The other woman. No other woman. Where are the other women like me.

“Those women always seemed like a false character in a mythical fairytale, an illusion. 

No hay banda. 

These women were two-dimensional envelopes, and to me, they always seemed unreal, even as a child. 

As you will begin to learn, infant school was a living hell for me. I acclimatized to how different I was from my same-sex peers and felt dejected and lost. 

I always felt displaced and detached from my peers; like an outsider looking in on another species; from five years old I knew the girls that surrounded me, were somehow different.”

—

Borderline to Babalon, 2017

Note to Self

You won’t mysteriously wake up one morning cured from a mental illness, it doesn’t work that way. Life is a battle. Every single day for the remainder of your life is going to be a battle, a fight not only against yourself but also the remainder of society.

But you have to treasure and appreciate the little things about life and savor them, separate yourself from the consensus and reinvent yourself in alignment to your heart’s desire and the will of your soul.

You are here, you are alive, you are breathing. Feel the oxygen rejuvenate your lungs. Feel the sunshine radiating warmth upon your skin. This is it. There is no supreme epiphany awaiting realisation. There is no masqueraded savior coming to rescue you from the despair that swallows you alive. 

If you feel like you’re wandering around this planet aimlessly, then it is your mission to create meaning in the meaningless, vacant void of the abyss. Discover your passion and pursue it relentlessly. Why are we enslaved upon this prison planet? It seems utterly meaningless, I know. I fucking get it. Life is a cruel joke. People are stupid and callous. The system is so fucking wrong, and mental illness is often a byproduct of a sick and twisted society. Suicide seems like the logical solution, but it isn’t. 

You have two choices, one is to take the easy way out and sit around locked up in your room, consumed by apathy as you experience your life vicariously through a t.v/computer screen/media. This is what they want. This turns you into a mindless consumer.

The second is to find your will for being here and use your negative experiences, your pain, your discomfort and your suffering to empower you to actually change the world and make your voice heard. Channel your agony into something constructive. Promote change. Melancholy is your inner voice telling you that something isn’t right in your life, something is pestering your unconscious and something needs to be addressed and dealt with, something needs to change. So fucking listen.

So reflect. Be introspective. Exercise that little organ between your ears. Write. Contemplate reality. Pose questions to the universe. Look up at the sky. Go and lose yourself in the depths of a forest. Stand on the beach listening to the waves crash until time becomes irrelevant. Write. Listen to music. Create music. Paint. Run until you collapse. Create. Fucking find yourself, create yourself. 

I destroyed myself with drugs and self destruction because I was disfigured by the trauma I have endured throughout my life. I lost everything, including my will to live and my ambition. I wandered aimlessly devoid of purpose. Longing for death to swallow me and annihilate my being. I begged and prayed for death to eat me up, but after hours and hours spent tumbling through the depths of the abyss drowning in my despair, I finally realised I was god, and life was only going to be what I created it to be. 

‘Every man and woman is a star’ - Crowley. 

Nothing is going to change if we all just sit here being obedient little consumers watching the powers that be dictate and destroy our lives. They thrive upon your passivity; they thrive upon your inaction.

What are you good at? What are your passions? What fuels your fire? What drives you?

Make a creation from your pain and find meaning in the midst of the suffering. 

The start of a new chapter; DBT outpatient therapy

 I saw my new psychologist this morning. Somehow I ended up talking about my family issues in depth for the first time ever and this resulted in me bursting out in tears at the end of the session. It was painful. DBT group begins next week and part of it involves doing psychotherapy each week for an hour with a therapist for an entire year. I can’t run anymore, I am weak. I can no longer bury the past because every defence mechanism I exhibited to protect myself has only left me more fragmented and broken in the end. They all failed me and left me bleeding and desperate. I will have to confront all those chilling, gut wrenching, petrifying demons that reside within the depths of my subconscious that I have avoided and hidden from for years. My childhood, the one place that terrifies me the most will be brought back to the surface. I am so scared. This is my one last chance to begin my journey to recovery and bury my past once and for all. This is my chance to live, to be liberated from all the self loathing, self destructive, suicidal behaviour I have come to regard as ‘normal’.  We made a list of things I’d like to accomplish by next year through doing DBT, they are just standard things most people take for granted such as talking on the phone to people, going to university, getting my license, being able to work, moving out, having control of my finances, being independent, getting out of bed every day, being able to communicate effectively with the people around me, pursuing my hobbies and interests without the immense anxiety and shit that seems to come naturally to everyone around me. I would never wish this dehabilitating mental illness upon even my worst enemy. 

Suicide dreams are bittersweet longing

I keep dreaming about suicide.

In these recent dreams, I am always fighting myself. 

I am filled with this immense anger and rage that roars through me, possessing every inch of my body.

It causes me to stick pins in my flesh and press sharp blades into my skin. I am trying to drown myself in the ocean, but I keep floating back to the surface for air. I try to jump out of a tall building. I never hit the ground,  I only end up falling into an alternate reality.

I then attempt to pass my rage onto the objects around me, so I try throwing appliances and breaking windows only to realise I can fathom absolutely no strength in my limbs, and that I am completely and utterly helpless.

I try to cry, or scream out for help. But I am too weak to produce any tears and no words manage to escape my mouth. 

They are really disturbing and draining. Considering I am not really suicidal in my waking life right now I am confused by these dreams.

In some of the dreams I am confronted with my abuser who is mercilessly slaughtering my dog, cat and family and there is nothing I can do to stop him. I can only watch as I am confronted with the most brutal pain I have EVER felt. 

I wake up hysterical, my body trembling and my bedsheets soaked in my cold perspiration.

I try to repress all the emotions evoked by these dreams as I move through the motions of life, mostly I am separate from my body but I always find myself emerging into my human form and breaking down into tears at the most random intervals. I will be walking through the shopping center, or sitting in the car and suddenly I’ll be triggered slightly and I’ll return and start sobbing uncontrollably.

I am starting to feel overwhelmed. I have nobody to turn too. My therapist decided to close my file at the end of last year because she couldn’t help me anymore. I desperately need a psychiatrist because my medication is all fucked up again. I can’t even remember when I last took it as prescribed, but again I have absolutely no support systems in place to help me.

I haven’t been to therapy since I was in rehab in August last year. I have nobody else to confide in and my emotional state is eroding more each day. I am screaming silently for salvation, terrified to ask for help because I am afraid of everything. The only way I know how to get help is by acting out and losing control, resulting in sheer mayhem and chaos for myself and everyone around me, but at least at times like this I am heard.

Instead I seem to masquerade around presenting the illusion to everyone else that I am okay, when in reality I am lost.

I don’t want to intentionally be self destructive to get the help I require. In the past I would only act out because I was hurting, out of control and desperate and I never saw the negative implications of my behavior because of the pain I felt.

I feel I have more insight into my illness now and the implications my behaviour has upon the people who care for me. I don’t want to put everyone through that again.

I feel like I am too much of a burden for everybody and just because I am in pain, does not give me the right to act however I want.

I just continue to self medicate with an array of OTC and prescription medications and marijuana to cope with the sleepless nights and incessant anxiety I feel, but this cannot go on forever. I am exhausted.

I think I am just going to go to the doctor and when they ask me how they can help, I will just break down in tears and beg him/her for help.

I have never asked anybody for help like this before. I have never put myself out there like this and admitted I was feeling down or helpless, and admitted that I wanted help. I was always so defiant and would consistently refuse help and deny my problems in order to avoid confronting them.

I always thought that people would assume I just wanted attention or that nobody would care. I am desperate now though, and I really don’t want to end up locked in psychiatric wards or jail again because of my problems being left to spiral out of control.

I fucking hate feeling like this.

Crimson Ribbons

Self harm. Relationships. Alter egos. Eating Disorder. Paranoia.

Rigid control settles the ebb and flow of ache and adolescent angst dancing violently inside her soul.

Her experiment against the hungry male gaze, 

Was to deny her body of its inherent sacred feminine divinity.

Swallowing feminine allure was her first pledge at fighting reality.

The inherent fear of childhood rising in her chest, 

Rigid control settles the ache dancing inside her soul.

Predator.

Pray.

Innocent.

Testosterone.

A slurred trickle of woven manipulations,

The most eloquent and poetic words spun a satin web. 

Her head, 

Full of unrest. 

Her heart, 

Not yet fed.

Her body starving,

To align to a vacant soul. 

Succumbing to sickness 

Never losing control.

Dates, 

Names

Nutrition delegation.

Restriction. Rules. Dietary Regulation. 

Forty-five kilograms away from oblivion.

Her mind was penetrated by malignant vibrations.

Crimson Ribbons