quarta-feira, 28 de junho de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°62: You were beautiful

You see, I want to give calls when I want to say I love someone without really needing to say the words, but I bleed so much. I don't feel my hands and there's just so many bright lights, all around all the time, don't you ever get so dazzled by all of it and all of it becomes none of it in a millisecond because I'm dumb, I can't reach and the darkness is so familiar. I look at you through the curtain and I think “darling darling darling”, my tongue disappears and I can't breathe (again).

The nature in me (the Hyde) wants me to be cruel when I'm in physical pain, I'm hurting and I want you to hurt too, I want to see you burn just as much as I do; you'd have pretty wings though. But I never do and never regret it, I'm that mean to myself, I'm that greedy. There's only so little I can prove it's real and the burning hand squeezing my heart it's real, darling. The vintage picture of your laugh it's still so clear yet so blurry it's almost a recording on a video tape just like the Twin Peaks one. Pause, pause, pause, pause, pause I want the perfect angle, I don't want to forget (I'm lying), please let me keep this. You never laugh like that again in front of my face, I close my eyes forever and I bet you're still smiling. Hands on the floor, hands on my neck, hands on my skull, scratching my hair to make access, to make space.

Lady Destiny made me to be one to forget, little round broken machine somehow at the front of the store's display. I'm sorry about your purchase but darling, you're sorry too, I can read on the glint of your living eyes hovering above this corpse; you have so much useless hope, darling. Listen, there was a nail making their way inside my foot; blood everywhere and I said it was kinda cool. The other me(s) in other realities just cackled, chanting silly little round, silly one. The joke's on them though, the velvet thickness is my the best function. And I mean it, darling. One day you'll get to see that even I made use of it to paint my journals and bedroom walls and the parts of me I still can't bring myself to go deeper, blindfolded I'm on my way to not see more of me, only trying to see more of you. All the versions of this broken chest built skyscrapers around themselves and look, yes I am shattered, but I'm not a puzzle piece. My body may be on the ground and I can't breathe, darling; just once give me your oxygen (I want to say) why can't I be mean right now (I never do). 

In my memories there's always a bulletproof vest. I lie and I say that I'm protecting myself, however we both know I haven't shielded myself in a long time. You speak about the future and goddamn, there's this effervescent gold light crafting a crown over your head; you tell me the future because you have that power but I'm sure I'm never there, you always know I'm certain I'm not there. You're still talking and I want to touch the inside of you that have all these soft things and maybe steal it, but I can't be that selfish, not anymore, and it's pointless. A part of me rejoices because you are there, darling, I never doubted that; but who you'll have to see dying to become stronger? Is it me, is it yourself? Your arms can carry this weight of flowers that feels like the weight of iron bars? I saw myself dying two times and I still can't do it. The point is that you're better than me, darling. You can make paper birds and they'll carry you along the way, are you listening? I hope you are, I love you. Simple as that, simple and I can't feel.

The sea is catching fire and I only look at your picture in my bedroom desk. But I can't feel it, I'm sorry. You cry when you think I'm not looking, silly. My sight has never left your side, silly. I'm taking pictures so I can remember you and I are real, and because when I can finally breathe again I'm always alone, your ghost-object-permanence hand is on my hair, thank you, hurriedly you move back into the photo I took of you though. Like I said, the sea is catching fire and I'm only saving your smiling face. I'll take it to my grave, I don't like to be alone anymore and I still can hear your voice. Darling darling darling, please forget me. I'm satisfied with just the ghosts of you. 

quarta-feira, 26 de abril de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°61 - 2-stars hotel

One of the greatest symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder is the intense and profound fear of abandonment, even when there's no base to this fundament. There isn't much of logic when you have BPD, but it's always about leaving. Somehow, it always end up being my fault. For being too introverted, for being too clingy, for being too scary, for being unable to control my voice's volume, for being too weird, for being too boring. I get it, really. It's not like I'm gonna refute this. My body turned into a 2-stars hotel, these ones mostly given out of pity by those who stayed here and then, like everybody else, left. There's not even other three stars faded beside it, and you can blame on my negativism. It's just so fucking tiring to be the one who's always making the effort to take the water out of this sinking boat; the hole in the very deep fabric of it has always been there, I can't remember it not being there. My arms are numb along with the rest of my body, must be because of that that I can't feel a motherfucking single thing. I'm tired of trying not to drown forever in the lives of the people I love, when clearly they don't seem to mind the water entering in my mouth; my lungs are full of salty water and they dare to ask me why I'm having trouble to breathe. I never thought I'd be like this — the water around me feels like two thousand knives and I've always thought that sinking would be worst thing that could've happened to me, but then I noticed I started floating. The lapis lazuli roof over my head hurts my eyes; it's too shiny and I have goddamn photophobia. The waters are calm while the fury of the eye of the storm crushes my chest, but I never flinch; I'm too afraid that if I do, there'll be no turning back. No matter how much i think, it's (i'm) never worth it. So I float and I see all of you, and I still can spare time to smile at this sight. The truth is I'm just a fucking coward who runs away in order to not being abandoned. Being forgotten is easy, forgetting others is a splinter under the nail that haunts you. It's a splinter under all your nails, even from the hands and feets that you didn't know were there. I cut all of them, however they just multiply the former misery. By now, the rock in chest is so damn heavy that there's no law of physics that would agree to this situation. Yet, I float. I float and I listen to music that makes temporarily happy, and others makes tremendously sad, on purpose. I remember they're dead and something dreadful inside me twitches, I remember everything taken from me and I want to tear this world apart because I didn't deserve being made this way. And I can't forgive either. But I'm floating as all of you can see. Did you know they used to drown women accused of witchcraft back in the XVI century? But I float. I get up everyday asking for mercy with resignation, I look at the universe and just plead to die. But I continue to float. I'm adrift and voiceless, every day an centimeter away from the sight that still manages to make me smile. Why don't you swim, you (you, you) ask me. I don't fucking know how, and everybody keeps saying that the pills will teach me. (They didn't) So I float. If you ever wonder if I'm writing about you: I am. And I float. And I left. I float but I burn; I'm the thick layer of oil on the water that can't wait to combust, because I think I deserve the flames. There's so much sorrow without a reason and I just want to feel less insane. The water in mouth goes merciless through my throat and stabs my lungs in every single way possible, perharps that's the reason I can't really breathe sometimes.  I still can laugh once in a while, you know. Even though there's blood (my own blood, my ancestors' blood) all over my body so often that some days I think my skin turned red like the ones who lived before me had. I'm truly a half; not quite 100% here, not really 100% there. I leave even my halfs behind, some kind of murder that isn't acknowledged yet. There's a plethora of things I'd like to be. However, I left. And that's okay. It's love. It's pain and it's not beautiful, not anymore. At least I can still see you on the dry land.

sábado, 15 de abril de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°60 - Hate

I think about girls in towers and dragons vigorously guarding — threatening, hovering over their aureola like the moon tries to cover the sun on an eclipse. Sometimes the dragon is yourself; sabotaging all the good thoughts you could have about who you are. That's how self hatred starts. At first, you think that, even if you hate everything about yourself, you could still do something to change your body. You try to exercise, eating healthier or sometimes not eating at all because you think you already had too much in the past days. For a while, it works; you look at your reflex on the mirror somehow, endeared. Then the breakdown comes. It's like standing on a beach watching a tsunami coming at your direction, but you don't know if you really want to manage to run away. So you're dragged down. You try loving yourself again, but something is different. There isn't the same motivation, so you start to slack off. At certain point, you give up. The thoughts that stab you right in the gut don't flinch at any compliments; you stop believing them, and not much longer you don't believe anything else. The dragon wins, you think. There's flames all over your body, the touch you provide feels like it burns the others even though they don't say so. There's a beggining of the damsel in distress complex. You start imagining that someone magically will into your life and love you unconditionally — even though you haven't left the house in four months — until you start to love yourself, and you'll be whole again because you'll realize how wrong you were. It doesn't happen, sorry. You might find someone, cultivate feelings with them with the delicateness of someone who's building something with Lego, but it's still about you. About you and your goddamn dragon. Suddenly you're seeing everyone through a thin but effective pane of glass — you can hear them laughing out of happiness, looking at you and saying something you can't hear because of the goddamn pane of glass. You try break it, reaching out, but you're still deaf to them. You can only hear the bad things your brain create about your disgusting self. So you stop trying reaching out, stop trying to convince yourself, and even all the praises in the world won't make you feel less miserable. You still seek them though, mostly as an automatic thing than a real desire. You get used to the burning. The pain that your knuckles against the wall causes somehow brings you to a peaceful moment. Adrenaline runs all over your body telling you you're still alive, mostly out of spite. Pain becomes common, the heat of the flames don't bother you anymore, yet every foreign touch feels like a bomb dropping on your body — it's because of all the shame of existing. I wish there was something poetic about that. However, there's just something very wrong about the way I'm living. 

quarta-feira, 12 de abril de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°59 - WANTED

Well, how you doing? Cool. I'm the way I've always been (between psychotic and depressed) Oh, why am I writing in english? Cause I'm fucking tired of having to translate my thoughts. When I'm seeing my doctors and we start talking about my shitty life, it feels like there's a timer just in front of my head counting how many time I'm wasting by being a bored dipshit with a fucked up brain that gave me a personality disorder. I guess that's what pisses me off the most when I think about going to these appointments; logically I understand that my rage comes from the undeniable fact that they're telling me all the stuff I need to hear, but it is still painful and gets under my skin like fire, burning up every other emotion. But hold on, the worst is yet to come. I'm technically pretty fucking useless and still don't have a single fucking clue of what I'd like to do with my life. So, who'd like to be my friend right? I don't have nothing but Korean music to talk about. Pretty sure I'm human version of watching paint dry. Don't get me wrong, I love all of my friends whom for an unusual cause still consider me their friend. I just feel like I belong less and less in other people's lives like I'm an old version of a program that doesn't run at all in a new upgraded software. I can't avoid wanting and wanting attention and surprises and to feel wanted and loved and not for a second to doubt this, even if my disorder is screaming the contrary in my head. I know I'm not my disorder, but in the end I kinda am. How do I ask somebody to deal with my feelings being  50x more intense than what other normal people experience? I can imagine in seconds at least 20 different scenarios of you abandoning me. I know it's not always real, but it's not something I can control. But I wanted to be wanted, so bad. I still do, I guess. I've made up my mind a certain time ago that I won't get in romantic relationships, but I still have my friends. I still could have more friends. It's easier for me when I want to disappear; sometimes everything is too much and the world doesn't need to see me breaking down. It's always been hard for me to to people in, mostly because of the 20 meters layers of  thick concrete that I used to build a fortress around me since I was a kid. People don't like walls, it's hard work that you don't even know if it will pay off. So, here I am, FBI's most unwanted. I'm always checking up how you're doing and I know that I never apologized for being a piece of shit 3 years ago, because as you may have noticed by now I'm always with my head sticked far up my egocentric ass. I hope you know that none of what I said back then was true. It was just depression eating me up for breakfast, lunch and dinner. As long as you're all okay, I'm okay. No need to hurry, to worry; I'm not going anywhere for now. This is not my home, however all of you treated me very well, and I'm always thankful. Sorry if I end up never fitting in; I never belonged here anyway. All of my best memories come from this special place of special people, my own secret magic garden inside my fortress.

"Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else." Richard Siken

domingo, 26 de março de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°58 - Carta fechada

Na maior parte do tempo é difícil pra mim saber exatamente onde eu estou e se eu realmente existo. Às vezes eu consigo passar um bom tempo centrada, sem muitos episódios de raiva ou ódio de mim mesma. Eu procuro falar o suficiente com meus amigos; mando mensagens e mesmo que às vezes não respondam, já é algo pra mim. As conversas que tenho me fazem sentir de carne e osso, e quase por um momento eu esqueço que no fim eu vou esquecer da maior parte disso tudo. Eu vou religiosamente ao psiquiatra e ao psicólogo, dois engodos que eu suporto por causa de minha mãe. Eu continuo não querendo viver, mas ninguém me dá ouvidos. Enquanto não aprendem a arte de deixar ir, eu fico remoendo toda minha trajetória até aqui, tudo o que meu transtorno destruiu, tudo o que ele sem pudor nenhum me tirou. Minha criação se baseou em atacar pra me defender; queria eu não ter sido assim, todo dia eu me arrependendo por algo que não é minha culpa. Como alguém ataca a si mesmo e sobrevive? Alguém sempre tem que pagar um preço, nunca é o perpetrador. Foi difícil aceitar que meu cérebro e eu nunca vamos estar em bons termos, afinal ele é um amante que me manda sinais de duplo sentido e eu me canso de ter que interpretar. Eu não pedi pra ser assim. Eu nunca quis ser assim, mas quem me trouxe a esse mundo cinza, que às vezes se colore quando as pessoas certas sorriem, nunca me viram como uma peça do tabuleiro; eles não viram quando o embate deles me empurrou pra fora da plataforma de xadrez. O rei e a rainha se degladiaram; eu fui pisoteada e nem percebi. Eles fizeram a eu que (acho que) existe hoje, e ao meu ver perdão nunca foi uma opção. O quão diferente eu poderia estar agora se eles não tivessem quebrado algo dentro de mim que não tem conserto? Eu me pergunto isso quase todos os dias. Tenho quase certeza de que não vou estar aqui ano que vem, mas sou grata por todos os meus amigos estarem bem, por todos os momentos (até os menores que não lembram) que eles partilharam comigo. Eles ainda são bonitos na minha memória, e perdão se eu nao puder estar em alguns próximos. Eu estou tentando muito não me odiar em tamanha grande escala, mas eu vivo com o inimigo. Bem, isso era pra ser um texto que pessoas seletas entenderiam, então deixa eu dizer: eu não te fiz, você que se construiu na pessoa excepcional que hoje és. Eu amo e sempre vou amar sua cabeça maluca, sou mais do que grata de receber seu amor; eu te escolheria em qualquer mundo. Sinto muito se o banheiro chegar pra nós algum momento não muito longe; você foi como  o sol pra mim por muitos anos e não há palavras suficientes pra minha gratidão. Você não me deve nada, lembre disso; enquanto você estiver feliz e saudável eu vou estar contente, e obrigada por ter tentado lutar por mim. Nossa afinidade foi o que nos uniu e não houve um dia sequer no qual eu deixei de pensar em você como minha amiga mesmo com todo nosso afastamento natural; sempre esteve no meu coração no lado mais florido. Meu amor não tem data de validade, não tem barreiras nem condições. Eu não perdôo, porém amo. Meu desejo é que toda a raiva dentro de mim se tornasse um combustível pra alimentar a felicidade de todos aqueles no meu coração, por que deus, só assim ela teria ela serventia além de me fazer abrir buracos em paredes. Eu continuo existindo num bolsão atemporal assistindo o mundo morrer enquanto eu ainda continuo viva, quase como por castigo. Seria bom poder lembrar das atrocidades que cometi e me transformaram em Atlas.

quinta-feira, 3 de novembro de 2016

The Depression Diaries, nº 57 - Um breve olhar na minha existência

Aqui vai um poema sobre o que andou e anda acontecendo na minha vida:

eu não tenho mais ninguém pra conversar
nem praticamente amigos
meu pai morreu e eu não derramei 1 lágrima
eu continuo sendo um fardo pros outros
não tenho o mínimo conceito de pessoalidade
a maior parte do tempo eu nem sei onde eu tô
eu odeio mudanças
e vou fazer uma mudança
minha casa não vai ser mais minha casa
e vou ter outra casa que vai ser minha casa
e eu só penso o tempo inteiro que eu preciso morrer
então eu assisto seriados e filmes pra me distrair desse pensamento
e não muito mais do que isso
eu tenho 23 anos e ano que vem vou ter 24 e depois 25 e em seguida 26
mas não vou ter tido vida nenhuma
eu estou em estado vegetativo e quase ninguém percebe
ninguém luta por mim o suficiente
ninguém vai além de um esforço pequeno
acho que eu acabei ficando assustadora demais
então eu que me foda
enquanto isso só gasto tempo com coisa inútel
como eu
que continua se fodendo pelos outros, pelos meus transtornos,
pelas coisas que assisto, por mim mesma por não saber
quem eu sou
o que eu estou fazendo aqui
do que eu gosto e não gosto
tal como nascer de novo
talvez eu gostaria
mas é só um tiro no escuro
e eu não me importo o suficiente pra tentar.