No One Fucking Gets It (As Usual)

It's no secret I've suffered from depression for a long time. Paired with the ridiculous anxiety I have, it's not a pleasant combination.

I'm not comfortable explaining why I'm this way. I know what's wrong with me, I know damn well why I'm depressed and have wanted to kill myself in the past. But I can't talk about it publicly, at least not on blogs my mom knows that I write for and under my actual name. If certain people knew about the physical and emotional trauma I've been through, I don't know how they'd react. Especially when it comes to my mom. She's tried asking about it before, but I can't open up to her. Not yet. It's all still too...fresh. I have to deal with the pain every day and sometimes I feel like I'm going to explode. I look around me and wonder how no one can see that there's something wrong with me. Maybe my smile's too convincing.

Maybe it's because no one sees the days where I'm curled up in my room, shaking and trying not to cry. Trying not to cut. Trying not to give up. Because I still remember everything, or most of it. What's put together of my broken memories paints some scary shit.

I feel trapped. Because beyond anonymously writing for other blogs and frantically DMing certain friends only to quickly clear out the conversation in hopes my mom doesn't see it, I can't tell anyone else. It'd made everything fall apart. Things would get worse. I'm not sure if everyone would believe me, or believe just how badly I've been affected by what happened.

So I'm quiet, but it's killing me.

Crumbling

It's one of those days where the thoughts of everything I have to go through for the next 12 months are bothering me. I don't know how I'm gonna make it, honestly. It's a fucking miracle that I've made it this far.

My mental health isn't getting any better. The good days were enough to trick me into thinking so, but y'know what? I was wrong. I'm not getting better. And that's really scary for me, because I know how far I'm capable of going when I relapse. Sometimes there's no coming back from that place.

I'm sitting here on Twitter while I write this blog post, trying to find someone to interact with and distract myself. I'm trying to think of funny jokes I could make. Maybe throw in some TWSS jokes somewhere. Get someone to talk to me so I can stop dwelling on all the bullshit in my life right now.

I'm hurting and I'm scared.

This is Where I'm Honest

What better way to start off a blog post than with a lame, awkward introduction? Cause lame and awkward is what I do!

Hi, world. I'm Kelley. I'm a 17 year old with depression and anxiety. I've wanted to kill myself before, and I can't tell you how often I've wanted to hurt myself. I'm your stereotypical loner girl who doesn't really have any close friends, except those she's met over the internet.

I've tried writing this blog post more times than I can count. There's drafts of this on my Drive, uncompleted and shared only with my partner. Most of it starts now nice and concise, like this blog post has so far, then dissolves into a rambly, emotional mess. I never have the energy to finish them, much less clean them up and make them less...broken. I write the way I think. To try and edit that into a concise form removes the meaning of my words. Sterilizes them.

It's 1 in the morning and I don't even know if what I've written so far makes any sense. I've been talking on Twitter tonight to some lovely ladies about depression and anxiety. It's a conversation that, while relieving to finally have so openly, has left me a little frustrated. Because the stuff I tweeted about in that conversation is stuff I've been trying to put into a blog post for ages. Or, at least, convey to my mother face-to-face. That never happens, obviously. She still doesn't know why I'm so depressed and anxious sometimes.

And honestly, I don't even know why a lot of the time. I have no explanation for the gray clouds and the odd, awkward bouts of omg too much energy got to do something why won't everyone leave me alone why can't I do anything. It's a fucking roller coaster. I can go from wanting to cut myself and die in a hole to I have to do all the things otherwise I'm a shitty human being.

It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes any fucking sense anymore. Not the paranoia, the depression, the anxiety, the strange tendencies that I think are obsessive-compulsive disorder. It's scary to have none of it make sense, because if it doesn't make sense, how do I fix it? Is there any fixing it? Or do I just have to deal with this for the rest of my life and just cope to the best of my abilities?

I don't know what to do.

And here we go again...

I'm supposed to be writing a piece for Stigma Fighters. I'm supposed to be keeping up with strengthening my ankles during the week because I'm a pointe dancer. I'm supposed to be doing...a lot of things.

But it's hard to do a lot of things when you feel worthless, disgusting, lonely, and like everyone is always making fun of you while simultaneously shunning you from every social circle.

Everyone keeps telling me that I should have self-esteem, that I'm some amazing human being or something. A few people have even called me a badass. Not sure why. What's so badass about an awkward, nerdy introverted teenage girl who is barely paid attention to because she's such a weirdo?

I don't understand why anyone sees anything special about me at this point, because I've messed up a lot of stuff lately.

I just want to be a good person. I don't have to fit in. God knows that's never going to be a possibility for me. But I'm just tired of messing up. I'm tired of people not liking me.

I don't know what to do at this point. No one needs nor wants my angsty Twitter rants. Maybe I should just take lots of hot showers (hot as in steam, thank you very much, dirty-minded people. ;P) this week and take some time for myself. This bout of bleh will end eventually.

Six Months Since Dad Died

It’s been six months since my dad died. And I no longer want to kill myself.

I never thought I’d reach this point. If you’d asked me 6 months ago if I thought I could go on living without my dad and be happy, I’d have said no. But now that I’m here on the other side of it and can look back, I know that all my dad ever wanted for me was happiness. If he could see me now, I know that he’d be pleased that I’m living my life the best I can without him. I still miss and love him, but I know that he’s getting the rest that he deserves.

Sure, I still have moments when I get emotional over a memory, but I’ve escaped that pit of wretched depression I used to be trapped in. I don’t spend days inside my room, only coming out when necessary, missing him so much that my chest ached. I’m more at peace, because I know his soul is at peace.

There’s still a bit of a lingering ache. Not one that’s overwhelming. Just a quiet reminder of how much I’ve lost. But now instead of bawling my eyes out, I just smile and get a little teary-eyed. Memories of him bring me peace instead of pain.

I know he's at peace, and I am too.

Rest in peace, Dad. See you one day.

Another One of Those Days

Today is one of those days.

I got some blog post ideas that I've been trying to work on, but they're not going anywhere. I have my suspicions as to why (gloomy weather, lack of self-esteem, anxiety over coming out and wondering if it was a mistake), but knowing why isn't helping anything. My blog posts (asides from this one) aren't getting written. They're just sitting in my damn Google Drive, unfinished, which irks the hell out of me.

I want to be useful. I want to do something with my life. I'm tired of being the stupid little kid who's really shy and ends up slurring her speech when she does actually end up talking, therefore sounding like the biggest idiot ever. I'm tired of having anxiety. I'm tired of being afraid. I'm tired of people using me as a doormat, then playing victim when I scream at them for stepping on me and hurting me. I'm tired of being ostracized and ignored. I'm tired of feeling like I'm nothing. I'm tired of being stupid and useless.

So yeah. There you have it.

"Are You Okay?" No, no I am not. (TW: Suicide...)

I'm going to be honest. 100% honest. I'm not going to downplay anything anymore. I'm going to tell it like it is, no matter how much it hurts. 

I'm hurting. I've been suffering from urges to self-harm and the occasional suicidal fantasy. There are some people around me right now who've treated me in a negative way because they don't like me since they know the truth of who I am; my identity, what and who I'll always be. Only two people who know the truth are still my friends and are still willing to treat me the same way they did before they figured out the truth.

My dad died 42 days ago. I keep dreaming of him. I miss him so much.

My relationship to my mother is breaking down more and more. I'm tired of fighting with her. I'm tired of her wanting me to be something I'm not. I'm tired of hearing that she told my siblings that she doesn't want them going through the same phase and path that I'm going through. I know what she's talking about. And it makes me upset. Not all of my choices in the past year have been negative ones. Becoming my own person and not a mini-her isn't a bad thing.

My best friend left me earlier this month because she discovered my sexuality. And yes, for those of you who don't know, I'm bisexual. For my real life Twitter buddies, if you didn't know this, well...I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. It's no one's business unless I decide otherwise. Right now, I'm just going to come out and say it so we can get any drama over with: I'm bisexual. If you have a problem with it, just go. I'm tired of being treated like I'm the bad guy for hiding this from people.

So for those of you who've been asking if I'm okay....here's my answer. And it's no. I'm sorry I haven't been more honest and said that I wasn't, but I'm trying to be a brave person.

That brave mask has cracked.

How writing helped with my depression

***Trigger warning: Mentions of depression, self-harm, and suicide. Please don't read this post if these things are going to trigger you. Here's a link to cat pictures instead: Cute Cat Pictures*

Often times as a 14 year old, I went through periods of hopelessness and anger. This was due to my struggles with depression, which came from situations in my life that I had no way of resolving and was stuck in. They weren't pleasant situations, obviously.

I've never had many friends in "real life". Many people have chose to ostracize or ignore me for any number of reasons (they're in a clique, I'm homeschooled, etc). But even with the two close friends that have stuck with me for a few years now, I didn't feel comfortable really telling them what exactly I was going through. All of this meant that I was left alone to dwell in my pit of depression and had no way of properly dealing with it. There were many times that I was tempted to cut my wrists because I thought it would help (I never cut, thankfully. I turned to clenching ice cubes or soaking my hands in cold water.)

The one thing that kept me from cutting or taking other drastic measures was writing. I would spend hours glued to my laptop writing stories that I cringe reading back on now, but at the time it was therapeutic for me. Writing gave me a purpose. It distracted me from the crap in my life. It made me feel like I was worth something.

Today I was thinking some particularly morbid thoughts about death (and no, I'm not suicidal or depressed), and it made me remember how bad I used to have depression. While I have no wishes to die right now (I've got goals and stuff for my life and people I love who love me in return), I wonder if 14 year old me would've ever gotten depressed enough to want to die. If my situations had not improved, would I have gotten desperate enough to want to end it all by killing myself?

It's a scary thought to consider, especially since I'm such a happier person now. I hate to think about the drastic measures 14 year old Kelley had at her disposal, and I'm really glad she didn't take any of them. Now that I'm here in a better place, I wish I could go back in time and show 14 year old Kelley that it did get better, that we weren't going to be stuck forever.

But I know that everything in life, good or bad, can have a lesson in it. The lesson I learned was probably this: Behind my storm clouds are rainbows. Even though it can take awhile for the storm clouds to clear, it's worth seeing it through.

And I am worth something. It's not just my writing that gives me a purpose. I'm a living, breathing human being and I deserve to be happy.

Believability With Fictional Characters and Depression

My novel (WIP), Prisoners of The Mind, has been an ongoing project all year. I wrote it for NaNoWriMo 2013, and then completely started over at the beginning of this year with it. My NaNo draft of it had no plot and it was an unholy (no pun intended) mess. xD Of course, I'm not on the same draft I started with in January. There have been lots of "false starts" that I've set aside. I can't count how many uncompleted versions I've set aside!

One of my main reasons for having restarted so many times is that I struggle with making the characters' actions believable. My four FMCs are in an alternative mental health institution and suffering from some pretty serious stuff (Abby and Keri are both diagnosed as schizophrenics, yet not the same kind, but that's for another blog post). While I have family members and friends who've suffered (and some who continue to suffer) from various mental illnesses, I still struggle with whether or not I'm portraying these illnesses correctly. I've done research, but I still worry. I don't want to romanticize it or completely misrepresent it (like I've seen done way too many times with dissociative identity disorder).

I myself have struggled with depression. Not just "oh I've had a bad day" kind of depression. I mean full-out, I hate myself and am completely inadequate kind of depression. While I won't go into why I've had these feelings, it's never been an easy thing to deal with. At 14 I wanted to cut myself, and at times I still do. I can't remember what particular thought/feeling triggered that urge. I told my mother that night, and while I completely advocate having a support buddy (because a lot of times it's kept me from taking drastic measures), part of me somewhat regrets telling her it that night. Or rather telling her when I was having an urge. She (unintentionally) made me feel uncomfortable about the whole thing. To this day I don't tell her when I want to cut or am feeling inadequate, etc. I have an online buddy whom I'll talk to, and that has saved me a lot of times from taking drastic measures. I am forever grateful for that friend.

Keri Lanier, one of my FMCs, is diagnosed with schizophrenia before she enters the institution. But she also has depression. A lot of times I find myself venting my feelings (past and present) through her. She is a lot like me, both in personality and what she is suffering from. This is therapeutic for me in so many ways, and I think that maybe since I'm putting so much real life experience into her, that she will be believable. I hope she is. Maybe too with venting through her, I can let go of some of my own angst, and hopefully come to love myself more.

I'm hoping to have this draft finished by December 31st. If I can get better with character believability (I have a beta reader and then another person who edits my chapters. They both give me excellent feedback on my story.), hopefully I can keep moving forward and meet my goal of having a completed second draft by December 31st!