I’m at it again – the whole “I can’t sleep because I’m going through some mental shit right now” and since I haven’t written anything in awhile… this jibber jabber of text can hopefully help with the instability.
You could ask, who are you writing for? And, I’m going to be straight up and tell you that I’m writing for myself.
Writing is how I cope with my mental fragility. Therefore, I don’t care about the grammatical errors that happen in this post, I don’t care if my words are illogical… all I care about is the fact that I’m writing.
I’d rather write than shove a gun down my throat.
There are so many things that are racing through my head right now. I want to tackle how my manic-depression and PTSD keeps me awake at night: I’m tired of waking up screaming as another night-terror after night-terror after fucking. night. terror. blasts through my hippocampus as it rips through my emotional memories of nostalgic pain.
I want all this mental shit to go away, I want to fix how these thoughts affect me day to day. More importantly, I want to fix these thoughts so they aren’t a burden to others. I’m tired of being a burden to others. No one likes a complainer, no one likes a complainer.
Writing my thoughts out is how I tackle my problems.
I want to tackle how I was bullied. I want to tackle how I was abused. I want to tackle my outbursts. I want to tackle the horrible things I’ve said to others. I want to tackle my missteps. I want to tackle who I’ve hurt.
I want to tackle my insecurities. I want to tackle my pathetic fragility to think I’m not good enough. I want to tackle my anxiety. I want to tackle this sadness that just… loses the people around me… because who wants to be around this?
Listen, when I write this all out – I’m not looking for someone to tell me what I need to do next. I write this all out because my written world, is a world where my screaming can bounce off of walls.
Writing is my punching bag.
Writing out, speaking out, is freedom.
So many times when I’ve opened up to a friend, instead of “being there” they end up lecturing me about what I’m doing wrong and what I should be doing instead. The “these are your talents, I wish I had your talents, but you’re doing it all wrong and you should be doing it this way…” is I often hear when I breakdown my emotional shit to someone.
I love their sentiments. I can tell they care, and I’m not knocking down their concern. However, all I want is for them is to listen. Maybe give me a hug? We can go over the semantics of what I should be doing, or the exercises slash actions I need to take so to be in a happier place.
However, before we get to part where I take action, I’d just like a hug. Though, it’s weird because I don’t like opening up, as my anxiety increases because I feel as if I’m a burden. I don’t like being a burden.
Where do I get this philosophy from? I’m reminded about this when, as a little kid, my grandmother (dad side who is no dead) would say, “never be a burden to others… this is why I’m happy you’re a healthy kid because if you were retarded you’d be a burden”
Okay. It’s a little funny (when I was writing it out, I chuckled). But god damnit, imagine someone saying this to a seven year old. You know that humans often get their limiting beliefs by the age of 7… so… that fucking grandmother really instilled this apathetic “way of life” into my head.
Though I don’t like being a burden to others (by opening up). I love to open others up, I love to be there for others because giving is so much easier than receiving.
I will always remember the most romantic thing I probably ever did to my ex-girlfriend. Yes, this is a weird flex.
Let me tell you: one day my ex-girlfriend was crying in the shower because she was stressed out about her job, our relationship, and the pressures from her family. I could hear her tears. I could feel her fucking pain.
When I closed my eyes I imagined herself just holding her face with her hands as the water dripped from her head. The water and tears were indistinguishable and yet, her tears were so prominent that it was clear where the water and her tears separated into two different lanes.
I broke into her bathroom door, entered the shower with my clothes on, and just hugged her. I. hugged. her. in silence.
Again, I know this is a weird flex, but it worked.
This is how I’ve gotten many of my grown ass male friends to cry on my shoulder. People want to be listened to, seen, and loved.
I feel that when we cry, we’re not looking to be fixed at the moment. Instead, we’re looking for a hug… or a punching bag. We’re just looking for some release. Then, once the release is out of our bodies, we can then get to the part where we take action, where we figure out what we can do to be in a better place.
Being censured is debilitating.
We live in a world where people applaud those who do things differently, yet these same people will often limit, bully, or just flat out judge people for being different. You know what I’m saying here?
And, their comments hurt: “boo you suck / what are you doing? / stop what you’re doing, it’s weird” It’s confusing, because on one hand we’ll writing articles and give trophies to the “different ones” yet in the process we’ll make someone feel like shit for doing something that we find “out of the ordinary.” Ahhhh.
Their comments fucking hurt.
Yes, people often say I should ignore hateful comments: “you shouldn’t care what others think” however – you can only go through the negativity and put downs only so much until it weighs you down enough… to where you… die.
Okay. Maybe not die. But the comments can get you to a point where it keeps you from even trying something different.
People may say I’m weak, but imagine getting told you’re “shitty” over and over and over and over again… it gets to you man. It fucking gets to you. You’re ugly, you’re short, you’re trash. you’re asian, you’re this, you’re that. GAH. IT. FUCKING. GETS. TO. YOU.
I don’t know how to explain, it’s one in the fucking morning and my meds aren’t kicking in because… I don’t know. I’m just tired of feeling like this… every night I have dreams of taking a gun and placing it into my mouth and pulling the fucking trigger.
Don’t worry, I always tell myself that I’ll get through this… you’ll get through this… you’ll get through this… you’ll get through this… because I will. I have no other choice because somehow, someway, I always get through it… I know this to be true, which is why I don’t kill myself.
Also, I don’t have a gun.
Also, I’m a narcissistic conceited mother fucker and it’d be tough to kill myself because how would I be able to see my smile in the morning (by looking in the mirror)?
But I also don’t kill myself because when the depression goes away, holy shit I end up realizing that life is fucking fun… ya know?
I want to tackle how I’m indecisive. I want to tackle how I want to please everyone. I want to tackle how I have a gambling problem. I want to tackle how I make the same fucking mistakes over and over and over again.
I want to tackle what it means to be an asian-american male in this racist society (we’re talking from dating all the way to being treated in the workplace)… and somehow get over that shit.
I want to go over all my accomplishments because I think I’ve done a lot and I’m talented enough to do more… yet I’m a fucking idiot because (especially in the last six months) I’ve been wasting my talents making the same mistakes I made years ago. I’ve stopped writing. I’ve relapsed and started gambling again. I’ve stopped making content. I’ve stopped doing what I love. I’ve stopped evolving my art.
I want to tackle how I’m trying to be “me…” again. I was once a bright-eyed ebullient kid with a lot of pop in my step.
Did I just say “pop in my step?” hahaha.
Yes, I was someone who would talk to strangers all in the hopes to make these random people smile. I was a very hyper-active kid.
What am I now? There are hints of a few pops here and there: making people smile and laugh… but in general I find myself being punched by a comment, being broken by a memory, being reminded “I’m incapable” and it gets to me… and I spiral.
I’ve always spiraled, but it’s amplified now. Like in the past, I do my best to take this pain and wait for it to subside before I go out and see friends / see the world. Though, because my spiraling is amplified, this means that 90% of my time, I’m enclosed- by myself doing some inane thing.
I don’t want to be outside with a frown: it’s not about feeling sorry for myself… I mean it is… but I don’t want to make my friends have to deal with my shit because god damnit, it’s my shit: I think I am repeating myself (the whole burden thing).
I want to tackle how I crave intimacy. I want to tackle how I need to start writing again. I want to tackle everything and anything that is on my mind right now. It’s 1:01 am in the morning and I want to feel good again.
Woah. I feel a little bit better.
I love writing.
This is where I stop.
Thanks for listening.
In my bedroom – Los Angeles, CA
1:10am in the morning