With my recent acceptance to UT Dallas I have been thinking a lot about relationships. So far I am convinced that I will remain single because I have had enough of… the time wasting? “Men” my age today aren’t seeking wives, not anymore. To be honest, they’re seeking a quickie and I am not. So I am not going to waste my time with their efforts to try to get my will to bend. I’m done with them trying to convince me into what they want and also wasting my time trying to mellow out my personality. Fuck that. If they can’t deal with me, then I’m not going to waste my time.
“Men” my age now can barely call themselves men; their heads are so far up their own asses or they have no clue what they want from life. They’re airheads, have no drive, addicted to porn thus they don’t have a clue on romance, or can’t carry a conversation about anything, or all the above. Why not date someone older? Arrogant assholes. They think they have everything figured out and know everything. It’s like dating a stereotypical teenager, actually. They cannot accept they no one has everything figured out and they aren’t the strongest beings on the planet, no matter what they’ve done. You also have the condescending “you’re a young girl so listen to me on everything” issue. No, bitch, I make my own decisions and my own mistakes.
I talked to my mother about all of this and she said I might be one of those people who never marries or is in a relationship. If that is the case then I am going to bask in the badassery that given my beliefs I have been approved to be happy alone.
- Tagged being alone, being happy, college, dating, marriage, men, Millennials, older men, relationships, twenties, women
This past semester was hell, and last year was much the same. I gained thirty pounds, most of that was recently from medication and stress, and I tried to kill myself twice (or three?). Fun, fun, fun.
I now weigh 150lbs and am so drained from trying to end my life that I have reached a glorious point in my life: IDGAF. School has taken so much from me but I am still alive and fighting. I recently celebrated my twenty-first birthday, which I didn’t think I’d live to see but here I am.
It was surreal walking into a club with my sister and I don’t know if she felt the world changing revelation occurring behind her. I walked in and thought, I don’t belong here–no. Yes. I. Do. I have fought through hell and clawed my way back to sunshine. I belong because I’m still trying.
I felt like a phoenix. I was allowing myself to heal and forge a stronger self. I set my self-doubt on fire.
That feeling has caused some panic attacks because I actually don’t know what to do with myself now. I’m used to being grounded by my self-doubt but what do I now that I am free? A little voice said, show them what you’re made of, but soon that little voice turned into a warcry and got louder and louder.
Every self doubt that my old mind tried hurling at me I fought off easily.
You’ve gain so much weight, people will talk.
Horseshit! And if they do, they need to get a life. It’s not my problem what people talk about!
You’re going to fail the semester at UTD.
NO. I. WONT. I pulled a class from failing to a good grade and I’ve done it twice now. I can ace this semester and I WILL.
You’re a bad person, your family sees you as a burden.
Lies. Lies I refuse to believe. The only thing bad about me is you.
But I am you.
No, you’re not. You’re something I created because I was afraid of my own potential. No longer will you live.
I will not fear my own potential.
I will not cave to self-doubt.
I will not be ashamed of my past.
I will be glorious and unafraid.
There is something immensely freeing about not being in a relationship. I don’t have a commitment issue, the relationship had declined and we both agreed that it wasn’t meant to be. I followed my heart in this and it was so satisfying. I have always followed the hearts of others and it always felt wrong. Not this time and I feel like singing.
He, my friend and ex, was right is that UT Dallas will be a fresh start for me. New town. New college. New Cissy.
I finally get the adventure I have been waiting for. I can finally shine and start a small portion of my life.
C stands for currently taking.
Klonopin 4mg – C
Abilify 15mg (Devil drug)
Synthroid – 50mcg
Cadista 4mg (six a day, descending from six)
Trazodone 200mg – C
Dilco/Misopr 50-0.2mg – C
Pantoprazole 40mg – C
Carafate 5g – C
Tremodol 100mg – C
A lot of drugs in just four years, no? I have been medicated since I was seventeen/eighteen. I can tell you right now that when I went off most my medications for three months a couple of months ago, I felt great. For a time. Then I started noticing old habits creeping back. The good thing was that the worse habits didn’t.
It was nice to test my strength but I wonder how much of that short-lived happiness was my first manic phase? Did I have a manic phase? Or was my “old self” starting to fight the demons?
I have been diagnosed with C-PTSD and a Mood Disorder. A Mood Disorder simply means that I have a bit of everything, so I can’t be classified as just one. It makes it hard to treat because doctors have to tackle multiple symptoms with one or a few drugs that are meant to treat only one type of disorder. Therapy seems like an endless road because the more I think about what’s wrong the larger the cave gets. It doesn’t help that each issue is the kind that most people spend their entire time with a therapist on, whereas I have to bring up more and more issues. What’s worse? Everything is connected, like a spiderweb, and that is a bad thing because connected like a web isn’t like having a root cause.
Can you understand why I dread therapy? Why I dread answering what’s wrong? People hate the honest answer of ‘where do I begin?‘ I want answers just like they do, probably more than they do. I want to know when I was broken. When and what happened that has made it so I need someone to tape me back together regularly?
- Tagged action, admission, anxiety, bipolar I, cptsd, depression, disorders, doctors, issues, medication, mood disorder, PTSD, therapy
I am going to address the issue of my twenty-first birthday and celebrating it. The fact is that I do not want it celebrated at all. Acknowledged that I have aged, sure but happy birthday wishes? No.
I have heard the “well, you only turn twenty-one once,” and my immediate thought is that goes for every age, Sherlock. Twenty-one isn’t special. It’s another year gone by. There is nothing to celebrate.
I am getting a few gifts from my parents because they are things that I have wanted for several years, but they understand, to a degree, my preference to not celebrate.
My favorite birthdays are the time my mom made me clean my room before wishing me happy birthday (seriously, it is) and when my sister left me alone in her apartment for the day. I am going to my favorite summertime place on my birthday with books and a set of headphones.
It took me almost a month to go to Button’s grave. I had convinced myself that I was mostly recovered but seeing that rosebush and how the dirt was still fresh brought me to my knees. I had been wondering why my health was getting worse and my answer came in tears. Grief.
I have heard even a few of my friends say about their pets “It’s just a dog/cat” and it disgusts me. That “just a pet” would die for you. It watches over you at night. It goes to you when you weep. What does it ask for in return? Very, very little. My family has never seen our pets as just pets but members of the family. They are our babies and we hurt when they hurt. That is where I failed mine. I failed Buttons.
You see, Buttons was very determined to explore the porch area but no farther and for the past couple of years the coyotes, which we had left alone, had become bold. One in particular. That one chased Buttons from the front door and around the house. No one in the house saw this happen but the evidence was everywhere.
My mother found him in a coyote den, and to be honest, when I saw him wrapped in that brown satin I do not think I have ever cried so loudly or screamed. I don’t remember hearing screaming actually. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to see him hurt. I did not want to think of how afraid he must of been.
When we did have to bury him, I did have to hold him and in that moment I wanted to be alone. I wanted to say I’m sorry, sweetheart. I am so sorry I couldn’t be what scared your fears away. I am sorry I wasn’t there. I am so sorry you were afraid. I have not said those words to anyone. I have thought them over and over again. It’s the images of him being afraid and alone that hurt the most. People talk about anger being a further step in the process of grief but the anger I have is towards myself but I’m sorry goes through my mind the most.