I never really wanted you to see
The screwed up side of me that I keep
Locked inside of me so deep
It always seems to get to me

What I really meant to say
Is I’m sorry for the way I am

 

Cold -Crossfade

The Asexual Anxiety

These past couple of days, my asexuality has been following me around like a dark cloud. I thought I was over this feeling, but I guess I’m not.

Two of my closest friends are telling me all about how in love they are and how badly they want to get married. They seem so excited, so over-the-moon, about these guys. They talk to them day and night, and they get this special feeling of some kind when they see them. They rarely shut up about them. They’re willing to compromise their dreams, their vocational futures, to be with these men. I just can’t comprehend that.

And the more I hear about it, the worse I feel.

I know being asexual isn’t something that should be depressing, but it is for me. I have to barrel through life knowing that I’m missing something, and I’m already missing so much. All the things I can’t do because of my multiple illnesses. All the things I can’t try because of my medications. All the places I can’t go because there’s a risk that I might faint.

This feels like it’s another illness all on its own.

The more they talk about it, the more I am reminded that I’m going to do it because I have to. I want so badly to want it, but I don’t. I don’t want to ever have sex with anyone, but I’m verbally giving consent when in my head I’m practically screaming.

But that’s my cross to bear.

Graduation Bell Blues

My graduation is exactly two months away. I am exactly eight weeks from receiving a Masters Degree in Applied Psychology from New York University at Yankees Stadium. I have ordered commencement ceremony tickets, a cap and gown, and even a grad sweatshirt. I had been over the moon since the moment I applied for graduation.

But lately, things have been out of focus. I can’t see a happy picture perfect moment on May 16th. I don’t feel a sense of excitement at starting my life. I’m starting to question whether I should be proud of any of this.

I jumped into grad school a year after graduating from undergrad. I gave up my hopes for a writing career after just one year, and then I dropped the ball and went to NYU. I gave up. It wasn’t working, and I had this amazing opportunity at an amazing school that I never thought I could possibly get into. I should be happier. I should be excited.

But I’m not.

With a job around the corner and the next couple years already set for me, I’m starting to question whether I really wanted this, or if I just ran away to a sure thing. Is this going to make me happy, or am I playing it safe because I’m too much of a bitch to take a risk?

What would have happened if I had really stuck it out? If I had just taken a real chance and worked for it?

The fact of the matter is, I have never had real confidence in my writing abilities. I have always felt that the people around me praised my writing because they cared about me. They built me up because it was my passion, and they wanted to support me. I wasn’t really talented. I was mediocre at best. I wasn’t good enough to be a writer.

Maybe I would have never made it, and I would have been nothing, in the end. Maybe I would have been wasting my time trying. Maybe I would have become a complete failure for the rest of my life.

But now, I’ll never know. Now, I’m going to be something I never really wanted to be. Now, I take a job I don’t like, get married to someone I can’t love, have children I can’t be honest with, and grow old knowing that I have spent my entire life working on nothing.

Now, I’m the loser who chose to settle, and there’s no coming back from that.

Of Sleepless Nights and Anxious Messes

It’s four in the morning. I have been in bed for four hours, now. I can’t sleep. My anxiety is approaching an all-time high, and it feels like there’s a hole inside me that’s sucking up all the air I am trying to breathe before it gets to my lungs.

I’m exhausted, but not sleepy. I want to rest and forget everything, but my brain is buzzing. The only things contaminating my mind are the memories that remind me of all the reasons my life is so hard. And unfair. And just painful.

And I realize how juvenile it sounds. It’s as if I am a fifteen-year-old drama queen. I have so much to be thankful for–I know that. I know that I have so much to be thankful for, but that doesn’t make all the terrible things more bearable, and if you don’t believe me, I will list them for you. I will let you form your own opinion, as you read on.

I have Type 1 diabetes. I am epileptic. I wear flats in the dead winter, because shoes induce seizures. My memory is slowly wasting away because of my medications. I am fat. I am not pretty. I am not particularly smart. I am aromantic and asexual in a world that does not accept asexuality as a reality. I’m being dragged in the direction of marriage, and I am too deep inside the closet to protest it at all. I am alone in this, because not one person in my life has any of these problems. Not one. It’s just me, myself, and anxiety, and I’m struggling more than I can possibly explain.

I can’t breathe. I’m losing my mind. Even the things I’ve been told my entire life that I am good at have just led me to fall flat on my face. I’m a student at NYU. I’ve got that going for me. Hurrah for plan C, since A and B failed so tremendously. I don’t really want to be a therapist. I just failed at being a journalist, tanked my chances at becoming a writer, and needed something to do with my life.

And the worst part of all of this is, I am alone in a way that I can’t possibly explain. I am an anxious, depressed mess who covers it poorly with humor and sarcasm.

And for once, I’m not just being melodramatic. I’m quite literally seizing my days away.

And to fix this, I wrote a book loosely based on these experiences in a fictional story-line. Of course, my self-esteem is far too low for me to try to publish it.

I didn’t want to keep whining on here, but I can’t seem to stop.

Hend Salah–fucking up everything since 1991.

Decoding Our Depression

Depression is like being in an abusive relationship where the perpetrator, the controller you can’t quit, lives in your head. He can’t seem to leave you alone; He throws punches and takes shots coldly as you barrel along a dirt road that exists only in your mind’s psyche, holding onto the bumper that is the outside world. Your skin tears and bruises along the way, creating scars that would never fade.

You hear him yelling at you, telling you that you aren’t good enough, you aren’t worth the space you take, you aren’t useful. The air you breathe is wasted on you. You have no real place in the world. Everything you do is awful. Believing you can be good at something is deluded narcissism.

Your art is a mess of mediocrity.

You are a shell of a person. It isn’t simply sadness. There aren’t constant seas of tears falling from vacant eyes. You are empty inside. The hole in the pit of your stomach is hollow. You lay in bed, not seeking sleep, but not wanting to move because you know that this day will be no better than those that came before.

And when you aren’t laying there, staring pathetically at the ceiling, you’re filling your time with anything that will distract you. You don’t seek out people; just mindless activities that block out the emptiness. You spend hours watching television, playing games, or reading fantastic tales and living inside them. It was, after all, Mark Twain who said that books are for people who wish they were somewhere else.

And sometimes you want to pretend to be someone else, too. Just for a little while. Just for a little while, this isn’t your reality. That life is behind closed doors and you aren’t controlled by it, anymore.

But it never lasts.

You have to put the book down, turn off the television, put the phone away, eventually. You’re suddenly alone with him, again. He reminds you of all the terrible things you did. He brings back events and thoughts that should have been too far in the past for you to remember. He berates you for them. He tells you that you’re stupid, and that other people can see how idiotic and terrible you are. He controls your breathing. He controls your thought process. He controls your interpretation of the person in your mirror.

And you know, no matter how hopeful you become or comforted you superficially feel, he will never let you go.

Depression is when everything in the world is exactly as it should be, but everything hurts, anyway. It is a painful reality that forces you to hold a facade of peace, because people will change their perception of you if break the silence.

And nobody wants that.

The Egregious Effect of Epilepsy

Epilepsy is a condition that is too often misunderstood. A person writhing on the floor is not what a seizure looks like. It disregards the pain; the feeling akin to pins and needles after numbness, intensified so that it feels more like jagged knives digging into soft skin forcefully and repeatedly for long periods of time. But you see, the body doesn’t bleed, so it must not hurt.

But it does.

It is among the most obscure things in the world. You cannot see it. You can only feel it. You never stop feeling it. It is in your daymares and your nightmares. It is in the back of your mind during every single conversation, every joke, every laugh, every comment, every moment of every single day. It is omnipresent, looming, watching, waiting for the right—or wrong—moment to strike, because it knows that you have no way of fighting back.

It’s like being on an airplane. You are on a plane and you are the only one in the aircraft. It is wonderful, having no noise, no nuisances around you. You begin to fall asleep.

Then suddenly, it isn’t so wonderful. Just as your body dissolves into an effortless comfort, there comes a loud explosion and you are suddenly falling at break-neck speed toward whatever it is that is millions of meters below you. Your ears are popping like mad, and your screams are dying in the back of your throat, and you are only managing to take very short gasps of breath to keep yourself from suffocating.

And then, seemingly out of thin air, you are handed a parachute. You don’t know who it is that gave it you. You did not see them. They do not matter. All that matters is that you have this parachute, and you have the opportunity—however slim—to live. The plane slows down ever so slightly and you trip over your own feet trying to get to an open door; You put the parachute on, and you jump.

You jump, and you pull the ripcord and you look up, and your heart sinks, because there is a gaping hole in the very thing that was to save you.

You are still barreling down to what you now see are unforgiving tides of raging black ink lit up by a stifled full moon. The cold air harshly assaults your skin and your lungs have already begun to fail you, and you begin to recognize that you have reached the final moments of your life.

But just as you are about to hit the surface, you wake up. Everything fades away. There is no parachute, no water, no crashing airplane.

But you are still falling.

Life passes by, and I am alone
Nowhere to go and no place to call home
My only friend is the man in the moon
And even sometimes he goes away, too

“Run, run, lost boy,”
I say to me.
“Away from all of reality.”

 

 

 -Bad Ruth B. Adaptation.

Friendship Ain’t Always Friendly

Sometimes really good friends turn into the type of people you fucking hate talking to. Their name comes up on your screen and you cringe, because you have no desire to converse with them. You know what they’re going to talk about.

“Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.”

Then you say something about yourself, and that lasts all of five messages, and then it’s back to the other person going on and on about something stupid as fuck that pertains only to them. They don’t ask how you are, they don’t want to know if something is wrong, they don’t want to talk about you, and they damn fucking sure don’t care about YOUR problems. Maybe they once did, but right now, it’s all about them. How dare you have issues when they’re talking?

Who the fuck do you think you are to think you matter somehow? This is a behavior-centered anti-therapeutic friendship.

Should you insert a comment about myself to attempt to redirect?

Honey, don’t you do it.

I’m a little more vulgar than usual, today.

When Sickness Rears its Ugly Head

So I just discovered that I’m getting my head cracked open in May. Yes, I’m going to have an operation in which they’re going to dig into my skull.

I was trying to avoid telling anyone about it, but my dad came last night and told me he’s scheduling it for right after graduation. I have five months to anxiously wonder if I’m going to live through this thing. It feels like a death sentence, like I know exactly how I’m going to die and I’m speeding toward it like a bullet from a gun.

I was looking forward to May, because I’m graduating with a Master’s Degree in Applied Psychology. Blood, sweat, and tears went into this degree.

Now I want December to be as long as it possibly can be.

They keep saying it’s a simple procedure. I don’t believe them. Nothing is simple about opening up somebody’s fucking head. Nothing is simple about surgery.

Nothing.

My blood sugar is also unstable, again.

And I’ve been having many, many panic attacks, much pf them because of this.

And of course I can forget about publishing any books.

I haven’t told any of my friends or cousins or uncles or aunts.

I don’t plan on ever telling them.

Lol @ my life.