The Dangers of Dating.

Letting go should be easier.  This is the part I hate the most; the inevitable crushing fall after getting my hopes up.  I didn’t intend to get them up; granted, she had a hand in that too, but ultimately it’s my fault for believing it could be more.  I know the whole “not ready for a relationship, I just want to date around” tirade is a lie we tell people we aren’t interested in so they don’t feel so bad, when in reality, it’s not that we don’t want something more, it’s that we don’t want something more with them.  Then of course the part where she mentioned what she couldn’t tell me about, which is code for “I met a girl I like better.”  That shit hurts. Maybe if she hadn’t kissed me and touched me like she did, or hadn’t whispered sweet things in my ear and agreed there was something there, I wouldn’t feel so slighted.  It’s hard not to feel led on in this situation and I’m not real sure what to do with that.

 

I’ve always been good and remaining friends with people who’ve “Dear Johned” me, but I honestly don’t think I can manage that this time.  That makes me feel like a terrible person and petty, and it’s hard as fuck to not pick up the phone and text her or call her but if I do, it will just be more apologies and reasons why and I honestly can’t listen to it anymore.  It can never go back to the way it was and that is probably the worst part.  Well, that and the whole, “what’s wrong with me, why doesn’t she more than like me anymore, what did I do wrong” bullshit that plays endlessly on repeat inside your head like it’s the new Taylor Swift earworm the radio stations are determined to make us hate simply because we hear it too much.  I knew things were not the same gradually…a day without a text or a call…”sorry I was on the phone with my mom”…”I don’t need you to pick me up from the airport”…”I was out all weekend meeting new people, which I can’t tell you about”…”I can’t hang out the one day I’ll be in town because I need to spend more time with my family”… That last one would be understandable if that had been the case before the sweet whispers and kisses, but following being cast off slowly, it falls into the gradual brush off.

 

I’m not even sure what to do with these words; if I tell her, I seem petty and like I can’t let this go, and yet the other side of me wants her to know that actions have consequences and instead of leading someone to believe you more than like them, only to change your mind days later, is emotionally and psychologically damaging.  If I post this on my blog, it will be seen by everyone and it’s so shameful to admit when you’ve been dumped that I’m ok with talking about my mental health issues, but this seems so much deeper; like I’d be standing naked in front of a crowd.  This would be admitting to the world that I wasn’t good enough for someone, so maybe I’m not good enough for anyone.

 

That’s the heart of the issue, isn’t it?  When one person decides you’re not what they want romantically, we automatically assume we’ll never be good enough for anyone and what makes them so special that they can’t see how special you are?  Maybe that part’s just me; I automatically assume everyone hates me and wishes I would just go away so when someone does give me the brush off, it’s only confirming that fear.  I’m well aware those thoughts are part of my illness, but dear God, what if they’re true?…Fuck.  This vomit-inducing merry-go-round is only going to get worse from here, so I’ll jump off before I terrify anyone having the misfortune of reading this.  I wasn’t kidding when I said mental illness is a bitch.

 

So here we are back at the issue at hand; do you tell someone you feel like they lied or led you on or do you tackle those words to the ground, pushing them into the dirt until they choke and are never heard from again?  Or, try to forget they did you dirty and attempt a friendship because you do care about them and want them in your life, even if it’s just as friends?  Is that truly even possible?  The jealousy and hurt feelings, resentment and anger are still going to be there, whether we admit it to ourselves or not, and anyone who tells themselves otherwise is either delusional, or needs to get off their pious high horse before they break a limb in the fall.  Is a real friendship possible or would it just be damaging until you’ve actually moved on?  Maybe, maybe not.  What I do know is that letting them go and suffering the pain of missing them isn’t necessarily better or worse than trying to hide the animosity in the name of friendship; it’s just trading one type of torture for another.

For Joanne.

 

3 years ago I came really close to killing myself.  It was a dark time for me and if you’ve heard this story before, I’m telling it anyway as it’s still relevant so just skip ahead.

Where was I?  Oh yes, dark times.  I was living alone in a shoe-box apartment in the sky with no one save my cat and the cockroaches to keep me company.  My family lived in another state and I had absolutely no friends; at least none close enough that would even know if I’d died.  I’d just come out of a really bad relationship and was on intermittent medical leave from work, so I had a lot of time on my hands.  I knew I needed a distraction so I picked up an old hobby where I would pick an actor or director and watch everything in their film library.  I happened to settle on Johnny Depp.  Without going into the details, one thing led to another and he ended up introducing me to writers I now adore, such as Hunter S. Thompson, Kerouac, Ginsberg, etc.  Anyway, that journey led me out of the darkness and is what inspired the books I’ve written, so if anyone knows Mr. Depp, please tell him I said Thanks for saving my life.

That was 3 years ago.  I’ve struggled with Clinical Depression, Anxiety and PTSD, among other things, pretty much my whole life.  Sometimes I wonder what kind of person I would’ve been, what I would be like, if mental illness hadn’t shaped every facet of my personality since I was a child.  Things have been pretty rough for me this year.  There have been a lot of changes, some good, some not so much and it got to a point where the stress broke me.  Suicide has never been far from my thoughts since I was a kid, but it got pretty serious very recently.  Serious enough that for the first time in many years, I sought professional help.  I knew if I didn’t, I would formulate a plan and act on it.

Last Monday, I contacted a mental health clinic and was able to be teamed up with a great crisis counselor until they could get me into a Psychiatrist.  I explained my life and circumstances and we agreed a ‘stay at home suicide watch’ would be best suited for me for right now.  Since Monday, I’ve had to check in at certain points throughout the day otherwise police would’ve been dispatched to my location.

My counselor recommended that day that I try and reach out to someone who usually lifts my spirits; she thought it might help put things into perspective for me.  So Tuesday I contacted a relatively new friend in my life, but someone I’d come to associate with laughter and generally good times.  I didn’t tell this person anything that was going on, but they let me know in no uncertain terms that they didn’t want my friendship anymore and didn’t want me in their life.  That was a rough blow.  That would’ve probably been difficult for anyone, let alone someone in my shoes.  I didn’t throw a fit or tell them why I was reaching out, lest they assume I was being dramatic, so I just erased their number and decided if they didn’t want me around, probably no one else did either.  So I deactivated my social media account and stopped answering text messages from anyone but my inner circle.

I did, however, write a couple of blog posts that alluded to my situation, but didn’t out right say anything about it.  I figured that was safe as I knew no one I know reads it anyway, and writing is the only way I know how to process things.  Well, someone did read it.  A complete stranger named Joanne contacted me on Goodreads to express her concern for me and urge me to get help.  Of course she didn’t know I’d already done so, nor did she give me any other platitudes.  She simply recognized the signs of someone about to kill themselves.  Not my friends, or my family, but a complete stranger told me to get help.  Of course my inner circle knew what was going on because I told them, but this was someone who did nothing more but read my words and see the anguish.  Thanks, Joanne.  I’m glad things got better for you and I wanted you to know I had already sought help when you reached out.

I reactivated my Facebook today to find a few messages of support and encouragement and I thank you all for that.  I woke up this morning and it wasn’t quite as hard to breathe and my first thought wasn’t about wanting to die, so I thinking I’m coming back to life.  I’m not off watch yet, and if things get too bad I’ve arranged an inpatient stay, but I think I’m going to be ok.  Things aren’t any different, but I’m not being crushed by the sorrow today.  I think a lot of the reason I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself was the recent shootings and alligator killings and the general suckness that has been the news lately.  I didn’t want to be accused of being selfish and wanting attention or trying to draw any attention from the people with “real” problems.  I know well enough that unless you suffer from a mental illness, odds are you don’t really understand why a person with a seemingly good life would suddenly want to end it.  You can’t see their scars or their pain, thus we often mistake those people for attention-seeking drama queens.  I hate being called a drama queen.  I hate it enough that I will go out of my way to not announce my internal struggle, lest I be called one.

I don’t know how long this reprieve will last.  I may fall right back into it 10 minutes from now.  All I know is that in this moment, things don’t feel as bad. There’s air in my lungs and if someone told a good joke, I’d probably laugh.

Your Positivity is Killing Me.

 

 

 

Every day I encounter people who say things like “Choose to be happy!”, or “Surround yourself with positive people and you will be positive too!”  I often want to throat punch these people.  Maybe normal people can paste on a smile and hang out with friends and instantly everything is better, but for the millions of us who suffer from mental health  disorders, that’s about as feasible as me winning a Grammy for my drunken karaoke rendition of ‘Tainted Love’.

Some writers bemoan the internet and how it’s a cacophony of voices all clamoring for attention.  I find it freeing in the sense that A. no one is reading this and B. no one I know is reading this, so it’s easier for me to just be honest.  The honest truth is I suffer from Depression.  And not the ‘I’m having a bad couple of weeks and life is so unfair’ depression, but the ‘If I make it through a single day without thinking of killing myself’, I call that day a success. I don’t often express those thoughts to the people in my life because I know it makes them sad and it’s really not their responsibility to cheer me up.  Also, they tend to offer me bits of wisdom and inspiration that just makes me want to light them on fire.  I know they care, but it’s not anything they can help with other than reminding me I would be missed if I weren’t here.

I love those people.  I can think of at least 5 people who for sure would miss me if I did give up and kill myself.  A couple even know to check in on me periodically because they know when my depression flares up (yes, that’s a real thing) that I won’t reach out.  “But Lisa, if you just reached out, you could get so much help and support!” you say, but the truth is so much darker than that.  Believe it or not, there are a lot of people who live by the motto, “I will only surround myself with positive people because sad people are such downers!” I know, big shocker.  You might even be one of them and not even know it!  It would seem like such a harmless motto, meant to inspire happiness and joy, but what they don’t realize is that their chipper little ditty is out and out saying, “If you have a mental illness that makes you sad and a general bummer to be around, I don’t want you in my life.” Yes, that’s EXACTLY what it’s saying.  Approximately 14.8 million American adults suffer from Persistent Depressive Disorder (PDD), and that’s just one flavor of the illness. (For those of you who like facts, http://www.adaa.org/about-adaa/press-room/facts-statistics)

I’ve put 3 calls into my local mental health facility for new patient intake.  I’m on anti-depressants and have been most of my life.  I was diagnosed with depression at the tender age of 10, before I had the chance to figure out who I was, so in many ways, being depressed is actually my personality; it’s the only constant I’ve ever had in my life.  I know most people mean well, but in reality, most people understand so little about mental illness, they actually make it worse.  Take Robin Williams, for example.  When he committed suicide, the internet was full of memes about not letting the darkness take you, and if you need help call this number, blah, blah, blah.  But for someone who struggled with depression his whole life, I’m inspired simply by the fact that he made it to 62 (I think that was his age? I’m not Googling it, so sorry if I’m wrong).  I take comfort knowing that I’ve made it all the way to 32, so internet, please take your memes and shove them up your collective, inspirational, sunshiny asses.

Depression manifests in different ways for different people.  Unless you’re close to me, you probably just think I’m rude and mean.  I’m often accused of not putting enough effort into being happy and not trying hard enough.  What those people don’t understand is that I’m literally fighting to stay alive Every. Single. Day.  It takes me a really long time to finish a novel because I’m too sad to do much more than stare out a window most days.  Just getting out of bed and driving to work and staying there an entire day is an extraordinary feat for me that most people take for granted.  This is often mistaken for laziness, but unless you know what it’s like to have a voice in your head telling you that you are a worthless piece of shit who doesn’t deserve the air you breathe and the whole world is better off without you and the reason that new person who you thought liked you and used to call you every day just dropped you like a sack of cockroaches is because you’re fat and ugly and undeserving of love.  Yeah, that’s my head all the time.  I don’t have low self-esteem, at least not in the classic sense, I have a fucking demon inside telling me I don’t deserve to live and unless you know what that feels like, sit your ass down and stop telling me to get over it.

I digress. Of course there are highs and lows.  Sometimes I’m kinda happy, and I make jokes and go places and laugh.  Sometimes I meet someone who makes me smile when I see their name on my caller ID or they send me a cute pic.  Of course, as is life, when that stops, the merry-go-round stops and life returns to a ‘Silent Hill-esque’ landscape.  I think the point I’m trying to make is if you know someone like me, or meet someone like me, don’t assume they’re just being a Debbie Downer and don’t kick them out of your life because they aren’t positive enough, and for the love of all things holy, never tell them to cheer up.  Just be there.  Text them Good Morning.  Send them a cute animal meme.  Always ask them if they want to be included in activities, but don’t stop asking if they always say no.  We need to be asked.  We need to know that even though we don’t think we deserve to live, that you do.  Don’t pry and don’t tell us it’s going to be ok.  Remind us how brave we are for still fighting to stay alive, even though our battles can’t be seen on the outside because I guarantee you, right now, there is someone you know who is struggling with depression and wanting to kill themselves.  Maybe you make a difference, maybe you don’t.  What matters is that you treated them with kindness, compassion and love because what it comes down to, is that sad people need love a hell of a lot more than happy people.  Only loving happy and positive people is like a Doctor who only treats healthy patients.

Now, stop reading and go hug a sad person.  You might end up being the thing they needed to get through another day.

 

Girls Like Me.

I’m never going to be the girl who stops traffic and hearts with a smile and a laugh.

Girls like me stand in shadows and watch the world around us.

Girls like me see things for what they are

While maintaining complete anonymity while everyone is busy watching the beautiful girls.

Ah, the beautiful girls; where would the world be without them?

They shine and laugh and bathe their glorious light on all those around them while everyone clamors to be the one who catches their eye.

That’s not for girls like me.

Girls like me sit in corners and sip coffee and wish we were brave enough to say hello to a beautiful stranger across the room.

Girls like me step lightly and carefully down avenues brimming with new faces and go unnoticed.

You’ll never pick us out of the crowd and if by chance you see our faces as you pass,

The image will disintegrate from your mind just as quickly.

We may smile extra big and take a little more time to comb our hair and paint our faces and in the end we are still opaque.

If we were books, we would be the book with the remotely interesting looking cover you pick up and scan the back before setting back on the shelf and walking away.

Girls like me will never catch your eye and keep it;

We can only sit on our dusty shelves and watch as you shuffle on by.

The next time you see a girl like me, try to really see her and appreciate her.

One day society will collapse under the weight of a zombie apocalypse and it might just be a girl like me

Who saves your ass in the end.

My Semicolon.

I got a semicolon tattoo today. Not because it’s trendy or even because I’m a strong supporter of ProjectSemicolon, but because I needed a visual reminder. I suppose that’s the whole point, though.

I didn’t really want to go alone, but it soon became apparent everyone in my life was busy, so alone it was. It’s sort of better I went by myself really; I deal with my mental illness alone and there’s never been anyone by my side through any of that. I was super excited to get a new tattoo and when it was done, I rewrapped the bandage and sat in my car watching the rain while I had a smoke. It was then I knew that while I love the symbolism and it will definitely be a teddy bear defeating monsters while I sleep, the sadness is still here and will never go away.

I don’t often talk about my mental illness in detail other than saying I have depression. Mostly because whomever I’m speaking to will bring up a time they too, were sad for a while. That’s what always bothers me the most. We relate to others by shared experience and it’s supposed to help create a bond between us and them, but I don’t think mental illness is something anyone can really bond over. It’s a rather personal journey that only the person bearing the load will ever really understand. Whenever someone tries to talk to me about being sad, it’s always “I know how you feel! My life is so stressful right now and I’m having a hard time dealing with it.” Or, my personal favorite, “Have you tried talking to anyone about it? There’s medication and therapy out there, you know?” Forgive me, but when I hear any of those words, I immediately want to punch whatever mouth they just exited. What anyone who says those things doesn’t realize is that real depression, the kind that sits on your chest and makes just getting out of bed the hardest thing in the world, isn’t something that comes and goes. Even on beautiful sunny days full of people laughing and having a great time, it’s still gnawing on your resolve and making it that much harder to appreciate those around you.

Not to say that my life is any harder than anyone else’s; quite the contrary. Sure, I have stress and obligations but it could be worse and I know many others who do have it worse. Knowing this is probably the number one reason I don’t talk about my feelings and I don’t often tell anyone how many times a day or how many different ways I think of taking my own life. One, I don’t want to see the uncomfortable concern on their faces, and two, I don’t want to hear about how hard their life is. Don’t get me wrong; I care about those I care about, and will be there if they need me, but they don’t realize how exhausting other people can be sometimes. I actually love meeting new people and getting to know them and learning about their lives. I never mind listening to someone who just needs to talk and seeing them smile through their tears when they feel better; those are great moments in life. Yet, most people who fight what I fight seem to always have the hardest time connecting with anyone on that level.

There are a lot of things stopping us from just walking up to someone and striking up a conversation. I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me, I often feel like the sorrow is written all over my face and thinking I’m bringing someone down always makes me feel worse. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. I don’t ask for anyone else to shoulder my burden because, well, no one else can. Also, everyone says how much they like to surround themselves with positive people and while I can do a really good job of faking it; I will never be one of those people. Not because I don’t want to be, but because there’s a sorrow so deeply rooted inside it’s actually become a part of me. Not the best part, or my favorite part, but a part nonetheless. I don’t think that necessarily makes me a “downer”, but it’s certainly an obstacle. Oddly enough, I feel better in the knowledge that I’m not alone. Mental health is grossly overlooked in our society and traditional forms of treatment aren’t beneficial for everyone. Ironically enough, I feel better knowing I’m not the only one battling soul crushing misery every single day of my life. I feel like that’s a terrible way to see things, but sometimes you have to appreciate the macabre to get past it.

So this is a small part of my story and my semicolon tattoo; make of it what you will. Just know that if you have someone in your life like me, don’t expect them to talk about their struggle because they won’t ask you to listen. More than likely they will never tell you when they’re holding the blade to their skin; they’ll just ask if you want to hang out. If you have someone like that in your life, the best thing you can do is just spend time with them because they wouldn’t be reaching out to you if they didn’t think you could help them get through the next five minutes.

Before I Fall In Love.

http://www.dreamatico.com

Before I fall in love,

There are a few things I need you to know:

When the hurricane is closing in and you can’t see past the storms in my eyes just remember rainbows can only happen after it rains.

When you feel like throwing your hands up and walking away;

Remember I’m still standing there with my arms crossed and tapping a foot waiting for you to turn around and walk right back to me.

I know sometimes I’m a raging sea and you fear you might drown,

Just never forget I will always throw you a life saver.

When it seems the darkness in me will overcome everything,

Don’t forget about the flashlight I stuck in the pocket of your favorite jeans.

Most of all and most importantly:

Just care.

And if you ever reach a point where you just don’t care anymore,

Grant me the courtesy of letting me know so it can be my choice to throw in the towel.

I promise if you can do these things for me,

I won’t forget to remind you about the plans you have Saturday night.

I promise to never leave wet towels on the floor and to slow down so you don’t get car sick.

Before I fall in love,

Make sure there’s no doubt in my mind I should let myself fall.

 

Doll Parts.

http://www.polyvore.com

There was once a little girl.

Nothing special; you would pass by her without a second glance as she stares into the same shop window she has every day as the seasons change around her.

The businessmen on their cell phones yanking their too-tight ties around their necks

And the old, haggard homeless woman rearranging her shopping cart just as she has every morning pass by the little girl without noticing

Her chubby fingers pressed against the glass;

Fitting into the smudges they always make from the syrup residue of another pancake breakfast.

She’s staring at the doll in the window with a yearning she doesn’t understand. The doll is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen and she’s never wanted anything more in her short years.

Shiny, plastic hair sparkles under the fluorescent display, glinting off porcelain eyes that see nothing.

The little girl knows that if she could just have that doll for her very own,

Then the world would fall into place around her and she could join the smiles that see past her every day.

Convinced that all the joy in life would belong to her if she could press that satin dress to her cheek and feel the soft, cool fabric against her skin.

With a sigh, she turns and clutches the straps of her bag tighter around her shoulders, trying not to trip on her shoelaces.

That much beauty will never belong to her and she will never belong in a world with dolls like that.

Dolls like that belong with the pretty girls who smile and giggle on the playground and that will never be her.

No, this little girl knows where she belongs;

In the corner sitting on the pavement with the cheap plastic doll Grandma gave her 3 Christmases ago.

It’s eyes glazed over with dirt and hair turned green from age.

This is the doll that she hates and will always hate because it’s the doll that belongs to her.

Yesterday Is An Asshole.

There’s a moment in the predawn quiet of a world caught between

Awake and asleep where if you hold your breath the screaming of yesterday is halted and for a brief time

You can almost hear the whispering of tomorrow.

Too quiet to make out the words, yet there all the same.

It’s in that small window of time hope creeps in put out the fires;

A salve of inspiration coats your skin and fills the holes and cracks

From regret of time wasted.

Still your mind and let it sink into your pores as though life will cease without it because there’s a good chance it might.

This is it;

This is the time where you get to choose to bring the charred remains of yesterday’s hurt with you into the unknown

Or check your bags at the door.

Drop them;

Cut the ropes from around your neck;

Break out the blowtorch and blow those chains apart.

Clean out the wounds and look forward.

Run fast and run far my friend; the past can’t get us here

But we mustn’t linger too long;

No, if we stay we might not make it out in time for the sunrise and there’s no better cure for disappointment

Than the promise of things unknown.

I Don’t Need You to Drive Anymore.

There isn’t anything I can say that will bring you back.

Your name leaves my lips on a whisper and disintegrates in the wind that stings my eyes where the tears used to take their stand.

If it weren’t for times that change and shrink the world,

I would’ve forgotten your face by now,

Except I can’t seem to escape the black heart smiling at me from the dead eyes Filling my newsfeed with every click.

It was the Garden of Allah when you smiled

Paved over as fate intended paradise to be.

I used to be fire

Caught in your eyes

And you used to be the brimstone

Of my first time

Now there are only ashes

Next to blocks of ice still steaming as it all petrifies and ferments.

How many years now?

I’ve lost count

Names and faces have come and gone so fast I can’t tell if they were ever

Even there at all

The remaining constant is the gun you pushed into my hand

And told me I’d never be able to pull the trigger.

After all these years I can only wonder

Who the target should’ve been in the end.

You’re still the anchor and the measure

I hold everyone else up to

As I comfort myself behind walls of solitude.

After all,

It’s the only place I know

You’ll never be.

If You Can’t Bare Your Soul on the Internet, Then Where?

Fuck. Why the hell is this so hard?  I can’t even seem to take a breath without feeling like this pus-filled organ taking up residence inside my ribcage is going to burst and leave a massacre inside of me.  And I have no idea why.  There’s no reason I should feel so incredibly bereft.  Is this what depression really is?  Feeling like the world should end from the massive sorrow inside until we all drown in the tears of one girl sitting alone in her bed staring out a window at a beautiful sunny day that she can’t even begin to feel because the weight of her sadness makes the trees look mocking against the harsh sunlight.

I’m being dramatic and I know it.  I wish I did have a chemical dependency and I completely understand why so many people do.  There must be so much pain and bitterness in the world that we’re starting to understand that sometimes it’s better to be numb than to feel the pain.  Isn’t that why we have hospitals and pharmacists who shove pills at us when our bodies are broken?  To numb the pain.  What if the pain is lodged so deep inside it’s taken root to your soul and it leaches off whatever joy there once was but shines no longer?

It’s like emotional cancer.  If I say those words out loud, someone who’s lived through physical cancer will get offended.  Because you can’t express yourself properly without offending someone.  It’s literally impossible.  You can’t stand against injustice or plead your misery without someone deciding that you are wrong and now their feelings are hurt which always leads to anger.  I wish I had that anger.  I wish I could be so stubborn in my belief of anything that I would complain about it along with everyone standing at my side until it’s a hive mind of disagreement.  That’s all it is; we find our tribe based on what we hate and band together with others who hate the same thing.  It would be a beautiful bond were it over something universally accepted as good and light but inside it’s respected and encouraged out of hate.

I digress.  The real issue here is my complete inability to battle the darkness inside and keep fighting.  I wish I could believe in a god.  I don’t think it matters which one.  I want to feel hope and love and like there is still some good left in this life.  I can’t even shit out a sequel to a book that I wrote with so much enthusiasm and vigor that I don’t see how I’ll ever be as proud of anything for as long as I live.  Even that was short lived as the pressure to finish the next one crushes down on me.  Then what?  It won’t end there, they will keep coming and they will expect more and I’m afraid I won’t have anything left to give; I’m not even sure I have a second one to give.  What if all I had was that little part of a story and that was all?  Maybe it was supposed to end there; maybe I was supposed to end there and just accept the mediocrity of never really finding my purpose.

There isn’t anything wrong with my life when I really think about it.  Sometimes I feel like I have friends and a steady job that doesn’t make me want to kill myself and I’ve replaced human contact with Netflix and Hulu and that’s kind of alright with me.  People always let you down in the end so if I just don’t let anyone get close enough to warrant my faith or trust, then I don’t have anything to worry about.

Besides, if I start letting people in they might see that I’m really just a talentless hack with a strong desire to be high all the time so I don’t have to feel anything.  Isn’t that what Tosches and Thompson said?  Come to think of it, all the writers I admire so much have all said something to that nature.  It’s almost like we accept our complete failure as human beings and turn to drugs and alcohol just to cope with the maelstroms raging against our ribs.  It’s seems wrong to put myself in that club; I’m not a man nor have I lived the years they did.  I don’t think that men have the patent on feeling like that, it’s just you never hear about a woman who does.  You don’t hear stories of women writers who smoke and drink and swear and seek out faceless, nameless casual sex just trying to feel something.  Fuck, I sound like a small town prostitute whining about the bad rap I got in life.

I’m not blind, I know I’m supposed to be witty and brilliant and beautiful and loving and bond with my fellow sisters in the House of Menses, but fuck, that sounds terrible.  I see the pity on their faces when they see me and my life and imagine how lonely I must be without children and a husband or wife.  And with every birthday I just look even more ridiculous.  They don’t understand that there are some women in this world just like there are men, who are physically incapable of love.

I’ve never really been in love.  At least not the kind that didn’t turn out to be based on lies.  I’ve only ever loved lies and that seems tragic and poetic in a way.  It might even explain why I spent so much time living in a day dream where I’m the hero and I fall for the handsome broody costar and we spend our days and nights pouring the words out of our damaged souls and smoke our cigarettes, shaking our heads at everyone else.  I’ve been living the same day dream for so long now that it feels real; it’s become a part of me.  I want to say it’s the reason I feel so disconnected from reality but the truth is I’ve been doing that since I was very young.  Like I knew as a child that my life was going to be terrible and dark and void of all the pretty things Hallmark cards tell me should be there.

This is why I will never be a marketable writer.  I don’t have some make believe land of wizards to tell anyone about and I’m completely uninspiring.  The only dribble I have to throw at the canvas is emptiness and bitterness and what perpetual turmoil feels like.  No one likes a party pooper and I will without a doubt shit all over any good time there is to be had, and this is why anything I write will always ultimately be for me.  Just here now I’ve shat out 3 pages of crap when I should be shitting over the sequel.  Is this what being a writer is?  To live in constant pain because the words are trapped and trying to get them out is like sweating rice out through the pores?  I’m exhausted.

I am a meek and poor example of what it means to be alive.  If the weak are to inherent the earth, I fear we are all doomed as the truly weak are sitting in bars at noon drinking themselves to death and writing gibberish that will bring nothing but sorrow to those who’ve been misfortunate enough to read their words.

In fact, you should probably stop reading right now and go hug a loved one and throw a Frisbee for your dog in the sunshine lest this melancholy infect you too.  This is the real zombie apocalypse.  I am a zombie feeding off the flesh of those around me and sucking them dry in the hopes that I can feel even just a little of the happiness they do.  I look upon them as a dying man might regard a sunset as the life drains from his body; with reference and awe.