Meanwhile… (Or, why I’ve decided to don’t stop believing)

I’ll be honest: This has been arguably, the most shitty month and a half of my life. The constant back and forth between desperately optimistic, fucking depressed, and blinding anger, and the constant company and living with a damn coke whore (‘Xcuse my french). All whilst trying to prepare myself for City Year which would have probably been harrowing at best, and definitely stressful with my social anxiety levels at all time high, thanks to my plummeting self-esteem brought to you by my new best friend, 80 lbs of fat ass that doesn’t want to go anywhere. Not to mention my crazy relationship, which is still going well, thank you very much but is kind of stressful still, in the way I’m going to assume most relationships are. And beneath all of this, I still feel like shit for being incompetent, irresponsible and a quitter (School, my jobs, my volunteer jobs, everything).

So when it came to my first day of work I freaked out. Instead I went to the library and hung out all day, reading LOTR, crying on and off in this giant creepy library and looking at vintage Superman stuff that’s all over the place.

In Youngstown, I’m bouncing between houses, staying with my uncle and my boyfriend and my old friend who has gone to elementary middle and high school with me all at some point. They’re the only ones who really know I’m back. I deactivated my Facebook. And after spending the first week and a half “turnt the fuck up”, I found out I have pnuemonia and have been turned OFF for a few days. But my boyfriend’s family is starting to wonder when the hell I’m leaving and so is he. I hate my uncle’s house (Hella creepy, super big and super old) and I can’t sleep well by myself anymore after three months of not having to. I feel super unwelcome everywhere, like a bother and a charity case. Not to mention my cat is still in Atlanta. Almost home safe (Someone is getting her Saturday) but still, far away from me. My only real comfort I feel like is my Vistaril, the sleep that comes after and everyone else’s animals. I’ve had a job interview that I couldn’t work up the confidence to even go to. I feel myself hitting bottom. Time doesn’t seem to exist; it’s all a haze of Netflix, sad sex, and panic attacks in the middle of the night. My boyfriend’s neighbor has these puppies they foster that bark like their lives depend on it. It’s a scared, nervous kind of bark that yips and yaps and pierces the nighttime and early morning. It’s nonstop, continuous, on loop, excepts for moments of calm when someone one angrily stomps outside to scream “Shut the fuck up!”. And then it starts up again. They sound exactly like I feel.

Needless to say, my life kind of sucks. And Cory Montieth is dead as shit and I forget every once in a while. Remembering is sad. R.I.P  (….. Just killed the club. Like, the Glee Club. I know. That’s a bad one.)


I feel so trapped. I feel claustrophobic and there is no way out of it, only different traps, different jailors, different cages. Houston. Youngstown. Cleveland. Pick your poison. I feel like —- no, I know I am losing my fucking mind. Ohio has that effect on me, I used to think, but now, I know it’s only me when I’ve lost control of my life, because it followed me to Georgia and if I go anywhere without figuring it out, it’ll follow me there too. Just like I thought it was my elementary school so I switched schools, and public middle school was no better. So I thought it was Campbell that made my skin roll with the need to run as fast I could in the opposite direction. Then I went to my private high school and knew from the first week and half that things would be no better here. So after four years, I ran again. And now after four years have passed again, I realize that I have been running my whole life from something that is a part of me.

From responsibility, to responsibility, from obsession to obsession, from one love to another, shoulder to shoulder, from meal to meal, from word to word, from breath to breath.

So today marks the day that I quit running away, and start running head on into my problems and my challenges, without the all the goddamn advice from the people who mean well.

I will never get over the irony that the people who mean well can do the most irreversible, unplanned and unintended damage.

So anyway. I’ve decided to maybe, considering things work out financially and all, to try to find a recovery center for depression or/and anxiety that looks like it might actually give me the quiet and freedom from meaninglessness I need to think straight, and to be able to find a way to make my own peace inside of the chaos that is life and all its obligations. I might even find time to fucking write something down. Even though my family is less than supportive because of their negative experiences and assumptions about mental health. I think it’d be a good deal for us all. I have a place to be that cost less and is less a waste of money as school, and I’ll come out a little less psycho and regularly medicated, that means less frantic phones calls, bad decisions, spontaneous begging for money because I fucked up or forgot something, and stupid fights when it comes to my boyfriend. I can finish school, keep a job and pay my bills so when they get old, they can live in the spare bedroom or I can afford their assisted living and pay them back for all this nonsense I’ve put them, and more importantly, put myself through. Hopefully. They’ll come around. Namely, my mother, brother and aunt. If not, I’m damn grown and my daddy will help me regardless until I can get it together, and I’ve made a year with minimal help from those three so I can do it again. and despite the fact my senses and reliability as a functioning human are falling apart around me as I watch. I maintain the dignity and the faith that this isn’t me.

Kourtney isn’t this wreck, that always needs help and is living off charity, and cries over everything and skips jobs and interviews because she’s scared, or feel desperate and alone and needy. Who I am is a good question, that the world is still trying to come up with a good enough answer for. There’s a million and one songs I could quote her but I’m not going to because that’s a level of corny I just won’t climb to in this blog post. No promises on later ones.

If you’re reading, please send any of your suggestion on recovery centers or hospitals or similar places you’ve heard of. I’m not object to travelling, if financial support can manage it aka. My insurance and what my family will or can help with.  Thanks for any support or comments ahead of time.


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