This is the kind of chill I only experienced a few times in my life, travelling in winter. Stepping into the snow for the first time sent my skin into a frenzy– I had never known such a feeling.
Now the mornings are just as absent of the warmth I am used to. Walking down the street earlier, every shadowed area was covered in a thick frost. My breath came out of me in a fog. I’m not used to any of it, but it’s perfect. While everyone else curses and bundles up, I rush outside every morning to catch the freeze before the sun comes. I watch the rise over the mountains, see the reflection off the ocean.
“You must hate this, Florida is so beautiful!”
No. No, this is perfect. This is good.
I tell myself this every morning I wake up, or every night I can’t sleep. This is good. You need this. I pass out in a flurry of nightmares and tell myself, no, this is good. I watch people go about their days and lives, and constantly I tell myself. Every day.
It’s a funny thing that happens to you, when your brain has been so improperly wired for so long. You start to believe you are not just depressed, or anxious. You’re just like this, and that’s all there is to it. You’re not broken– you’re fine. It’s what you’re made for. It helps you create art, or words, or keep a distance from others… which keeps you safe. You’re impenetrable except from yourself.
I tried medication, years ago. Multiple kinds, various strengths. It all ended in public breakdowns, mental breakdowns, and a complete loss of identity. I tried to write and came up blank. I stared at nothing and debated the best way to throw myself from my bedroom window. My more recent attempt (many years ago, still) ended with me running from my home and job to live in the woods. I only came to my senses after nearly dying from the withdrawals after realizing I had to quit. (Never take Effexor, kids.)
Now, where am I? Across a country, exploring a world I’ve never known, trying not to let my one asset and curse get taken from me. Fucking brain has yet again turned on me, hasn’t it? Much more sinister fashion this time.
But I’m lost. And I’ve always been lost. All those days spent among friends, be it at my lover Undergrounds, or in Miami, or the streets of Fort Lauderdale… I was never there. You saw me, you spoke to me, you engaged me in various ways. But I wasn’t fucking there. Back, far away where you can’t reach, is that damn voice.
“This is wrong. Why are you out here? What did she just say? I don’t feel well. Why am I angry? What the fuck am I doing here?”
I’ve let people down by simply not showing up. I’ve stopped responding to calls or messages at various times in my life, only to pop back up out of nowhere. There’s no excuse for that, really — I’m a bad friend. I am, really. I don’t mean to be, and I’ve tried very hard not to. But in the end, I’m gone. I’ve up and left the state, the city, and my usual haunts without a moment’s notice. Turned down friends, missed birthdays.
I am a bad friend, and an even worse person when it comes to self-preservation. I am fully aware of this. But somehow, there are a few people that stick by my side no matter what I do. I never set out to hurt anyone, and I’d never purposefully upset anyone without cause. Maybe they see that. I will never know, because frankly, I’m afraid to even ask why the fuck anyone puts up with it.
Lately, I’ve seen some people I know admit to their problems and take control. I’m so proud of them, I really am.
I can’t do it.
I’ve seen what happens to me when I try to “fix” things. Therapy. Medication. Special schools. My last meeting with a psychiatrist included these words from her mouth: “Why are you still alive?”
why are you still alive.
God, those words hung in the air over my head and crashed through me. Why? A therapist asking me why? I thought about all the things I had told her– I let it all out that day– and fuck, that’s what she gathered? Not long after came the press devouring the whole “depression is bad, mkay” debate that followed the death of Robin Williams, as if people didn’t notice it was bad before, and I got bitter. Really bitter. Suddenly everyone was an expert on how it felt to be that low, and “why don’t people just get over it?” flew out of the mouths of the masses.
I don’t know where I’m headed. All I can do is move around, have momentary encounters with people, and poof away into some weird little world where I only process music and words on a screen that come out of me in no real order.
I’d like to say I will make an attempt to fix myself. That nobody ever needs to worry about me, and I’ll take some pills and end up just fine.
I won’t. I won’t do it again, because this is what I do. It’s not some sad thing, it’s not defeatist. If I can’t make things, I’m unhappy. Not everyone loses that on medication. I hope everyone that tries to get help finds solace, and can end up better. For some people it’s amazingly helpful, but it isn’t for me. I’d rather be an asshole that forgets to hang out, an asshole that skips town, an asshole with a rotting brain and an uncertain future than what all those pills did to me. But it’s okay.
You can take this as some self-defeating, anti-whatever rant. Maybe it is, maybe it’s just me realizing my only hope is to exist as I see fit. I’m not a great writer, I’m not the best artist, but dammit it gives me purpose. I refuse to lose that.
In the meantime, I’m going to keep riding buses, going nowhere, and writing about it. ‘Cause that’s who I am, and what I do. I’m sorry.