Musing no. 29: Depression Stinks

OOOOO UPDATE.

So I decided to end the other post mid-writing, and now it’s been what.. Crap, I don’t know, like 3 weeks after I initially posted it?

Anyway, I am depressed today. There isn’t a particular reason–maybe I’m just tired, hangry, cranky because I just changed my diet drastically, and started working out again–but I still feel down. Which is really annoying, because there actually isn’t anything going wrong with my life right now.

I am thankful that I am with someone who understands me when I’m upset, but of course there’s the “I’m burdening you, am I not?” mentality I get when I get depressed. It sucks. This feeling sucks. I hate it, and I don’t want it, and I don’t need it. Because it’s a slippery slope from there. I go into all the horrible crap I’ve been through, the horrible crap I’m going through, and the horrible crap I’m about to go through. Jeeeeez, brain. Chill. Holy cow.

So I, then, have to rally myself and start enumerating the good things I have going for me: my sister is out of the hospital, my boyfriend is wonderful, my grades aren’t dead yet, I don’t have stress armpit stinkiness, I smell like cupcakes, I have gum I can chew on during one of the most boring classes ever created, I can type away my feels–even if I don’t know if anyone reads this crap–, I can pick my check up today, I actually feel good about my body, I have sea salt vinegar chips I can go eat once class is done. etc., etc.,…. Wooh.

 

But this is a daily battle, and it’s sooo sooo difficult to have people stay in your life when you have to deal with this all the freaking time. It’s not like I love wallowing in it, it just sideswipes me like a kid on a skateboard who suddenly gets catapulted into the air because some random ninja turtle came out of the pothole and pushed it up. Random analogy, yes, but you should be used to that by now. LOL.

Anyway. I guess I have to just try and wake myself up for 2 hours before I pass out during class. Help me, Lord Jesus.

 

Musing no. 25: Hello, Wordsmith.

Words. I’ve always fallen for those so good with words. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I love to talk so much, that when someone else speaks I prefer to listen. But that has never benefited me, to be honest.

I dislike when people say things they don’t mean. They say things you want to hear, claim to be honest, then if they fall through–and you did expect them to–they say you have no faith. Excuse me. If I listened in the first place, then I’d have lost my soul already.

We sometimes forget how our words affect others; the way we say things and what our words mean can be totally different. Some may claim to be pleased doing this, some may lie about it. Whatever. You’re in charge of what you do and say to others at this point.

 

There will always be disappointment. You’re literally surrounded by liars. Family, friends, lovers, what-have-you… They all lie to you regularly. Hell, you even lie to yourself regularly. No, Janet, those pants do NOT accentuate your bum.

But my point is, don’t lie to yourselves. When you lie–self-righteousness like “I’m not the same person I was… I only deserve the best… I have to become better for you” type of crap–you don’t like to the other person. You lie to yourself. No, you don’t deserve the best, you can barely handle a real relationship. No, you are not the same person, but that same person makes you who you are, and you can’t really escape it. No, you don’t have to become better for me, you need to become better for someone better than me, because in your eyes I was not enough and I was flawed. THERE. Isn’t being honest SOOO much easier? Jeez.

 

I can not wait until I find someone I can speak to with any thought–no matter how shocking or appalling, how wondrous and amazing, how insane and inane, how beautiful and awesome. Time will come. I shall wait. I shall speak, and I shall be honest.

 

And. So. Should. You.

Musing no. 20: Emanating

Any emotion one feels emanates. 

You can see it in my eyes. You can see it on my smile. Whether it be joy, sadness, pain, or excitement, you feel it by observing.

And yet all I feel is a void that’s missing feeling. It’s numb. It lingers from inside your chest, out into your arms, your forearm, your wrist. It takes over your hand, and your fingers feel warm at the tips. I feel it, and I hate it. 

My dad was right. I need to stop being too happy because everything will be balanced out with pain. 

But now I can’t genuinely enjoy joy, or peace; I await the arrival of sadness and chaos. How morbid. Don’t be like me. 

I have 5 layers of blankets. It’s summer. It simulates a hug. Simulates comfort. An embrace that I may not ever find. By inanimate objects that can’t rewind. 

Don’t be stuck in my mind, it’s no fun there. Everyday is a struggle to have fun. Everyday is not a fairytale. Thanks for telling me that, &$)@. 

I’ll just go to sleep. Sleep usually fixes it. Usually. Fixes. It.

Musing no. 18: I’m an introvert.

I talk a lot. In fact, I talk so much you think I was a confident, outgoing individual that enjoys speaking to people about everything and loving it when people give me attention when I speak.

I don’t.

I cringe when people look at me when I start speaking. I act. I’m a great actress, in fact, I can make you feel like I’m really excited about what I’m talking about; whereas I’m actually nervous and scared you’d not want to listen to me.

I love listening to you, though. I love when you answer my questions with more than just one sentence, with the essence of your being slightly shared as you engage in conversation with me. That, I love. 

But I was not always like this.

I used to be the one who raised her hand when the teacher asked questions.

I used to be the one who volunteered to make friends with new people at church so they felt at home– those my age and behind.

I used to love being the center of attention and being in the spotlight. 
But then we moved; we moved to a country where I knew no one, kept myself isolated, and my comfort was writing a poem/prayer/letter every night for two and a half years straight. I listened to the saddest music, and the angriest music; I wrote in my blood, and pierced myself. It comforted me. 

I comforted me.

  Nothing anyone did for me mattered because no one did anything for me that mattered.

  FIghting everything by myself was no easy task, because no one listened to me when I asked for help.

Justifying abuse done to myself was not ideal to deal with, by myself. 

Trust me, I know. I’ve been there. 
Listen to your child when they speak of something that bothers them. Otherwise, they’ll just try to fix themselves to no fixable point, and confuse your effort to gloss over it with no care.

I talk a lot. In fact, you probably thought I was okay talking about this.

I’d rather write it out.

Musing no. 17: In Remembrance

TW: graphic content.

You hear them arriving. “Another one,” you murmur under your breath, as dust and dirt on dried sweat slowly flake off your brow… You know that there’s no chance, yet you have to fix this again, somehow. 

One by one you see them walking, or carried–maybe, assisted–being herded by medevac into the tent. An arm, a leg, two arms, both legs… an arm and a leg–all missing. Then the ones on the carrier…gone. And then you see the one–if lucky, two–who are so shaken you can tell that they wished they were blind, that there could be Mother’s skirt they could hide behind, but their shock is glossed over by guilt. 

“That should have been me,” their eyes tell you, as they pass you by, knowing at some point throughout this tour they will have to–no, they will NEED to talk to you about it. You have seen this, time and again. You, yourself, wonder, “Am I becoming numb of this?”

“Sir, we need you in the tent,” your assistant tells you. You follow him with your Book in tow, knowing it’s time; some are not going to make it but they seek some sort of transcendental comfort before they move on. 

“Home. I want to go home. Tell me Chaplain, am I going to make it home? It doesn’t have to be this one. How about the next one? The one you spoke about two days ago?”

So you reassure this young man, telling him that yes, he is going to make it home, as long as he commits his spirit and believes that Jesus is the Way and no one else. Sometimes, you question all these things happening and what you have been preaching in believing after they come back from the field like this, but you quickly rebuke yourself. “Stop, Jack, you know better than to question the Creator,” you chastise yourself.

You go back to your tent in anguish over the thought of the wives and children some of them left behind, the siblings they grew up with, or the parents who won’t be able to know that their child is gone–sometimes their only child–and won’t know about it until a few days, sometimes weeks, after.

Yet, you write about it in your journal. You write to remember for them, and hope that the souls you have spoken to indeed found peace and did enough–most importantly believed enough–that they could be where peace lies. Past the blue skies, that encompass all the the earth that somehow cost them–and demanded–their lives.

And now they lie in peace.

___________________
Enjoy that barbecue. The sun, the beach, the drinks, peace. But remember the fallen, remember the fallen. 

Enjoy the sky’s blue hue. The sand, the grill, the food, calm. But remember the fallen, remember the fallen.

But don’t just “Enjoy.” Live your life worthy of another life. Don’t burden yourself with living it too perfectly, though.
 Live it in a way that reminds you of how they were when they were here.
 Live your life to help those in need, to fight for those who don’t have a voice, to not stand on the side when those who are discriminated against struggle. Be their voice–those alive and those who’ve gone. 
Live your life, and take care of yourself. Your life is precious and you know that because those who did not have to, gave theirs so you can have and keep yours. 

Live for them. Don’t make it your sole purpose, but live a life that thanks them for what they did. 

Remember the presence they had. Remember how they were at home. Remember how they were in training. Remember how they smiled, ate, laughed, breathed, joked around, cried, chewed–every little thing they did that made them who they were, what they were, to you.

Remember the fallen–the brothers and sisters that were not your flesh and blood, but did more than your flesh and blood. Meant more than your flesh and blood.

And don’t forget those who felled themselves, too. They were still fighting that war when they got home.

And to those who are still here–just remember it, but don’t live in it. 

Live in the now, in remembrance.

Musing no. 16: The Doc

I was sitting in the waiting room because my lungs keep doing this thing where they stop working and make me cough and it feels like my chest is getting stabbed. Wth.
So I went to get checked (finally) after four days of coughing and not breathing and waking up not breathing because I died in my dreams. 

She was pleasant. 

She walked in, asked me how I was, placed me on a nebulizer treatment right tf away, and told me she wanted to do an X-ray on my chest, a STAT CTA scan on my blood stream to make sure I didn’t have blood clots or a pulmonary embolism, and to go to the emergency room if I still felt the same. Handed me a note to pick up my doctors note at the front desk, schedule the damned appointments, and reminded me to pick up my antibiotics, inhaler, and a nasal antihistamine to make sure it wasn’t allergies. And she places me on a second nebulizer treatment because this time, she hears rattling when I breathe, now. She said go to the emergency room if you can’t get this fixed by Friday. 
It’s Sunday night. I still feel the same. I didn’t go to no emergency room. I ain’t no sissy. I ain’t no sissy.


But I have to go see her tomorrow and tell her that I have to babysit this cat for a whole week.
While struggling to breathe.
Smart right?

Well I’m kind of broke, after having to pay 2x rent for 2 months. Coz I pick really awesome friends. Whatever.

But hey, I’ll see the doc tomorrow and she’s gonna put me on another nebulizer treatment, tell me to go to the emergency room again, and run around like she can pump me with all the medication so she can fix me.
While I just sit and wait to die.

Lol

I’m not. But it’s interesting that a stranger cares more about my ability to breathe than I do. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Musing no. 15: That deep Low

Let me bring us back to 2005.

Hello, Lo of 2005. What have you done?

You went by “Lorie,” then you removed the “e” and it’s been “Lori” ever since. You’re a mess. In fact, you feel the exact same loneliness and brokenness from that time in 2005. Right? You just left everything you knew (for 2 years, anyway, since you’re gonna be moving 19 more times right after this), and then plunged into a culture you do not know, a language you do not speak, and a country whose airport smells like food. Whose country airport smells like food????

But after all the loneliness, suffering, learning to speak a language that will later on influence what you want to do in life, etc. etc.

*insert motivational quote here*

But today I feel low.

2017 Lo feels low.

It’s okay, though. I’ve gone through a lot the last few years.

I forgot what I was headed to with this post.

I’m gonna go nap for a bit and do a re-write later.

Musing no. 14: Kintsugi

So I felt broken. I still feel that way sometimes. I felt I had it together, had the perfect everything. Everyone thought everything was going well for me. From the outside I was pristine.

From the inside I had cracks slowly breaking through the outside.

I tried to drown it with justification. I tried to blame myself. Actually, I blame myself. It’s mostly my fault anyway. 

I feel like I’m never enough. And when I begin saying this, I can tell what people hide. I can tell when you act differently around me. I can tell when the way you touch me is different, the way you look at me. The way you don’t look at me. Why don’t you look at me? I suffocate people. 

My concern for their safety suffocates people.

And it was broken. My giant dam of emotions broke. It poured out. I had no control. I broke down. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to breathe. I was tired. I was alone. I got given up on. I got given up on.

After pouring my heart, my wishes, my soul, my poetry, my desires, everything you would invest in someone who promises to love you the way you love them–it just all trickled down the drain. Forgotten, set aside, shoved aside.

And I broke. 

And I hurt.

And I felt alone.

And I was alone.
So I bring all my broken pieces back to God–again–for the ump-teenth time. And cry. At His feet. Because I gave my love to someone who didn’t love Him more than me. I need someone who loves God more than me, who wants to grow in faith with God with me, and seeks His will and doesn’t doubt it.

Someone who runs to God when he is hurting, because he knows humans will fail him; I need someone who won’t hurt me because he thinks the carnal desires that take over him are what makes him human. Yes, they are. But if you claim to have a relationship with God, why live like that?
I’m tired of dating. I’m tired of wishing to be with someone who reciprocates and loves me the way I love them.

So I’ll wait. 

Learned my lesson again. 

So this time, I’ll wait. 

Maybe my love will come back someday. 

Only heaven knows.
And my broken pieces will be fused back together with the sliver of gold that takes over because of the Love I can always hold onto. 

Musing no. 10: Don’t ask me how I’m doing.

You don’t listen anyway. 

I say, “I’m fine, everything is well. I haven’t had an episode in days!” Just to make you feel like you’re doing your “job” as a friend.

But when I don’t respond, or just look at you, you know there’s something wrong. Of course you change the subject right away, because what the heck did you get into, asking me how I was doing, right?

Ugh.

Why do we ask people, “How are you? How have you been?!” If we aren’t genuinely interested in knowing how they are doing? Why do we say self-serving statements in order to prevent us from looking indifferent and clueless–when that’s exactly what we are?

Well, I don’t know either. 

Don’t ask me how I’m doing. 

Look into my eyes, maybe. Understand that there’s pain. Understand that it’s not easy. Understand that even if I go La-La Land all the freaking time, I’m not okay. I’m trying to be positive and find the good; I find the good even in those who think they’re no good. 

Listen to what I’m not saying. 

Then you will understand how I’m really doing without you asking questions that don’t warrant an honest answer. 

Musing no. 9: I should just be alone.

The sun is out, shining its brightest. It’s 72 degrees in New York City. I’m sitting in a room full of people taking exams. 

I am paying attention to them, and paying no attention to them. 

I like my interactions with these people. Some of them I won’t see ever again, and I’m alright with that. But why am I here?

Because I need to make ends meet, so I’m working on a Saturday. At my third job. 

I could just complain more and blah blah blah, but I’m honestly just very lethargic. Days like these are when I wish I were just laying down on my bed, reading a book, sleeping, just laying down, catering to my tired-ness while I waste away.

Just kidding.

But seriously. 

All I ever wanted was to be loved and Be accepted for who I am, no matter how broken and screwed up I am. I’m working on it, I promise. Everyone just leaves because they automatically think people should be  finished and shiny. They forget that if you’re human, you’re a constant work of art, an oil painting that can numerously be modified and changed and improved and destroyed. And destroyed.

But hey, I don’t know how to deal with myself either. 

I feel like checking out sometimes. 

I heard it’s surreal. I heard it’s peaceful. 

I want that.

But not today, it seems.