Rabbit hole

I began listening to the My Favorite Murder podcast, and it’s amazing and satisfying and very very dark, but also bitingly funny sometimes. Super suitable for the place I’m in right now. My Therp was out of the methylated folate I was taking and it’s  been about a month: I’m definitely feeling it- or something else isn’t right. My brain is screaming out for dark content, so I’m not surprised that I wrapped up in the warm blanket of psychopathic killers, true crime documentaries and weird horrible medical documentaries: thalidomide, look it up.

The down side of listening to true crime murder stories is that you find out a lot of killers have similar issues - head trauma/injury while young, narcissistic personalities, links to smaller crime and family violence or sexual violence and substance abuse etc. REMIND YOU OF ANYONE? Yes, you start to see it everywhere. I’m basically petrified and having nightmares and horrible fantasies that roll through my brain like a movie in the background of everyday life. Not a fun place to be; I feel like it isn’t an issue of “if” so much as an issue of “when” a more serious incident occurs. I may type some of them here as short horror stories, because supposedly when you’re bothered by something it helps to write it out. Write it to right it, or something like that.

I’m out of shape and I feel stressed and vulnerable, incapable of self defense. I feel so scared, but I’ve been unwilling to put it out there straight. I’m supposed to be practicing sitting with my negative emotions and sadness and fear so I don’t need to use humor as an ultimate defense mechanism. My stories about how I’m terrified my friend will die or I have a difficult relationship with myself shouldn’t be told with a gleeful smile. Those things aren’t funny at all and I don’t think they are, but I can’t talk about them without sounding like it’s a hilarious story and making absolute light. The truth is so heavy, I can only point at it on the ground over there and I would never think to pick it up or hold it to me.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, I was thinking about family and friends and fear and it all caught in my throat; I couldn’t sleep, then I couldn’t breathe. I recorded a message to a friend I am worried about. In doing so, I caught a lot of  things I need to keep investigating about myself, because I was half awake I didn’t remember what I said and listened to it just now.

The sleepy recording begins, “It is late and I am tired. But I just wanted to tell you how...disappointed I am that you don’t ...care that people love you, and that you don’t want to take care of yourself.  And that every time you give up it makes me feel like giving up. Like everything I’m trying to do doesn’t matter. I wish I could tell you that your brain lies to you; it tells you that you’re not attractive and no one could ever love you. It tells you that you’re smart, but you’re not smart enough. You’re not brave enough. You’re not driven enough and you can’t do it. And I wish that I could tell you that you’re wrong but mine says the same thing everyday. That I’m not good enough, that everything is my fault. So... I just wanted to tell you that I’m uh...really disappointed . That it really hurts me. It really sucks because people really love you a lot and you don’t seem to care... at all.” I directed this at someone else, but upon listening in the light of day with a clearer head, it’s pretty obviously about the things I’m struggling with. I slept like a damn baby after I recorded this, but still woke up exhausted.

Why can “no one love me” and “I don’t deserve love”, when it is evidenced that many people do indeed love me? Why am I “never good enough”, why am I “not enough” when I have proven time and time again that I am MORE than enough? In fact some people have said that I’m too much *bad joke* .

I’ve been out ahead of the depression for weeks, maybe months without realizing it. Just long enough to lose it around the corner. I forgot the feeling of its sharp claws in my hair as I bolt out of reach, a near miss. It’s tracking me now, gaining on me, it can smell my fear. I’m tired, and I’m scared of what I will be like if it catches me again. To be perfectly over dramatic, in the last two weeks it seems more and more like what will I do WHEN it catches me, because that fucker is definitely coming for me.


This is the part where I shudder and realize it never left; it’s been in the room with me the whole time, right?

June 2018: a stalemate

June of 2018: I'm now 29.

Researching nursing schools. Well, telling people I am researching nursing schools while really avoiding it because I'm a lifelong procrastinator.

I work in accounts payable. It's not a dream job but I like my coworkers.
Same apartment, same boyfriend, same cats. We now feed them better and they have a cat fountain we don't clean enough. I fluctuate between being a great and the worst cat guardian.

The primary arguments in our house are about: family, money, sex, chores, and how annoying our neighbors are. We keep talking about buying a house and getting away from the city noise- but we can walk to so much food to waste our money on. Someday maybe there'll be a dog and kids in the house we'll inevitably buy eventually.

I've been sewing a lot of garments in the last three years, and hubs got me a sewing machine. I'm planning a trip to New Orleans which I am hoping will be...not stressful. All older cousins are married now, so that's...no pressure.

I'm seeing all the mental health professionals and I'm medicated to help treat my anxiety and depression, a.k.a. the source of many a ranty deep dark musing. They make the blog posts a little intriguing, but everyday life a challenge so, trying out something new. Three mental health people have told me to focus on "mindfulness" which I am feeling a strong repulsion to. Mindfulness makes me queasy, which I guess...recognizing that...is mindful. I dunno, it's so circular and dumb and confusing. AND foolproof because apparently mindful people know the secret to happiness *glares into space*.

Working on pursuing bigger things and 'being my own happiness' and other lame things people put on tee shirts; Making some tee shirts as well with fabric paint. My house is a permanent hoarding disaster, half my plants from the last post in 2015 are dead, though the orchids are still alive remarkably.