In All Seriousness, Let’s Be Serious


We’re going to be serious for a moment.

Well not too serious, ya’ll should know me by now.

But the topic is pretty serious. That being said, I want to warn anyone this post contains thoughts about suicide so please read at your own risk, particularly if those thoughts are active in you. I have a few lists of resources you can contact if you’re struggling here at the bottom of the page. One is international, one is the regular national hotline in the U.S, and the other is geared specifically towards those who either have trouble speaking on the phone or just prefer to seek help in other ways.

I’d advise you to give it a peek–especially if you have social anxiety with depression and find yourself in ridiculous holes and need someone to talk to about it without having to have an actual voice-to-voice or face-to-face conversation.

If you’re anything like me, even talking on the phone is insufferable.

But this post isn’t going to complain about how horrible my life is. Because in reality, I don’t live that horrible of a life. Sure, I grew up with a violent drug addict/alcoholic, a very passive, quiet mother, and no friends or family or sense of culture. I’ve been homeless and suffered through suicidal ideation since I was eleven years old. But I’m alive, bitch.

xwithdrawal-symptoms-pagespeed-ic-umnsff0vnlI remember when we lived in a room of a house next to Burger King. If you’ve read my other posts, you would know this house as the one with the woman who downed a million fucking Vicodin or Xanax or some shit then a bottle of jack and wandered around the house looking for knives to kill herself or a wall to bang her head against. If you haven’t read that post, well . . . now you know.

As an eleven year old I didn’t really understand why anyone would self-destruct. I understood she was tormented–after all, I did live with my father–but it was hard to conceive of why that torment hurt her so much. I had no feelings towards her. I didn’t want to find a dead woman on the floor of the kitchen but when she went into those states and we had to call the police I was pretty indifferent to it. It happened every other weekend.

Anyway, I remember the first day I thought of killing myself. I stepped outside of the house because shit man, it gets annoying in there with six dogs running around and three women and their friends all partying. So when they got a cat I found my best friend. I can’t remember her name, but I used to sit out in the bench in the backyard and write songs and the kitten would curl up next to me and keep me company. She’d let me pet her and love her and talk to her and I like to think she helped me write my songs.

Yes, I was a song writer–an avid one. I played piano and guitar and bass and I was bent on singing in a band. I idolized people like this:

Anyone Know Them? I Sure The Fuck Don’t

One day I sat and I stared across the street. One man sat out every afternoon on the curb in front of his Half-way House with his cigarette in his mouth and disdain across his brow and his guitar across his lap and his mini amp by his thigh, and he’d play a symphony on his strings. The man was a musical genius. So I listened to him and I pet the cat. And I stared at all the papers of songs I wrote and I thought about the last year and a half and I thought about how horrible school was, how I could never seem to make friends or relate to people or participate in class or act “normal”, how horrible home was–if I could call it that–and I didn’t really understand any of it. I think that’s what scared me the most; I didn’t understand why any of it was happening to me.

I just sort of rolled with the punches without knowing I was rolling with the punches.

Kind of like tumbling down a hill and you get so dizzy during the fall you don’t realize you’ve been spinning until you hit the bottom.

Living was such a chore.

So I wondered, “well, what if I stop living?”


I wasn’t shocked about the thought nor disturbed. I wasn’t sad, although I think I was crying. I just remember a wave of relief coursing through my veins at the thought of never ever having to see that house again, never ever listening to that bitch all night, never ever dealing with anything ever. And it’s true: the future is blocked in those moments. Everything that could be or should be is hidden, and all you experience is your warped perception of what is. 

But the relief–that’s what I got addicted to. I thought about suicide more and more often and it was like I’d just stuck a needle in my arm and shot up the good stuff.

I’d always been the “weird” kid: having conversations with objects who I gave personalities and daydreaming at least 12 hours out of the day, you know, shit like that. But that’s also when I started toying more with the idea of fiction and suddenly in my head were these characters, ones I developed, ones that weren’t just fictional but a part of me, and they experienced things similar to me. They had their own lives, but we’d talk about the similarities and we’d talk about how good suicide would feel, and we wondered what was on the other side.

Why am I thinking of all this? Because tonight I went out and I had a good time. And whenever I have a good time like that, I get suicidal.


Sounds contradictory? It very well should.

It’s not that I feel I didn’t “deserve” to have a good time or whatever, nothing obviously depressive like that. But you see, some people have their family and that’s 97% of their social life. Some people have their large groups of friends and that’s 97% of their family. Some people are like me and have neither–and like I said, I’m not complaining. I don’t need a bunch of friends or a bunch of family, it’s not my cup of tea.

However, there are a few people in this world who I instantly connected with, people who became my friends without effort, people who talked to me, who I felt didn’t judge my odd behavior or sense of humor or weird thoughts, they just let me talk and they’d ask me questions and they’d actually be interested in the weird shit I said.

That’s what makes them different, I realized tonight. They don’t judge me on any level. I’ve never feel like they would talk behind my back, I’m never wondering about it, I never feel embarrassed about what I say around them. These are people I’ve known for 7+ years. And tonight with my boyfriend, I went out with the two of them.

Four in a group is like . . .


. . . to me.

But there wasn’t a moment of anxiety between me and any of them. I suffered some sensory overload in the arcade but that I can always handle.

Out of twenty years of life, I’ve only connected with three people like that. In other words, I’ve only ever made three real friends by myself. One of them drifted away in middle school and we don’t talk anymore. But she was the first person I ever spoke to in school and that was in first grade at the beginning of the class. We were inseparable by break time. Even the teachers were amazed, since, you know, they all thought I was mentally challenged. And now that I think about it, it amazes me how at seven years old I could sniff these people out like dirty laundry.

So whenever we split up, I get incredibly lonely, an inconsolable kind of lonely. It doesn’t make me want friends, but it makes me realize how special those few are to me. They are rare.

It makes me realize there’s a possibility that I may never find those kinds of connections again. Or at least, not for many years.


I’m not terribly disappointed. I’m not looking for a bunch of connections. It’s just hard to think about sometimes.

In case your wondering, I wasn’t instantly connected with my boyfriend when I first met him. He didn’t know it, but I had a hard ass time talking. It’s a good thing he’s hella good at it.

It’s funny; he’s shorter than I am by a couple inches or something and when we first met I swear to God he was shorter than he is now. I used to swear in junior high and high school I’d never date someone shorter than me–why???? Media???? Stereotypes???? I have no clue!?!?!?–and yet here I am, dating someone shorter than me.

He seems a lot taller now which is weird because we were both adults when we met each other.

At least he was. I was 17.

Or 18?

I don’t know. I think 18.

Then he was 19.

I don’t know.

The fucking point is I feel like we’re the same height. It took a reflection in a window to remind me that we weren’t.

Anyway, I put him through a lot of shit because of my anxiety of people and commitment and closeness and it’s been way over a year since that time and I still feel horrible for it. I always try to make up for it but I don’t think there’s a way I can. I don’t even want to talk about it.

exhaustedOkay, the REAL point is, I’m still struggle to be more open. It’s hard to talk about how I really feel. He can handle my weirdness, which is pertinent, very, very pertinent, but when it comes to feelings I don’t know how to explain them verbally. And if I try it through text message I get offended if he falls asleep or doesn’t answer or something, as if it’s his job to stay awake and listen to my fucking rambles.

It’s not.

I try to be “normal” for him, but I don’t think I’m doing it right. 

I don’t talk about my feelings to the other two, but I have before and it was much easier.

None of this means I don’t love my boyfriend, I love him very much. It’s just hard for me to speak up with people I didn’t instantly connect with from the start.

And that’s why when I was driving home tonight after dropping everyone off I was gripped by that loneliness again, that type of loneliness that reminds you how different you are from so many people, that type of loneliness that isn’t really a result of depression but that could push me into a depression.

So I thought about killing myself. I think about it often, but it’s usually a minor thought.

But tonight was the type of night that could roll into weeks and drive me to a heap on the floor. I thought about driving off the bridge or slamming my car into the other one or stabbing myself and that relief washed over me like a damn good orgasm and that’s what powered me home.


Sounds sick and twisted.

But the thought of leaving and never having to deal with my differences and disconnects with people again contain more contentment than I’ve ever felt in my life.

I don’t need people. I don’t want friends. But the feeling of connection is so foreign to me and so rare that when I experience it, I don’t want it to leave.

I’m not going to kill myself. But I am going to think about it. And I’m going to listen to the depressing songs and probably cry or something, I don’t know. I’ll be with the characters in my head. And I’m going to like it because it’s a relief to be back in the arms of my oldest, dearest friend.

Anxiety is also my oldest friend but that motherfucker is always tweaked out.

Depression is genuine and calm, however dark or disturbed. Happiness is way too unstable.

It’s a lot of work to stay alive when you’re struggling with yourself. Sometimes thinking about ending that struggle is a logical way of sorting through the chaos of your mind.

I’m not scared of my suicidal thoughts.

They’ve been my friends since I first connected with them. I didn’t even have to try hard to get them to like me.