facebook for 3 days … went back on tonight cause I wanted a glimpse of my friends blog that I’d been missing. I was hoping the “Facebook fast” would help me pursue other things. I did … a bit. Colored a picture and gave it away. Had lunch with a friend. Had dinner with coworkers … lots of rowdy library folk. (Yes, they exist.) All nice things I suppose.

The loneliness is heavier than ever … the spontaneous laughter feels like a lie and I’m ashamed for it. The writing is a lie … because my mind and heart can’t seem to agree and my fingers are tired … so they lie. They lay silent while my ears ring. My arms bleed with the desire of … God, something I can’t even accurately and completely describe. A yearn for release. My temples throb for lack of it. The frustration is maddening.

So I’m sitting here, unable to stop tears … simply cause that’s how God made me. My throat is tight and burning.

I hate this death rising inside me. It sours my voice and keeps me sick … it just keeps swirling … it is infinite …


Today I was caught off guard. “What’s the status of your heart?” I had no snark reaction to offer. I do appreciate that my friend knows me so well to know when to poke and prod. I didn’t have a response to the question, not one I thought was legit anyway … I did say though I wasn’t surprised and that I expect questions like those. In fact, it would have felt like an incomplete visit without the honest concern and caring that can only come from one “my people.”

I tried to relax later and my mind started thinking about it … trying to diagnose the “status”. This is what I texted her exactly. It is something I’m still processing …

[ [ [ Heart: thinking about it .. it would be nice to feel any emotion but not so strongly where I feel like a danger to myself .. and more good than negative .. without the obsessing part. Feeling wears me out so I’m on hiatus.

But if I had to place an emotion it would simply be depression .. cause it’s more complex than just a feeling of sad .. just a state of living .. maybe that’s where my heart is?

A desire to be consciously catatonic … ] ] ]

Is that possible? I feel so very different … there is a little bit of an ache to be understood …

I sit here wondering about the status of my heart … and exactly what over the years has contributed to its current health … Is it shriveled? Is it black and blue? Does it have deep scars? Surely, it must look just as sickly on the surface as it does on the inside …

I think it is unmoving. Still. Catatonic … preserved …

I think this flame is the complete opposite … huge potential … so warm and comforting … cheery … I wonder if it knows it’s alive … I wonder if it appreciates my admiration for it …

I wish it could know just how fortunate it is to just naturally be so … healthy and exuberant. To not have to try so hard …



Haunted with torturous temptations. Beating against walls, rusted shut cage bars. Padlocks and ducttape. Release me. Overpowered by weakness. Bleakness. Surrender to inevitable. Puppetry. Chattering into space, into walls. Friends reside in the walls. Walls crumbling and closing in. Clinging to comfort, wrapped in warmth, not close enough to calm. Want to be enveloped. Buried in mess, destruction. Aftermath. The memory. Forgotten. Anemic, lifeless relationships. Move on.

Brutal. That’s how I feel this post will come about. I’ve succeeded at being transparent for the most part; it has brought people closer to me and it has pushed them away. Depression, voices, delusions have tormented me. It has wrapped its ugly, rotting tendrils around this whole process. Living … that process. Words cannot describe how I loathe it. I cannot possibly make people understand that my future is blank. There is nothing there. It’s so real that it beats on my chest, shrouds out any hope that I might have.

If I could be invisible and soak in the presence of healthy … friendships, family. Alone, undisturbed, unintrusive … just float.

This writing isn’t working. It’s broken. Words on a screen. I could so easily delete everything … invisibility.

I do not feel right or wanted, but by only a few people. I am 31 and this has never been not the case. I’ve never been called pretty (but by those few people). I’ve rarely felt valued in a group. I’ve been talked at, been talked over … have listened too much when I desperately needed to be heard. I feel neglected at times so I drift away and find ways to self soothe. I find myself rocking. I find myself … lost. Frustrated. I feel like faking a smile to be accepted. And my jaw tenses and aches when I struggle not to cry. I am rarely the one that’s wanted … or called … it is exhausting to reach out, but when I do I feel hopeful … and it is like reliving trauma when no one responds. And I turn invisible.