5am thoughts

Sunday, December 27th, 2015 08:49 pm
nekrateholic: (Default)
Sometimes I fall into these... conditions. I like of them as nothing serious but the paranoid (and the one prone to drama) part of me yells big words like depression, anxiety and various disorders. When it gets like this, it feels... bland. Detached and apathetic. Like I'm a picture drained of color, only it never had color to begin with. Like the entire world is a big meh. And then I think of all the people in my life that are worth living for and the things worth living for and the things people think I'm supposed to be doing and the things I think I'm supposed to be doing. They are not always the same. 
And then I get the urges to attack any and all alcohol available or stay up all night because I know I'll be nauseus and nursing a headache in the morning. I get the urge to break myself, to hurt myself in a way that won't actually hurt me and most importantly won't raise worried glances. I don't have the guts or the desire to do anything more severe. I don't know if I'm happy about that, honestly. Usually I drown these urges in books or movies or something of the kind, anything to get me away from my life and put me into someone else's, if just for  little while. Sometimes it doesn't work. Like tonight, I guess. It's 5 am and I lie awake and I'm thinking how everything just feels too big for me, like finally all the things I don't know how to deal with will be too much for the imaginary carpet I sweep them under and I'll burst at the seams any second now and my guts will spill out and there will be blood and all that will be left of me will be a slasher worthy pile of flesh. I pobably won't even make much of a mess.
It sounds awfully emo now that I think of it. The weird part is I don't actually hate myself. For the most part I feel apathetic. I don't want to hurt myself for punishmet, I want to hurt for... feeling. I want to know if destruction is really as pretty as it is in my head. It's probably not, it's probably the exact opposite but that doesn't help my thoughts of it in the small hours of the night. 
I tend to fall into these conditions when I'm exposed to too much time to myself. I spend an awful lot of my time doing things I don't nessesarily feel like doing, going to places I don't nessesarily want to be because of other people or because I think that's what I should be enjoying. If I'm left to my own devices I'd most likely spend days looking at the ceiling. Or a book. Or something. I would probably cut off all communication with the outside world too. Which would be a bad idea on so may levels.
I think somehow, along the years, being happy has slipped into pretending to be happy in front of others too, but mostly in front of myself. I'm very good at that. And now I don't know how to fix that. It didn't use to be like that. I had started to get better. And then Alaska happened and five months' worth of bad shit, intensive shit got swept under that imaginary carpet and now I'm back on square one. I hate it.
And the worst of all is regret. It's the single thing I fear and hate most and it's a thing that I feel a lot these days. I guess ut's just too big for the carpet. I don't even know what exactly all that regret is for. And I have no fucking clue what to do with it.

I guess this is one way to deal with shit. I don't want to talk about it so I just write it down and put it up here. Well, it could be worse.

This song seems awfully suiting. Only the one whose love I need is me.


Thursday, November 13th, 2014 08:40 pm
nekrateholic: (Default)
These days it seems one of my favorite things to do is to hate on 14-18 years old me for its general existence.
I mean it was stupid. Me, I mean. I will refer to me as 'it'. It was so... ordinary. And not ordinary enough. And being aufully dramatic and depressed for no apparent reason. And with a bad haircut and bad clothes and bad everything (except for music. my taste in music might have been limited but it was fucking cool). 
However, in the spirit of my never ending battle with self hatred I tried to think of the reasons why 14-18 years old me was so emo in the worst possible way. It was really fucking lonely.
See, I've always been an extremely awkward person. I realized that in high school simply because I grew up in a small society where everyone knew me and I didn't get the chance to be awkward. I was also the teacher's kid and everybody knew who I was. I was not popular - our school didn't work like that but they knew me and they were good to me.
Now, imagine putting this extremely awkward person in an entirely new environment where it literally knows no one. Granted, I had a few distant relatives and two childhood friends in town but I was never really close to them and it just didn't work. It was bad. It was worse than bad. 14-year-olds can be quite cruel. I had (and still have) my best friend of course and I love her to pieces for it. She was a lot of help to - I don't know - not kill myself (although that's unlikely for I have been blessed with a level of responsibility to the people around me). I had her but she was a good 2 hours away and even if we talked every day she was not there. Eventually I started hanging out with one of the childhood friends but she is 4 or 5 years older and while I understand her now I really didn't back then. I remember asking one of my classmates (when I got around to actually talking to them) if they would cry if I was to die. It was a YA book worthy period of internet friends, crushes gone bad and overly dramatical and unreasonable depression.
Fast forward to meeting you. I think it was after the forum thing which is important because they were the first people to show me I am actually capable of making someone like me. Now if only I could do it not hiding behind an username. You happened and while I still hid behind an username to some extent you were there. It took me time - a lot of fucking time - to realize that you were there and you were not going anywhere and hey, 'it' didn't suck that bad. Remember those years I told you about? Those levels of friendship or whatever I called them back then. It wasn't because I didn't care for you or because I had trust issues (I did, but trust works weird for me) or I didn't believe in you. It was because I did all of those things and a lot and it took me years to convince myself it's all actually reciprocated. I'm shit at explaining but it's late and I'm this close to not knowing what I am saying (then again when am I not). To say it this way - you were the first real, big and important thing that made me start believing in myself. Take this as one of the millions of love letters you deserve.

This all, however, does not excuse my general idiocy during my teenage years. But then again who isn't an idiot during high school.
It took me a lot of time be as okay with myself as I am now and it was hard but there were - no - there are people worth trying for. 
Yes, Mikey Way, life gets better when you get better.

PS 'Best I Can' is a positive song no matter how much you deny it. It's about fighting, about not giving up. And it also makes me feel okay. And it makes me feel me. And this is the dumbest ending in the history of endings.
nekrateholic: (Default)
So, I've been thinking. About people. And loss. And beauty.
And the size of a human's heart - well, not literally. Should I say soul? I think I like soul better. Anyway.
I am thinking about the size of it because it's really amazing, if you think about it. (let's count the times I say think in this post.) Let's say you lose someone - someone very important, someone that's a very big part of your life. And by lose I mean death. There is this big, black, empty, painful hole that remains where the person's place in your soul is. And time passes. Time doesn't heal, that's bullshit - time either shows you you never really hurt or teaches you to live with the pain. So, time passes and it seems the big, black, painful hole is getting smaller, little by litte. You learn to smile again - and to laugh, and to not fake it too. And the hole is getting smaller and it helps you fill the empty place with new people. But does it really? Does it really get smaller? I thought so, but now I'm not so sure. In fact, I'm sure it's not like that at all. That's how I imagine it: a hole in the floor. But instead of filling it up - you can't really fill it up - so you cover it. And you start to build your life again - you walk on it - carefully at first. You put rugs and chairs over it or whatever there is to put on the floor of a house, really. But the hole is still there. It's not gone. And someday the coverage crashes and the whole is out in the open again just as big and just as black and just as empty as before. But no one likes holes on the floor, right? So you cover it again, only this time it's easier, because you know exactly how to do it. And the cycle repeats. So I guess I am calling my soul a house floor. It makes sense, in my head at least. But about the size - my point was, even if you lose someone very important, their place in your soul isn't vacated. Their place is theirs, whether they are able to claim it or not. But that doesn't mean you stop meeting people, stop loving people, stop making place in your soul about them. It just grows and grows and grows - the soul, I mean. I'm thinking about all the things I love - be it friends, family, music, kittens, books - whatever it is, it has it's place in my heart, no matter how big or small it is. And I keep loving new things, as well as the old ones and it just keeps growing. It amazes me.
There are a million things running through my head right now. Beauty being one of them, along with holes in the floor. It's all connected, really. Beauty - the way I see it (or try to see it, at least) has to be the soul, right? And this is so cliché, I know, everyone says it but I can't fucking see it happening. And it's sad. There were so much more words in my head about this, but it all went away. I blame the time.

I wish I fell in love with a hole on the floor.

March 2017



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