cw: careless meds handling, vague references of bad therapy etiquette, coming out, cw&tw in the end that are all mentioning extremely triggering things

I realise it’s been almost two years.

I’m back, and I might use this blog for more than just a few vents now and again (though 20 months of absence is a very long time), but I can’t make any promises.

I’ve read through my few former entries and I’m happy to announce that I quit my meds in November 2013. I did not consult a doctor for this, which I should’ve. I’m not going to go into too much detail about it, but the way I was treated was awful, and I haven’t talked to anyone from that place since January 2014.

There isn’t much to say, as I hadn’t actively used this blog even for a full year before unceremoniously disappearing seemingly without trace.

I moved in with my older sister and her fiancé in July 2014, then in August I moved briefly to the Netherlands for a job that was, frankly, awful. I moved back in December last, and that makes seven moves in five years. I plan to stay here for as long as I’m able, even though the two (supposedly) adult people I live with aggravate me to the point of exhaustion on most days.

The biggest reason for turning up again is that it’s been brought to my attention that I need a wardrobe sweep, to clear out the things I don’t wear – either because they’re too small, too big, or because I simply will not ever put them on again.

You see, in the last year or so, a lot of my teenage confusion has cleared up, and if I have any active followers left here I’d like to come out as transgender (if you haven’t seen the update on my profile).

The general angst, confusion, body dysphoria in varying degrees that sometimes comes with that might end up in entries here. I can’t promise I’m coming back after I put up a whole damn collage of pictures of clothes here for sale/giving away, but I might.

That is enough, isn’t it?

For people who might not have read this blog before, and just now stumbled upon this entry; please, please be careful when reading the previous posts. They’re riddled with triggers, and I wasn’t much concerned with such things in the state I was in when I wrote them. I don’t want anyone to be triggered at all, so I’m going to put a list up with the appropriate content and trigger warnings for the entire past of the blog from the entry preceding this all the way back to the first post I ever shared.

Drug mention
Alcohol mention
Rape mention
Murder mention
Death mention
Suicide mention
Abuse mention
Ableist language
Self harm in detail
Meds discussion
Therapy discussion
Blood/gore in detail
Depression in detail
It has no pictures of anything, but please be careful before reading the old entries

Continue reading

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Obscenities and Anger

I don’t understand.

I know I’m slow with updates, but thankfully I’m not as desperate for venting as before. The thing is that none of the festivals I mentioned in my last entry were attended. One of them was cancelled, and the other was too expensive. I applied to work at another festival, and by the way I feel now it doesn’t look so bright.

I just. I don’t know what to do. I went to my relatives to visit grandma, and a week after we got home she died. I went back to my relatives for the funeral, and the death has caused hostility between my aunts. 

I’ve fallen in lust, and fallen in love, but not with the same person. My celibacy has been terminated because of a drunken mistake. 

I didn’t drink, I didn’t have sex, and I was happy with that.

I went through some documents and found the copy of a note my doctor sent to the insurance office, and my diagnoses are listed there. All three. And a fourth one. 

It’s refreshing to see that they’ve diagnosed me with things they haven’t told me about, and that my therapist forgot some of them.

I don’t have any words for how angry and betrayed I feel.

I don’t know how to express my feelings any more, and even thought I’m unemployed and out of school I feel like the stress is beating down on me like the sun, and it’s enveloping me like the ocean. It’s filling my nostrils with its dank smell, and it’s stinging my eyes with its reality.

I took a look at my arm a few days ago, and I didn’t even feel guilty for thinking “there’s some space left, maybe tomorrow”. I cut myself around the time grandma died. Now there’s a gap with unblemished skin, and I just can’t wait to fill it with scars.

At least I can sleep. Sometimes. My therapist broke her leg a few days after my last entry, and they called me from the agency to tell me they’d keep in touch about what to do with her patients. 

I haven’t heard from them in 49 days. I need to talk to my doctor about getting put on sick leave again, so that I can get insurance money. I need something to live on.

I don’t have any strength left in me. I just want to curl up and cry. 

I don’t have any cleverly quoted poems, or anything to write of my own, this time. 

I just want to get better, or to not live at all. 

It feels like neither is possible right now.

I want to sleep for the rest of my life.

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Of Things Sure

So it has been a month since I last made an entry here.

Well, dear friend, I don’t have much to say, since not much has happened. Usually, when I say things like that, things end up long and drawn out instead of concise and to the point.

First off; I’ve slept. I got the pills, and they work gloriously. I’ve slept through the nights like a child. I’ve not had many nightmares either.

Second; I won’t be returning to school. At least not the one I went to, and not this autumn. I missed the deadlines for a school where one can complete disrupted studies, and almost no schools have the pace and programme I need. I’m looking for a job I can work at half time, and it actually looks kind of promising.

Third, I’ve completed the outline of a novel, and will get to writing soon. I’ve set a deadline for it to hw finished around November 2014. I hope dearly to be published.

Fourth, I’m going to visit my relatives to celebrate my grandmother’s 99th birthday today. I’m actually on the train now. I won’t have internet save for on my phone, but I’ll try to remember to blog the happenings.

Fifth, I’m going to two music festivals this summer. One in the city where I live, and one a few hours northward. The one in my city will host some of my favourite bands, and the other one I’m going to because I had a very good time last year.

I’m still not really better. I still glance longingly at my razors, but so far they’re only glances. I’m contemplating getting more tattoos to quell the urge for something that hurts. They aren’t as frowned upon as self inflicted scars are.

I want to move to Britain, or at least go there for a visit. I don’t feel like I belong in Sweden at all. I just want out of here.

That is all,
Kind regards.

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Not This Time

I am alive. I have not tried to kill myself.

My sick leave has been extended, my medication and dosage has been altered. Again.

I am on medication that usually treats epilepsy. I haven’t had the pleasure to get them out at the pharmacy yet, but the way my other pills have killed and drained my economy into a few scraps of coins every month is not really making things better.

I got allergy pills for children as sleeping pills. They numb my arms even more than the other pills do. They make me panic. Panic makes me exhausted. I either sleep sixteen hours, or I don’t sleep at all.

They took a liver sample to see if my liver can take other pills. I don’t care about my liver right now. I am terrified of the things that will happen when I haven’t slept for over fifty hours.

I just want to sleep. I just want to sleep.

The fact that I keep my computer on, that there are things running right next to me. I need the distractions, I need things to keep me from thinking.

Thinking was what was supposed to keep me sane, now thinking is the thing that’s killing me. It’s merciless. It’s not stopping and I just want someone to stop it. I need someone to just stop it.

I need rest. I need these pills to sleep. I need them.

I need them.

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Difference of Poets and Authors

Bleeding is mesmerizing, it fills me with a calm in the blood’s stead.

I am in panic over school, nauseous over everything. I just want to disappear, and walking amongst people, on sidewalks, is harder than I thought it would be. The cars, huge things speeding past me; and it would be so easy to just step in front of them. The subway; instant death if I only stepped forwards.

But I don’t want to ruin anyone else’s life.

Today I stayed out longer than I should have, and I know it’s stupid to do things one shouldn’t just to be noticed, but once I finally made it home, the only thing I was met with was confusion.

We thought you were sleeping, four people in the house and no one checked, I know you went to school, I drove you to the subway, but no one noticed me gone.

If not for my sister, I think no one would have noticed me coming home.

I don’t want to go to school tomorrow, I want to kill myself, or at least try, so that I don’t have to.

Sometimes I just want to lie down and weep, I want to be taken care of, taken seriously just once.

Not necessarily noticed, but at least looked upon as someone who is troubled, I want them to understand that dosage won’t help me.

I need to be acknowledged as someone who is ill, not an almost fixed thorn in everyone’s sides.

It is true, what Swinburne once said;

Hearts that strain at her chain will sever,
The link where yesterday frets to-morrow,
All things pass in the world but never,

It is so painfully true, all those lost, all those people who we lost, acquaintances, friends, family, loved ones. They never leave you, not the painful realisation that someone you’ve known your whole life has suddenly gone, not to mention that boy you thought were cute who was the only one nice to you. The cousin who treated you like an equal even with eight years of age difference. The loyal friend who slashed his wrists because everything that had happened, the oppression, the abuse, and the stress finally catching up.

The people who died at the hands of others, or at the mercy of terminal diseases.

All those people who were lost and never will be found again.

That grief, sorrow, all the mourning. They will never come to pass, like hours, like minutes, like seconds do. It will forever hurt, forever haunt me, just like the nightmares, just like the abuse will, the oppression, the bullying.

It will always be with me, will follow me until the end of days.

I just hope the end will be closer than other people expect.

Dad talked to me about funerals the other week. It wasn’t his, Nan’s, or anyone old’s. He talked about mine. Do you want to be buried, no, where do you want your ashes to be spread, in a garden, that’s illegal, what will they do, arrest me? no I suppose not.

My sister also told me mum would kill herself if any of her children died, I assume that’s the normal reaction, even though I know of loads of mothers who have said that, and not carried through.

Simon, Adam, Richard, Birgitta, Anna.

I think mothers stay on behalf of their other children, or on behalf of their spouses as with Simon and Richard.

I guess they can’t find the strength to carry through.

Even as a person in my young teens I had seen too much death, too many funerals, and too much grief. It is hard for me to carry on.

I don’t know how to approach all of this, I just know the location of my razors, the place where to cut, and how to follow through. It is hard for me to face things, even the simplest of situations make me long and yearn for escape and death. It should be; all things pass in the world but never grievous things, because even if Swinburne had seen sorrow, and he must have based on his work, based on his depiction of all things sorrowful, he cannot have known how long all kinds of mourning hurts and lasts longer than that.

Even life passes, but after life your grief becomes someone else’s, and that might be what he meant with his poem Sorrow, that even if you escape the bloody claws of living in mourning, someone else is captured in these talons. They are slowly consumed by it, eaten without knowing, and they won’t realise that they’re caught before it’s too late.

Then they are hold fast by it, because it won’t yield. No matter of how much they hurt themselves to be rid of the thing that has taken over their lives, no matter how much they try to fill that gaping hole in the middle of them, whether it be food, sex, alcohol, drugs, travel, books, films, friends, anything.

It will always be there, lurking, prying, prodding, until one weak moment, and it will consume them as a whole, and they will never be rid of it.

It is something that kills me, because even if it has consumed me, even if I will be rid of it by ridding myself of my own life and existence, it will find someone else and murder them in my stead, and I think that’s what’s keeping me alive, what has been keeping me alive for so long.

Even if it’s a skyscraper to carry, a weight so great I am suffocating, I might be willing to drag it alongside me if only I had someone who would help me lift it to ease the way.

If only the fire stopped burning,
If only the flames stopped their licking of my heels;
When it stops, I will not,
I will carry onwards with the weight on my shoulders,
But if it continues, the endless fire,
I will cease my existence,
And the responsibility will lie on another young soul’s corporal being.

If only referring of my old, senseless, nothing, which I called myself in times of confusion, if it only could be applied again, I would.

But knowledge of my new interpretation of Swinburne’s Sorrow  is keeping me here, giving me a sense of misplaced importance, and I don’t know if I should hope it’s enough, or if I ought to ignore it.

If the confusion would only lift for a moment,
If I could only see clearly through the tears,
I might finally decide whether living is worth it.

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Once Upon a Suicidal Thought

Killing myself seems so easy, so close to home.

It has been so far away before, and now it’s almost palpable, I can touch it with my fingers and it doesn’t shy away. It stays, curious of me, wanting to be stroked and loved.

And I am loving it, giving it attention it wants, and the urge to cut is impossible to stand up against.

I wish my state of drunkenness was greater, because I’m not sure I want to feel the pain.

The only thing holding me back is the arrival of my mum and sister, but even they can’t keep a lid on this, because it is consuming me. It is eating me from the inside and out, and all I want is to forget for a short while.

I just want to kill myself so much that not even a seven year old with a fever can make me want to stay un this world longer than I need to.

Not even the thought of how hurt my friends and family will be is keeping me from it, not the unread books, the unseen films, or the friends that I haven’t met yet.

I just want to be rid of it all, I either want to be taken care of somewhere remote, in a facility where they take me seriously, or I want to die a bloody death (or maybe hang myself on the back of my door) in my room because I don’t want to go to school, I don’t want to be one out of almost one thousand people in a building.

I just don’t want to live, and I don’t want to have obligations, or medicine to take all the time. I’m thinking of taking all of the pills at once, while I bleed out, or suffocate myself on a piece of string. I want to die, my meds won’t help, and they’re talking about dosage.

Just kill me, I don’t want to live.

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Morbid Ways of an Author

I will receive no re-evaluation, because “it will not determine any diagnoses”, “will not help as much as medication will”, and “enlarging the dosage will not enhance any symptoms”.

It really doesn’t help, it doesn’t. It has only made me fatter, it has only made me tired and disoriented, it has made me panic because my arms have gone numb, it has made me want to kill myself, it has worsened the urge to commit suicide so much I couldn’t walk up stairs or steep hills because the want to throw myself down to just feel something was too great.

The medicine has worsened the pain in my joints, ruined too many days for me to count, and it only took away the hurt only for me to be incapable to feel anything any more.

All this has led me to nightmares worse than any thoughts of damnation could have been if only I had had any religious faith to speak of.

It has led my own mother to alienating me, led my father to only whisper about me behind closed doors, behind my back.

I don’t know what kind of good my psychologist is talking about any longer, my nights have becone longer, things that had immense impact on me before doesn’t even raise a reaction.

It has all gotten worse now that the flashbacks are present again. But not even talks about them makes her change her mind about evaluation, I have no way of convincing her.

Panic attacks, oh that’s kust your depression talking, flashbacks, that’s the stress confusing you, I don’t know what’s real any more, you did say your anti-psychotics made you confused, nightmares and wishes of death, oh, the pressure of moving back with your father, I don’t even care about school I feel like it doesn’t matter, that’s just because you want to work.

Nothing, nothing, I threw at her helped. I lied to her, I said I hadn’t self harmed, I told her that I feel like killing myself, though, and she watched me cry and sniff like a baby, but her solution was more pills, higher dosage, let’s meet next week.

It’s like we’re speaking two different languages, like she was agreeing with me all along but did the complete opposite of what we had deemed the correct course of action.

The only thing I could do was looking at the hole in the wall behind her, agonise over its existence until we said good bye without nothing but another appointment and a flippant promise to talk to my doctor about my blasted dosage.

I’m nauseous, in panic, and I’m meeting my mum and brother for a late lunch. I’m supposed to talk to Mr. ‘I can’t deal with depressing things’ who I cannot, for the life of me, talk to about things.

Tomorrow I’m meeting someone who has had one of the hardest couple of years I have ever heard of, and I’m supposed to accompany him when he finally says goodbye to those memories, when the chapter is finally over and the words wrung out completely. I am supposed to witness that when I’m having trouble leaving my room to take a posse because of my separation anxiety.

I don’t even know how things are supposed to work, I have no idea how to go about social behaviour, the right way to lead one’s life.

I can’t even write about what’s happened to me, and people expect me to talk.

I’ll have a date with my vodka tonight, on an empty stomach, and hopefully, later, when some alcohol has been consumed, an even more vacant mind.

For all the things you cannot touch, there is a flame slowly growing in strength, for every problem left unexplored, that fire burns a whole city of ideas.

I just wanted to write stories, teach children, and be loved. I hope my emotional detachment grows greater, I wish it would smother every lingering thought of feeling anything ever again.

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