I’m Still Here

It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact moment in my life when I decided I wanted to die. “Wanting to die” isn’t an accurate description of the feeling, of course. It’s less about wanting to die and more about needing to exist in a space that is the opposite of being alive because being alive is excruciating. That could be why my “life” often looks like silence, isolation, sleep, and binge-watching/eating – it’s the closest I can get to being dead without leaving.

 

I have only begun to explore and discuss my mental health issues in recent years. For the majority of my life I 100% lived a pretend existence. If you knew me before three years ago we’ll probably have to re-introduce ourselves, because you didn’t meet the real me. You met a character. I attended school for acting but chose to not be an actor by profession. Why? It hurt too much. It hurts to dress myself each morning because I’m always donning a costume. Why the hell would I add another layer of that for funsies?

 

Few people know this, but I grew up in an abusive home. The physical abuse was minimal and I don’t remember it. I was young, practically still a baby, and that incident taught me to never, ever, speak up. I lived in fear of my father until I was old enough to scream back in his face. Empowerment, unfortunately, does not erase the damage. I was told that “feminism is a bunch of crap” and that my mother wasn’t doing a good job of being my mother because she didn’t like to cook or clean as women should.

 

I was taught to fear black people, and brown people, and Muslim people. I was told that being gay was a choice and that gay people were creepy. America was founded on Christian values. Women should know their place. Black people should know their place, and BTW racism no longer exists so just get over it already.

 

I was made to feel stupid every single day if I did not perform to a level that pleased my father. He was emotionally manipulative and psychologically abusive. His apologies morphed into 2-hour diatribes about how this country has “gone to hell” and that life was better in the 1950’s, the “Good Ol’ Days” – completely irrelevant to the apology for whatever transpired. I was living in the Trump Era decades before the 2016 election.

 

*Bane voice* You think the Trump Era is your reality? You merely adopted the Trump Era. I was born in it, molded by it. I didn’t see the light until I was already a woman. By then, it was nothing to me but blinding. 

 

This isn’t a hate piece against my father. The part of him that was a monster is not who he is as a whole. I have held him accountable for his actions and words. I have, somehow, grown up to be the polar opposite of what his hate rhetoric wanted. To his credit, he’s always respected my opinion and my personhood. Many of his views have changed since my childhood. Shortcomings and undiagnosed mental illness aside, my dad taught me to be kind to strangers and to question everything. He wanted me to be an individual. He didn’t want me to follow the crowd.

 

It’s almost impossible to set up any kind of non-jumbled context for my future dance with suicide without, somewhat, telling my boring origin story. Bare with me. It’s confusing, both as a kid and an adult, to hear the positive and negative simultaneously. To hear my father say that he’s proud of me, of who I am, no matter what, but also the LGBTQ community is creepy and wrong. (I’m bisexual.) This contradiction has been a theme throughout my life. Wherever there is “support” there is also stigma.

 

A lot of other crappy things happened in my youth which slowly chipped away at my will to live. My mother suffered a massive brain aneurysm (unruptured) when I was 10 and had to undergo two major brain surgeries and months of both inpatient and outpatient rehabilitation. The endless travel to University of Chicago Hospital stressed me out so much that I had a complete nervous breakdown in the middle of a D.A.R.E. class at school – something my dad, grandma, and aunt had “no clue” about. I did not tell my teacher, Mr. Bernklau, that my mom was even sick. I hid everything bad, you see.

 

I was pretending everything was OK. I was 10 years old.

 

During the outpatient rehabilitation period, my grandmother died. She lived with us in our finished basement. I saw her dead body sitting upright in her favorite chair with her eyes and mouth slightly parted.

 

I was bullied heavily in middle and high school. I carried so much anxiety about going to school that from 6th grade to the end of high school I would fake sick 3-4 times a year. I was afraid to go to school. I would wake up at 5am each school day to scrub every inch of myself clean in an effort to not smell like a person, a kid, a normal human going through puberty, etc. I picked at my skin and covered it with more makeup than five Real Housewives plus a Kardashian in an effort to blend my acne into looking smooth and normal. I cried when I couldn’t get it right. I’d have 6am panic attacks about my skin, my weight, my hair, my teeth, my clothes, everything. My very existence was a target.

 

When I look at old photos of myself as a kid and a teenager I can objectively see that I was beautiful and skinny. I never felt like I was either of those things.

 

I was 12 when I bought my first journal. My heart splits anytime I read those old entries back. I was such a positive kid. I faced every shitty thing in my life head-on. I believed in people. I forgave easily. I suppose I looked foolish to my peers. I know that in my teens, when the rage of realized betrayal set in, that I dubbed myself a fool too. I know now that I was not a fool at all – I was strong.

 

High school ended on a positive note, more or less. I’d found maybe 70% of my voice. The fall play of my senior year I played a closeted lesbian that kills herself after professing her love to her best friend. The feelings weren’t reciprocated. That plus stigma/prejudice/hate and my character’s panic attack led her to shoot herself in the head.

 

I got to shoot the gun.

 

After the Great Performance of me freaking out and crying on my knees in front of my conservative Republican parents and the other conservative Republican parents, all white and Christian, I’d walk offstage, pick up a prop gun, take aim at the floor, and shoot.

 

Every time I imagined what it would be like to actually shoot myself. I had an active imagination. I thought it was just me trying to be a good actor. It’s ART, OKAY? I wasn’t fully aware that the acting took place every single day, but every night on that stage, breaking down completely and walking into the curtains to die, that’s when I was being Me.

 

College was a huge step back. My best friend since third grade succumbed to her cancer battle at the start of my sophomore year. Whatever freedom, independence, confidence, and growth I accumulated during my freshman year was shattered that October. The depression triggered by that grief was all-consuming and endless. For my remaining time in college I suffered weekly breakdowns, insomnia, sleeping through classes, and finally, let the seeds of my unhealthy coping habits germinate into disorders that now sprout through the cracks in my resolve like weeds on steroids.

 

The culture of my school didn’t help. Theatre is competitive. My professors seemed to be driven more by having their own egos stroked than wanting to teach us anything about life. My friends and companions in the theatre department were consumed with their own blossoming sexualities and unwrapped adult experiences. There was no room for Sad Katie. I wasn’t fun to be around. I was seen as a downer. I was perceived as judgmental. I wasn’t invited to parties, and the parties I was invited to I didn’t attend because I felt unwelcome.

 

I didn’t drink. I wasn’t interested in trying drugs. D.A.R.E. taught me well, even after almost failing it thanks to my post-mom-aneurysm breakdown. Blame it on my conservative upbringing, maybe, but mostly I just wasn’t interested. I had no reason to want to distort my reality that way. I could never get a straight answer from anyone as to why they engaged in these activities. They did it to be “cool” and to follow the crowd. Remember what my dad taught me?

 

I had multiple arguments over those four years with many different people about the existence of bisexuality. I was told, with certainty from individuals I respected and loved dearly, that bisexuality wasn’t real. (Reminder: I am bisexual.) I was afraid to be myself around my friends, for years, because I thought I had to choose. (My intricately ingrained sexism helped me choose boys, by the way.)

 

Right now is a good time to note that bisexual women are at a higher risk for depression and suicide. Being forced to live a lie, to live in the gay equivalent of the Sunken Place, piles on to those false notions that existing is bogus. Basically, I was told that who I am is bullshit. I was told that I am disposable, unworthy, and unlovable.

 

I asked for help many times over the years. I told my parents I was afraid to go to school. They told me it wasn’t that bad, to suck it up and go, I’m strong, and it would get better. I told them about my unhappiness with my skin issues and body dysmorphia. They responded by buying me a subscription to Proactiv and telling me I was beautiful.

 

K. Thanks.

 

I told my acting professors on three separate occasions that I was majorly depressed. I didn’t want to repeat the 5th-grade incident. When your parents are two hours away, your teachers are supposed to sub in when you’re in distress and ask for help. I was told to “maybe go see a counselor” and “your academic performance is not the way to get to grad school.”

 

Almost like a mirror image of four years prior, I directed and starred in a production of a play about suicide my senior year. The author of that play killed herself on my 15th birthday by hanging herself with her own shoelaces from a hospital toilet. She was in the hospital recovering from a prescription drug overdose. Again, after years of pretending, of acting like “Katie”, I was able to be authentic on stage.

 

After one of the performances, an acting professor approached me with some rare praise. She also asked, and not in a concerned way, “That wasn’t real, right? You don’t really feel that way, do you?” I, of course, smiled and laughed it off. “No way,” I said, with a grin and a good-natured eye roll. “Good,” she said with a snakelike smirk and patted my shoulder.

 

The end of school brought new challenges. My schedule went from being jam-packed with activities and homework to… absolutely nothing. It took all of three months for my mood to plummet to a dangerously low, and permanent, level. I sought comfort in my favorite things: writing and music. When my real life friends and family were unavailable, clueless, or unwilling to help me, I turned to the internet for salvation. I’ve had an online presence for a long time now and made many lasting friendships this way. I also met people who actively tried to ruin me, and endured a new chapter of extensive bullying online.

 

It became clear that I was alone. No one was on my team. Friends that I cried in front of, only ever telling them bits and pieces of the truth, turned their backs on me. I still don’t know why some of them did, and I can’t pretend that it doesn’t still hurt. There’s no doubt in my mind that I made mistakes, treated people poorly, and said cruel things at times. Mentally ill or not, it is tough to grow up and it sucks to realize the depth of selfishness in others. That didn’t change the perfect images of forgiveness and evolution present in other relationships my friends were having with each other and with those who left me. I was left to wonder: Why was I abandoned? What makes me so horrible?

 

And so, I determined the following to be true: I am horrible. 

 

I’m judgmental. I ask too many questions. I have trust issues. I’m mean. I’m weak. I can’t fix myself. I don’t fit in. I’m annoying. I’m a burden. No one wants to be around me. I’m too much. I’m not fun. I’m not skinny enough. I’m not pretty enough. No one will like me. I’m not smart enough. I have no talent. I am disposable. I am unlovable. I am worthless.

 

I stopped taking care of myself. I ate fast food every day. I didn’t clean my apartment or myself. Garbage piled up. I stopped sleeping. I stopped paying rent and bills. I didn’t care if I lived or died. I cut myself off from everyone I knew (most of whom, I’m still convinced, didn’t even fucking notice) and lived in isolation. I used to stand in my kitchen with the cutlery drawer open and stare at the knives inside like they held the answer to all of my most pressing questions. I’d do the same with bottles of various pills, and containers of different cleaning fluids. I’d take long drives and close my eyes at the wheel. I once took a long walk in the dead of night through Reading, England in the pouring rain – sobbing to myself and openly wishing to freeze to death or to be murdered. I sat on top of a playground set for hours in that strange town wishing to not exist, but more importantly, to not be Me anymore.

 

I wish I could say that what I described above was just a phase or a dark period of my life. It’s not. This has been my Normal for over a decade. I am plagued by good and bad days. The good days are a plague as well because they create such a sense of false hope that each bad day is more soul-crushing than the last.

 

Here is where I’ll give myself a little bit of credit: I’m still here. I have fought off every dark thought up to this very sentence. I have not succumbed. Tragedy, insecurity, sexism, heartbreak, panic attacks, the dissolve of friendships – none of it has totally broken me yet. I’m still here. I’ve stayed. Thoughts of death and disappearing have never been voluntary or welcomed, but the decision to stay alive has always been a choice.

 

In 2014 I broke down to my best friend and pleaded for her to help me because I was dying. I knew if I didn’t get some kind of professional help that I would surely die. She stepped up and not only found me a good counseling center with a sliding scale pay system but made the calls for me. I was so disabled that I couldn’t even make a simple phone call. Nowadays I can make most phone calls myself, but sometimes I still need help or at least a little pep talk beforehand. This friend saved my life and continues to, every single day, and I will never be able to properly thank her or make her understand what she’s done for me.

 

I’ve come a long way in the past four years. I’ve sought various treatments, therapy, and tried different medications. I have been officially diagnosed with BiPolar II disorder. I don’t fully agree with this diagnosis. So far I have had to contend with multiple male psychiatrists who don’t fully listen to everything I tell them. I’ve been rushed into this diagnosis and corresponding medications twice now. In my heart I don’t believe it is the right fit. Creating the magic cocktail and dosage of medications is tricky enough when you have the correct diagnosis, but almost impossible when you have the wrong one.

 

I believe I suffer from BPD, or borderline personality disorder. Unlike BiPolar II, which only sort of sounds like me, every bit of research I’ve done on BPD sounds like I’m re-reading my old journals between glances in the mirror.

 

My frustration with doctors, counseling, and medication is coupled with my frustration to be “out” to my friends and family. The being bisexual thing is practically an afterthought compared to being out as Mentally Ill.

 

I’ll tell you with no hesitation or uncertainty: It is terrifying.

 

I’ve built my entire identity since childhood around pretending to Be OK, to be Happy Fun Katie, because I’ve learned that no one likes or wants to help Sad Katie. It fundamentally goes against my nature to not only express what’s truly churning in my head but to trust others with that information. This is the crossroads I find myself at now.

 

I have spoken about my struggles but rarely in the moment. I have never, ever, let myself experience a full-blown panic episode in front of another human being. Wow, I would like to! They are incredibly lonely. (I came close at a Fall Out Boy show once but ended up in a shame spiral instead.) I’m now crying for the first time since I sat down to write.

 

This next part is tricky. I don’t know how to express to my loved ones that they are failing and that I am still dying. Again, it goes against my nature. I can’t expose myself. I’ll be vulnerable, and no one will like the ugliness, and they’ll abandon me. Will they even read this blog? Will they be offended by reality? I should be quiet. I don’t want to offend them. They’ll leave me, and then I’ll be alone, and then I’ll die. Alone.

 

This blog has been threatening to explode from rib cage jail for months and it is time to rip off the band aid. I want my truth to be “out there” and if I am meant to succumb to this illness, I hope that maybe this will at least help someone else who suffers to know they are not alone. I wrote the following post on Facebook during a very serious and debilitating panic attack a few weeks ago. It was filtered at the time, up for three hours, seen by no one (to my knowledge), and has since been deleted. Here it is in full, unedited:

 

8/18/17 – 7:27pm

“You are loved.”

That’s what they tell you after a celebrity dies. Or after you post a status about your depression. But what about every other day? What about the days when I’m invisible. What about the days when I feel I have to lie to you in order to keep you. What about “I need you” and “please help me” do you not understand? Your love should not be seasonal. Your support should not be conditional. You shouldn’t only be there when you’re “in the mood”. I don’t need you all the time but I need an access line. I need reassurance. It shouldn’t be too hard to give. All it takes is an occasional “I love you” and an “it’s okay to be you” and “I see you”. Even if you don’t understand me, I need you to at least be somewhat interested. I know I’m frustrating. I know my mind is fickle and particular. It’s something I fight. Any rejection from me is not personal. It’s me navigating this the best way I know how. If you think I’m doing a crappy job, I’m open to suggestions. I need that. Part of mental health is structure and responsibility. When I’m left to my own devices I can steer off course. I’m not saying you have to do a lot of work. You barely have to do anything at all. But you should at least do what I ask and do it consistently. And if you ask me to do something for you I will do it. I am better with requests and with need than I am with the constant push and pull and wondering and paranoia roped in with “How much affection should I express and at what times”. Because the answer is: I don’t know. I don’t know this. There is a disconnect. There always has been. So you may perceive this as me being an asshole but sometimes I’m just waiting in the wings praying myself into a sweat that you’ll call or text me. Because my default setting is that I love you. My default setting has always been this. Everyone I’ve ever called a friend I have loved so deeply and practically every single one has abandoned me in one way or another. To say this is not me whining or positioning myself as a victim or wanting attention of pity. It is just a fact of my life. Most of my family is racist or dead. My parents moved away, never to return. I’ve been in love twice and both people chose to walk away from me without a word, reducing me to nothing. My grandma died. My best friend died. My mom died. Friends that I shared intimate moments with, that saved my life when I was literally trying to die, cut me off suddenly- something I still have no explanation for. Friends get married and move away and have babies and form new relationships and friendships and change jobs and the line of communication slowly diminishes. I know this is part of Life but that doesn’t erase the fact that I fucking miss you. I miss you so much I can barely stand it. Sometimes it feels like my ribcage is a prison. All I feel is pressure and pain. And then I feel the guilt of wanting to reach out. And then I feel the fear of being rejected once I do. I don’t want to have a war of egos or status. There’s no checklist. I’m not keeping track. There are no set of unreachable standards to which everyone I’ve ever chosen to spend time with doesn’t qualify. I love everyone I befriend and when they confuse or disappoint me I forgive them and absorb it and remind myself we are human and it’s okay it’s all okay but in return I just feel like an ugly lizard person. Do you even like me? Most of the time I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I hope you do. I trick myself into thinking I know the truth. Mostly I just run on blind faith. Blind faith and hope that I matter to fucking SOMEONE. And I refrain from talking about this as much as I honestly feel it (mostly every day) because it will bog you down and annoy you and burden you and I am already too much to deal with I think so I stay quiet most of the time. And I get the feeling, paranoid maybe idk, that you’re waiting for me to say something, like this Thing is something I can control or that it is something you should be offended by when the response you receive isn’t perfect. I feel so much pressure every day to be the kind of human being you’d want around and I feel so empty when I realize that even after all of that work I still can’t connect to you. And if I’ve told you that and if you’ve told me that hurts your feelings then I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do. You say you love me but you don’t listen but them you say you do listen so I speak up and then the silence returns. This isn’t about blame it’s just what I observe and what I know. This is my reality. Right now. Still. Every day and maybe forever.

I don’t belong with you. I don’t belong anywhere. I have no home. I am lonely. I am defeated. I need more but I don’t know what and I don’t know how to ask for it. I don’t know where to post this where it will matter. I don’t know who to send it to directly. I don’t know whose night to fill with panic even though there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t know what the right choice is. I don’t know what looks calculated and wrong. I don’t know why I don’t feel believed when I state my truths. I don’t know anything.

I do not feel loved. I never have. Maybe that is no ones fault. Maybe I am just unlovable.

Hi, I’m Katie. Nice to finally meet you.

 

This isn’t as bad as it gets, but I managed to save it, unlike others. Just last week I was teetering on the precipice of fully giving up. My mental illness has an irrational flair for the dramatic. I posted something at the height of a panic episode. One friend saw it and immediately texted and called me. I did not see this right away because I’d already taken a Calm The Fuck Down Pill and curled up to watch Parks and Recreation until the seething mix of dread and anger subsided into calm, empty boredom. She threatened to call the police if I didn’t respond and apparently had already been contacting other friends to find my address.

 

Friend, if you’re reading, I want you to know that I appreciate your concern. I do. I mean, I’ll take anything I can get. I’m not in a place to be throwing a middle finger up at love and care. But if you read those texts back, notice how I immediately became chipper and positive and apologized to you for making you worry.

 

You did not help me. You made it worse. You failed me.

 

A similar event happened a few months ago. In an attempt to be my honest, authentic self with two of my closest friends, I told them things that I haven’t told practically anyone else besides psychiatrists and counselors. I won’t pretend like it wasn’t a big deal for me or totally fucked up and scary for my friends to hear. This shit is fucked up and scary. I get it, you know. I live with this.

 

I’m hoping this post will help break the cycle of “hold everything in and pretend it’s all fine until I break down and word vomit on social media in a desperate attempt at human connection” that I’ve been stuck in for years. Who knows! This could just piss off my friends and they’ll never speak to me again. Either way, I’m still dying, so at this point I have nothing to lose.

 

As a whole, and yes I’m generalizing, deal with it, my friends are very very Very Bad about stigmatizing mental illness. I hold myself accountable for all the fucked up shit I used to say and believe when I was ignorant, and I don’t hold anyone hostage to the former versions of themselves who have hurt me in some way. We’re human, we’re vulnerable to acting like assholes, it happens. Forgive and move on. There is something different, however, about someone who is mentally ill, struggling, dying, asking simple tasks of their friends and not receiving those courtesies. Most of my friends still use the word “crazy” colloquially, use other incorrect and harmful language, refuse to do ANY research on the disorder(s) I suffer from, fail to check in with/check up on me, fail to let me talk about what is really going on, and expect me to answer every fucking simple question they have about things as if I have the strength to hold their hand through this Very Trying Time.

 

Look, I know you love me and you don’t want me to die. But I don’t have it in me to baby you anymore. Buck up. I am absolutely at my wits end. I cannot be who I am and feel safe with you if I also have to pretend to not be broken to spare your feelings. My brain is a desolate hellscape of dead dreams and hopeless sand dunes where every grain is a sad face emoji. If you treat every moment of panic that I endure and choose to let you glimpse like it’s the End Of Everything, you are doing two things: 1. Not helping, and 2. Making it about you.

 

Going against my (WRONG! LIES! BAD!) instinct to believe that you’d be happier without me around, I will, with good faith, say that I know you love me and you don’t want me to die. I know this. Fuck, that is why I am still here! For as close as I’ve come to taking my own life, those many many times over many many years, I’ve always been able to stop myself. I have more tools now, too. Knowledge. I know, for the most part, why I am the way that I am. I know when to isolate myself for my own health, and I know when I’m isolating myself in an unhealthy way. (Doesn’t usually stop me, but if I send you a text that says “I miss you” that’s probably a clue to give me some attention because I’m probably floating in a mental sea of anguish.) I know a lot of self-care routines and how to calm myself down when I’m panicking.

 

I realize this can sound nonsensical or contradictory. This circles back to the whole “hearing the positives and negatives together” thing. When you tell me I’m so “~*~*loved~*~*~” it’s nearly impossible for me to not get instantly cynical about that, because my personal history and experience is a big neon sign suspended in deep space flashing “NOT LOVED VERY MUCH, ACTUALLY” because I don’t feel loved. You can say you love me until you’re out of breath but I’m definitely not going to believe you until something changes.

 

Frustrated? YUP. Welcome! Mental illness is impossibly complicated!

 

If you haven’t given up on me yet (please don’t, I need you) I am going to give you a guide to Me, Katie, and Making Me Feel Loved:

 

1. Call me back.

2. Keep your promises.

3. Check in once a week, or at least twice a month.

4. Swallow any and all platitudes. They’re worthless.

5. Do your own research and don’t rely on me to educate you, esp. when I’m weak.

6. Don’t guilt me for not feeling well.

7. Reach out first. I usually assume you don’t want to hear from me.

8. Tell me you love me at times when I’m not panicked and miserable so it’s easier for me to believe you actually do and aren’t just saying it because you think it’s the right thing to say in a perceived crisis situation.

9. Don’t assume every situation is a crisis situation. That’s you being lazy. Sorry, it is.

10. If I say or post something questionable or disturbing, it is okay to ask about it. I am desensitized to a lot of weird and terrible stuff at this point so I may say something that isn’t a big deal to me, but it strikes you as a big deal, so let’s avoid an awkward misinterpretation of what I said, and you can just ask me what I mean. I could also be panicking on some level, in which case it would be nice to have someone to talk to and remind me that everything will be okay.

11. Don’t use stigmatizing language or post/repost ignorant memes. If you do, don’t be surprised OR annoyed when I am snippy with you about it. I have the fucking right.

12. Listen to me. Truly, listen. I notice when your eyes glaze over and your interest wanes. I apologize if my mental health is a boring topic.

13. Ask specific questions. Specific. Questions. Not just “How are you?” because my answer, you guessed it, will be “Fine.” I’m not fine. I’m rarely fine.

14. Accept the inevitable truth that I may kill myself one day and if I choose to do so, I will succeed, and there will be no way for you to stop me.

15. Don’t let #14 anger you or freak you out to the point of abandoning me early because you don’t want to get hurt. Of course, you have the right to self-preserve, but I think in this instance it is a selfish and cruel move; especially if you have claimed to love me and claimed to care that I am alive.

16. Hold me responsible and accountable for my actions. If I piss you off, make you sad, scare you, tell me. If you miss me, tell me. If you love me, tell me. If you need a friend because you are going through something, call me. I actually respond pretty well to a crisis. It gives me a sense of purpose and worth and confidence. Just because I am mentally ill doesn’t mean I’m not also an awesome friend who can be there for you when you need her. I can be. I’m good at it. And, in turn, it keeps me healthy. Don’t deny me this because you think YOUR problems will stress ME out. You can’t expect me to feel human after shutting me out of the human experience because you think I’m too fragile. I mean, I am really fragile, but give me some credit.

17. Learn my bad habits and manipulations. Am I actually in a good mood or am I just desperately faking it so you won’t notice my agony? Should I really be eating that shitty food I ordered? I’m not saying you have to be my mom, but my mom’s dead, so yeah you kind of have to be my mom sometimes.

18. Understand and be empathetic to my triggers and sensitive subjects: Abandonment, time wasting, invasion of personal space, aggressive speech/behaviors, passive aggression, yelling, rape jokes, and self-harm.

19. Offer me something real. Make a phone call for me. Run an errand for me. Help me get through the To Do List that’s been nipping at my heels for years. Drive me somewhere to do something boring and lame, like the DMV, or to a clothing store. A lot of times I can’t complete simple tasks because they overwhelm me. *Chris Traeger voice* I am. Literally. Afraid of everything.

20. Reassure me. Reassure me. Reassure me. Reassure me. Reassure me. Reassure me. My biggest enemy is doubt. I need reassurance. All the time. Every day.

 

This is a short list to get you started. This is what I want and what I need. You don’t know everything yet. This isn’t even scratching the surface, but it’s the best I can do for today. Maybe some day I’ll talk about my broken heart, my old suicide plans, my fragmented molestation memories, my self-harm, my eating disorder, those pesky dead dreams, and every other ugly thing I personify with a gnarled face, superimposed over my own reflection every day.

 

I don’t want to die. I want to be here, and continue to make a life worth living, and I want to experience it with you. I promise to not drain all of your energy and resources. I promise to respect your space and your autonomy, as I expect you to respect mine. This will continue to be a lifelong struggle and journey with a lot more pain and heartache and tears and moments of all hope poured down the drain. It will be hurtful and terrifying and difficult. It will be wonderful and hilarious and pure, too. I have known goodness. I keep the memory of it cupped like a pearl against my chest. I know it Gets Better. I know a lot of things, rationally, but the demons that live above my throat don’t fuck with that.

 

I’m still here.

 

I’ve been holding onto your wrist this whole time. I’m asking you to hold onto me too.

 

Please?

2016: Atreyu vs. Artax

Sweatpants. Sandalwood scented candles. A bottle of Martinelli’s Sparkling Apple Cider. Cats playing in boxes. The Office on Netflix. Oh, and my laundry? Done in 90 minutes flat. There’s no wait for machines when the entire building is out celebrating.

 

 

I start most new years this way. Quietly. I enjoy peaceful reflection upon the past year. I know this is supposed to be the year to hate, ruinous hellscape as it was, but I think 2015 was the clear winner in recent Crappy Years for me. That’s why my meme looks different than most of the ones I’ve seen. I didn’t start this year with a spring in my step or a glimmer in my eye. I was simply trying to muddle through the swamp waste that was my life and keep my chin above the sludge.

 

Somewhere in the haze of political ugliness, human tragedy, and death claiming prolific artists, I found my voice. It’s not a loud voice, but it’s my true voice. This year, something changed inside of me. I can’t fully explain it, and I’m superstitious about expressing the part I can explain. My mind is a fragile and annoyingly particular place.

 

Here’s what I know: I spoke my mind. I did not let anyone bully me. I stood my ground. I challenged the status quo within my bubble. I re-evaluated the meaning of “success” and how it relates to my journey. I figured out what I want. I did not let the darkness swallow me up. I kept my true friends very close. I let go of resentments. I forgave. I cut people out. I made plans. I saw the best concert of my life. I stopped making excuses. I didn’t always do my best, but I did the best that I could do.

 

My favorite songs of the year in no particular order:

 

Oceans – Seafret
YOUTH – Troye Sivan
Death Dream – Frightened Rabbit
Fall Together – The Temper Trap
Jacked Up – Weezer
Genghis Khan – Miike Snow
Real Friends – Kanye West
Mess – Real Friends
Cancer – Twenty One Pilots
Rise – Katy Perry
Bury It – CHVRCHES ft. Hayley Williams
Middle Finger – Bohnes
Confetti – Sia
Alone – Colours

I think 2017 will be a challenge. I don’t know what it will bring besides challenges. But I do know that I’m ready for it. Tonight, I’ll fold my laundry, sip my non-alcoholic bubbly drink, and kiss my cats on the head.

my election night experience

The evening of November 7th buzzed with anticipation and music. I was pumped up. Ready to go. Inspired. Proud – to be a woman, to be bisexual, to exist as a vulnerable human bean in this imperfect but awesome nation. I knew that whatever happened, whatever outcome, the fight would not end. I knew we would have to keep the conversation going. I knew we would need to learn to navigate a new political and personal landscape. I was ready. I felt brave. I thought relief would come. I thought it would go my way, because it is time. It was supposed to be my time, your time, our time.

I spent that night making a Spotify playlist. In it are songs I return to often to help me take stock and make sense of senselessness. I like to express myself through clusters of songs. Music gets it right when my brain fails me and words escape me. I described the collection of songs as follows:

 

This is long. This is a year. It’s three mixes in one. I can’t shave it any further. Every emotion, every hope, every anxiety, is represented. Let’s begin with a prologue, followed by a warning. The foundation of our fight is laid down. Our future. Our hope. This injustice. And then, the introduction of the Idiot with a thirst for attention. One who is incapable of empathy and personal responsibility. The betrayal of sexism from the Left. The songs that give me strength when I feel small and as though the world was designed to destroy my spirit simply because of my gender. And then, the exhausting debates. The memes. The nervous, desperate laughter as you remember this isn’t Romney and Big Bird levels of ridiculous. This is Actually Ridiculous, disheartening, insane. Sprinkles of comic relief. If only we could solve our differences with impromptu dance offs. Resistance. Rage. Anthems. Debate. Disappointment. Doubt. Disenchantment. Denial. Acceptance. Deception. Perseverance. Panic. Dissociation. Walking a tightrope over a nihilist pond. A fucking Papa Roach song because who cares, the world is burning. The sun dies and melts thick black blood over our eyes, blinding us from progress. Is there any way out of this? Yes. Someone will help you peel away the dead star flesh so you can breathe again. Relax. Release your anxiety. Vote. Let go of the hurt in your heart. Everything will be alright in the end.

I went to bed. I woke up.

I knew.

I can’t explain how.

 

🇺🇸 pic.twitter.com/7vUojunyUN

— katie louisa (@carebearstare) November 8, 2016

I managed to distract myself for most of the day. I think I went grocery shopping. I took a walk and shot Boomerangs of falling leaves. I felt at peace. I felt safe in my skin and my surroundings. I voted by mail on October 25th, so I didn’t need to worry about waiting in a long line. I’d fulfilled my patriotic duty. I just had to kill time until my fellow Americans were finished with theirs. A little after dinner I sent a text to a handful of close friends. My best friends. I felt history being written. I wanted to create meaning and hold onto purpose in that moment.

 

Tuesday, November 8^th – 7:07pm – Group Text

Dear friends,

I probably don’t express this enough, or in ways that are both direct and obvious. So I’ll say it now in this direct and obvious text:

You are my heroines. You are my strength when I am weak. You make me laugh until I cry. You challenge my beliefs. You hold me accountable. You inspire me. You are beautiful. You are special. You’re smart as fuck. I want to be like you when I grow up. You have amazed me for years and I am so happy and proud to know you.

I don’t have a lot of family. You are my family. You are my sisters. I can’t stop thinking about who we are and how far we have all come despite all the obstacles in front of us. This is an emotional moment. The gravity of this night, the potential negative outcome, is weighing heavily on me. But I remain hopeful. And through the sludge of Bernie Bros and Trump Hacks we’ve waded, patiently and not-so patiently, for this moment.

The moment where dinosaurs eat man and Woman inherits the Earth. lol JK

I would walk to the end of the earth with all of you. You are what I believe in, and you are what has kept my heart beating a decade beyond its original chosen expiration date. And I plan to keep you for the rest of my life, if that’s okay.

Be engaged tonight. I love you. #ImWithYou

I refused to believe what my gut was telling me. I can see now, two days later, that my grief stages began last week. I chose denial and isolation. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want anyone to see me be vulnerable if my fears manifested and bloomed. I wanted to believe I was just paranoid, that it was the anxiety talking, that this gross election exhausted me and I just wanted it to be over, no matter what. I took comfort in knowing I felt similarly the last two elections and ended up being wrong. My wonderful friends also responded – showing off their hearts, inner beauty, and grace:

 

 

I’d told myself a few lies about being productive that night. The usual – cleaning, playing with cats, writing, catching up on work. My denial was so strong that I contemplated not turning on election coverage until 10pm. I didn’t make it far. I dared to Google “Election Results.” This was at, approximately, 7:30 CST. Polls in later time zones weren’t even closed yet. One of my best friends hadn’t even voted yet. I knew the numbers were, at best, projections. I knew it would be a long night. I knew all of this. But when I saw the states Trump had already been projected to win, and that he was leading in Florida, I knew. I texted my best friend and said “He’s going to win.” She said “You don’t know that. It’s early. These are just projections. It’s not over.” But it was, and my panic began.

I filled the hours on Twitter, Snapchat, Tumblr, and Facebook. I made a fucking Pinterest account I was so distraught. My mind was/is a whirling social media dervish. I battled waves of nausea. I mentally clawed my nails into wet dirt to escape being buried alive by reality. I laughed sudden, ugly cackles at nothing. It’s surreal to experience folie à deux with yourself. I used the puppy and baby deer filters a lot – two true gifts from the Lord amid this obvious End of Days. I sighed heavily and repeatedly. I took a hot shower. I put on makeup. The ritual of applying makeup always calms me down. At least I would look cute while my worldview collapsed in on me like the Big Crunch.

 

pic.twitter.com/8igdaYJCNO

— katie louisa (@carebearstare) November 9, 2016

 

My Twitter timeline was a complete mess of jumbled RT’s and cries for help. My Tumblr was a nihilist’s paradise. My Facebook was a jagged emo hellscape. But my heart was numb. I did not cry at first. I tricked myself into thinking I’d accepted it. That it would be okay. We’ve survived crappy presidents before. It’s fine. I’d wake up the next day and feel bummed out but it wouldn’t be the actual, literal, end of Everything. Why act dramatic, right? There’s no point. Get up, put your head down, work it out. It’s fine. It’ll be OK.

I told myself many lies that night to pass the time. I thought I would go to bed. I even turned off the TV for awhile – I needed a break from the panicked chipmunk stare on Chuck Todd’s face. I turned it back on with the intent of loading the Spotify app on my TV to play some relaxing tunes before bed. That’s when Lester Holt said Donald Trump was slated to “take the stage” within moments. I swallowed vomit again. I hadn’t checked the numbers in awhile but I knew the map was blood red. And then:

 

I felt the kind of calm, watching Trump’s victory speech, that one feels when sinking into a catatonic state. It’s a numbness within a numbness. It’s actual time-travel. I did feel a sliver of relief. It ended. It’s over. No more, I thought. Another hand-crafted fib from my head to my heart. This time, I didn’t want to go to bed. I didn’t feel safe lying down to sleep. I envisioned large men dressed in black kicking down my door to gang rape me. I found the strength to feed my cats and turn off the lights. I laid down in my bed. One more rotation through my social media apps before tucking my phone between pillows. I closed my eyes.

That is when the tears came.

The thing about living with bi-polar disorder is that you never quite know what’s “true” when it comes to emotions. Most of the time I either don’t have any, or they’re a delayed reaction, or they’re inappropriate, or they’re correct and I just can’t conceive of what “real” “human” emotions feel like. Why Am I Crying? is not a fun game, but I’m a whiz at it. The last time I was overwhelmed with enough emotion to uncontrollably weep was giving my mother’s eulogy 14 months ago, but even then I was disconnected thanks to the heavenly powers of Xanax and Buspirone.

I sobbed in one wave. It faded. Alright, NBD. Par for the course. But a few minutes later it hit me again. And again. Then again. Again. More. Again. More. Too much. Relentless. Endless. This was not a panic attack. I’ve experienced plenty of those. I was panicked, but this was not in the same league. This was Total Devastation.

I fumbled for my phone in the dark.

 

Wednesday, November 9^th – 3:03am (approx.) – Facebook (filtered)

I am officially coming out as a clairvoyant. I knew the phone conversation with my mom would be our last. I knew the Cubs would win the series. And when I woke up yesterday morning I knew Trump would be elected.

I can’t explain how I know things. I just do. For the past six months or so I’ve had premonitions that I will die soon. I feel terrified. I need relief. Please tell me it’s just paranoia linked to psychosis + coincidence / intuition.

 

Imagine two frail arms with bony knuckles and gnarled fingers pushing into a liquefied mirror. Imagine sobbing and screaming but your voice is muffled by magic glass and metal. Imagine floating above a lava moat leading to the castle of a modern demagogue, unable to change your path, because your consent has been stripped away.

Just imagine.

 

I contemplated suicide. Not my first rodeo there. I looked up those hotline numbers. I had one punched in but I began to choke on my own snot. That kinda ruined the moment, so I cleaned myself up. Ironically, I settled down to sleep around 4:48 am. I awoke at 7:15 to get ready for work. I wanted to call in sick, because I was sick. I thought the breakdown from hours before was over. It wasn’t. I cried nearly non-stop the entire day. I cried in the office. I cried in front of my boss. I cried in the bathroom (like five times). I cried loudly when no one was around and let the tears stream silently when co-workers were near. Make-up was a lost cause. I made zero attempts to hide my grief. I am not ashamed of it. It is mine, not yours.

You cannot take this from me. I won’t let you.

You cannot minimize this pain. I won’t let you.

Shame on you, if you’ve tried.

Wednesday, November 9^th – 1:53pm (approx.) – Facebook (filtered)

Most of my days aren’t great. Most of them blend together. I’ve had many more bad days than good. I have had some very, very, very bad days. Days where I hurt myself. Days where I almost, completely, fully, truly gave up. Days where I wept for loved ones who passed away, or friends that let me down, or to mourn a broken heart.

Amid all of that pain and chaos has been some semblance of reason and meaning. People change. People die. My brain is neurodivergent. It can be explained. It’s just what we go through. We persevere. And through all of that I have held onto hope. That has been the one true thing that has kept me alive.

Last night my hope disintegrated. Every last shred of it. I am not strong right now. You cannot speak to me in a tone of “now we stand and fight harder”. I don’t understand what you are staying. Those words don’t mean anything to me today. They will in the future, perhaps, if I am here to experience the future. But in this moment, I am broken. Of all the awful days that I have ever endured – this is the worst.

This is the worst day of my life.

 

Support came. From women.

 

I was able to make it through the work day. I left a bit early to go for a walk. Tears streamed down my face. I am a Coldplay lament personified. The marriage of salt and wind created an itchy cut feeling on my skin. I bought dinner. Eventually, I found my way home. My cats greeted me at the door, as they always do. My apartment looked a mess, as it typically does. Everything was as it always is, except that I had been catapulted into an alternate universe. I have lived through waking nightmare scenarios before, but this… is all-encompassing. This is New.

My spirit has been crushed. I spent the night of the 9th scrambling for meaning. I wanted to join the Trump protest but I felt too unprepared, too weak, too lost, too afraid. I am one of the people you’re talking about when you talk about people who don’t have a voice right now. I am paralyzed. I need you to stand up for me until I am able to stand up for myself and for others. I require patience, guidance, support, friendship, and unconditional love. I have these things to give in return, but it will be in small bursts for now. For now.

I fell asleep between 7pm and 10pm. I stayed up until 4am. I can’t remember how I passed the time. I know I re-read an exchange with a long time friend on FB messenger. They won’t see this post, or know it exists, because we have cut ties. I won’t explain, but it’s not for reasons you’d think. They supported Bernie, and voted Hillary. This hurt cuts so much deeper than Win vs. Lose and Democrat vs. Democrat vs. 3rd Party vs. Republican. This is about our very identities. This is Life and Death. If you don’t think so, you are asleep. I will pray for you to wake up, and when I am stronger I will help you put the pieces together, if you will let me.

My first waking thought this morning was Trump. Trump is our President-Elect. A few tears fell. I managed to leave my apartment today. I rage-listened to Christmas music (weird) and strut down the street like Gigi Hadid on a mission to (fashionably) save a litter of puppies from Cruella de Vil. On a fucking mission to buy real salad dressing. I’m all about working to eat healthy for self-care purposes but frankly, I am not emotionally ready to eat greens with balsamic vinaigrette. Fuck that. Nope.

More tears as I sat down to write. It’s 6:32pm on November 10th. I’ve been writing this since 2pm. The sun set outside my window and left me typing in darkness for awhile. For a moment, I forgot about the letter I started writing to my dad this morning. I’m going to finally, officially, come out to him and my (very) conservative family. I don’t know what will transpire, but I am preparing for the worst of reactions. I plan to be raw, unapologetic, and honest. I cannot safely say that I have found a true silver lining yet in all of this. It is much too soon. Tomorrow, I may regret writing all of this. Maybe. But I won’t delete it. I am not embarrassed.

I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of feeling shame for things that are beyond my control. I’m tired. Last night a friend asked me, “What do you need?” I said, “My mom.”

I also need an acknowledgement. I need true allies. I am white, and therefore I benefit from privilege. I am also bisexual, female, and mentally ill. People say my sexuality is a myth. People laugh in my face when I say I’m a feminist. People use ableist language in my presence, even when they know my situation. For all intents and purposes, my entire life has been set up as a joke. Trump is the punch line. But if I were to kill myself tonight, most would reduce my loss of life to their own personal FB status tragedy. You can’t claim enlightenment when you are still living with blinders on.

I am a human being. I deserve recognition, kindness, encouragement, and respect. My human experience is not even close to this. I do not receive what I put into the world. I’m tired. I want more. I want better. I don’t want this reality. I want that feeling back – the one where I felt proud and hopeful and brave. I want to be paid as much as the men I am smarter than. I want to go to work and not be treated like a piece of lunch meat. I want to feel like anyone cares, literally anyone at all, but also, especially, the people I disagree with.

To me, the simple act of breathing is a struggle. To me, navigating the world feels impossible. I know I’m not alone. I don’t care who you voted for. The election is over. What I care about is my life and its quality. I will no longer settle for anything secondary to what I want. I want to live freely, openly, and safely. I want to nourish my true friendships and cut ties with relationships that don’t matter. I want to believe in something. I want to be healthy, and feel real emotions, and immerse myself in honest experiences. This is what I want. This is what I will fight for as soon as I can.

I’ll keep you posted.