“It’s not like astronauts are braver than other people; we’re just meticulously prepared. We dissect what it is that’s going to scare us, and what it is that is a threat to us and then we practice over and over again so that the natural irrational fear is neutralized.”—
in the wake of Robin Williams death there’s been a lot of talk about depression being a disease and everyone is posting hotline numbers and “I wish he would have told someone” “he was so loved.” Which is phenomenal. But a lot of these people are the same people I’ve gone to - multiple times - trying to talk about my depression / being bipolar and have been vehemently denied. All these people (friends?) posting about supporting people with depression but when it’s right in front of them they do nothing. It’s bullshit. Posting a number, pretending to support someone because they’re a celebrity but not your friend? Why is Robin Williams worth your time but I’m not?
I feel like I’ve already missed everything, that it’s too late to move to a new city or fall in love or start a career. I am afraid I’m going to spend the rest of my life playing catch up. I am afraid that I will never be able to be present, to enjoy what’s happening, and that my life will be a series of ups and downs but I will always feel the downs and only remember the ups months or years later, when the joy is a memory and not a full fledged genuine emotion. I want to move to the UK but am afraid to make another move by myself and I don’t know where to find people who will actually move with me or if I should just stop trying to find people at all and live as a recluse. I’ve been feeling very “what’s the point” lately and it’s not attractive, rather it’s quite sophomoric but I don’t know how else to feel.
when your life has been characterized by depression and anxiety, how do you learn how to feel differently?
I spent the fourth at home in dc. my friends and I were in the middle of a conversation and kelsey referred to me as the “crazy one” - we expect you to have sex, we expect you to do lines of coke off a dresser, we expect you to smack the guy who approaches you at a bar etc etc. I just don’t think crazy is the right word. my stories make me crazy? why does liking sex and drugs and sticking up for myself make me crazy, and not just simply human?
what’s with the label? why do I always feel so sick? what is wrong with me?
and this has been a 5:45 am list and rant, courtesy of dr pepper
this isn’t anything besides a list of things I need to do / read / see but I can’t find a clean sheet of paper to write on so here we go:
Nick McDonell is the author of Twelve. You hated the movie, the book was meh (in 2012). Read his other two “highly acclaimed novels” The Third Brother and An Expensive Education, and his various pieces of journalism, and re-decide if you like him.
Twelve is like Less Than Zero, so you might as well re-read that as well. And, perhaps all Palahniuk. And then remember why you like, and dislike, transgressional fiction so much
Watch Pan’s Labyrinth because you love it
Stop reading your tumblr from 2008. It’s making you depressed
Go see Palo Alto. Try to forget that you don’t like James Franco as a writer and watch with an open mind, critique later
Rummage through your million stacks of books and find A Visit From the Goon Squad (seriously. where the fuck did you put it?). If you can’t find it, buy it again but not via amazon
Cry because David Sedaris is speaking at Politics and Prose, and you left your copy of Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls in freaking Boston
Also - do more research on the whole Amazon/Hachette war
DO NOT give in to the lure of new york city, no matter how enticing (for instance, just because someone has an apt in the east village, that does not mean you should go to said apt in the east village)
DO give in to the lure of the mountains, of leelanau, to diet vernors and cheeseshop on the dock, lake michigan walks, fleece blankets, melted toes, legs bit by gravel, kissing at the lot on the roof of the jeep, to sand in your underwear, tying knot after knot while sliding through the river —- give in to that life, not this one
Is it possible to be over it all by 23? Blogging, going out to the coolest places, going to all the shows, the art galleries, reading contemporary literature, memorizing Howl, writing poetry, performing said poetry, eating clean, working out, only drinking good drinks, blah blah blah. I feel like everyone is trying to do these things but I’ve done them and I don’t have the energy anymore besides liking what I like for no reason besides the fucking fact that I like them.
It’s weird. I feel like if someone were to meet me now they would have no idea of the shit I’ve done, of what I am capable of. And why? What has stunted me the past two years? My stress reducers used to be creative and now I don’t know what they are- alcohol? Sex? Am I stunted? Or am I finally learning to just be myself and like things because I want to like them, and not feel the need to justify said things?
I feel like my life in virginia and my life wherever else I am living (Michigan, Athens, London, Boston) will never converge. I am two different people and I always yearn for the other. Of course, because of course. I want Boston, I want Michigan, I want the crooked narrow streets of hidden London, I want the New York subway, I want to drink coffee and walk along the canals in Amsterdam, I want Alex, I want Katie, I want Cat, I want all of these things and I don’t know how to get them.
The other day I went to our dive wearing a tye-dye shirt, jeans, and a Marc Jacobs jacket I wore throughout the UK four years ago. I was being given the usual spiel by a drunken [married] man (er, manchild) who graduated from my high-school in 2003 “you’re gorgeous. you’re so sexy. your breasts are like little pillows I want to sleep on. you are so smart. love me love me love me" and because I am trying this thing called "being nice" in the hopes that it turns guys away because the whole "sarcastic aggressive" thing was just getting me laid (them laid?) too much (lol. too much- is that possible?), I let him give me (unasked) advice on my life while my hands balled into my pockets and I scrapped my knuckle against a piece of rock. I had completely forgotten it was there, but like all good stolen memorabilia, I remembered the hardened ash and pumice from the caldera at the Phlegraean Fields in Italy that I picked up while visiting my uncle in Naples. So, yes Mr HHS Class of 2003, please give me your stupid advice and mistake my smiling eyes for naiveté but do you have a fucking piece of the Solfatara crater in your pants pocket? PROBABLY FUCKING NOT. I do not need your advice.
…or anyone’s actually because I’ve spent a lot of fucking time on my own and have turned out pretty okay for the most part, and really, what the fuck could you tell me that I haven’t figured out myself already? Sure, some interesting info about planning a wedding and some tidbits about mortgages and also maybe how to cheat on your spouse but I’ll learn all that shit in due time and everything that comes out of your mouth is just words, empty fucking words.
I guess that’s the whole point of this. People keep telling me what to do in order to be “something” without stopping to think that maybe my “something” has already happened, and yeah I’m fucking confused as shit about where my life is headed, but I like myself and the way I am and how I do things, but people keep speaking, instead of listening, keep trying to shape me into “something” but I am no longer malleable, I am done.
However, I did have an extraordinary amount of fervor once, and I don’t know where it went. So:
boy #2 @ 9:30pm: “hey, haven’t talked to you in awhile. what have you been doing?”
boy #3 @ 10:45pm: “happy new year kg. what are you wearing?” (straight and to the point, I appreciate it)
so if someone could please explain why these dudes have been nonexistent for the past couple months and then, on the same day, all decide strike up a conversation that I have no desire to partake in?! sorry boys I’ve grown up and am not falling for your sales pitch expressions of love. I am over you over you OVER YOU BYE
(besides #3 because lets be honest, I’ve been in love with him last fall —- and a laugh that makes you want to be funny just so you can hear it again oh fuck.)
it is 7:12 am on wednesday morning. I have been up since yesterday. closed last night at work and got home around 2:30 am which is pretty nice and then clearly I decided to go through all of my syllabi and write all my assignments in my planner and then just curl up under my covers and not sleep. what the fuck is that about.
I miss Athens and OU so much. I look back on it and want to go back, and I worry that I will do that in a few years when I look back on Boston and that makes me so sad but I have no idea what to do differently so I can look back and feel fine. I think that when I move to Chicago it will be like that, similar to Athens, just because so many of my friends will be in one concentrated area and that makes me feel calm. It’s like, I look back on OU and think that I could have tried harder but then I think that is something that I only know because I’ve grown up - that I was good enough for OU, that I was smart enough, that now I have the confidence that I really really really needed while at school - and as for now, in Boston, I’m not sure there is anything else I can be doing, and maybe that’s more validated than me at OU.
I have to be at work at 10:45 and won’t be done until 5:45. so sleeping would be preferable. I am assuming it’s the lithium and strattera and wellbutrin keeping me up. cocktail wooh. I hate taking them - now I’ve started psyching myself up about swallowing pills which should really be the least of my worries - but I get so depressed when I am not on them. I mean dangerously depressed, dark and sad and gone from normality. so I have to take them. a lot of people disappointed me this past weekend and I was pretty morose while at work and a few people asked me if I was okay and it made me feel nice, that people weren’t tossing my feelings aside. but I guess it ends there because it wasn’t as if I was comfortable enough with anyone to explain why I was sad, all I could do was smile and say “yeah I’m fine.” which I am, I guess comparatively speaking to when I’m been reaaaal bad, but I’m not fine, I think.
sometimes I try to remember who I was before I felt I should change to appease the many people in Boston who think I should because I’m “different” and now I can’t remember who that person was. which I don’t think is a good thing. rather I think it’s kind of upsetting and I’m a bit disappointed in myself.