New Entry, Same Day

Like I said, I always thought I would be dead by now.  Not necessarily suicide, just from reckless behaviour.  My habits of getting black out drunk on a regular basis to numb myself from my everyday life seem sure to bring me down.  Abducted, raped, hit by a car, over served, over dosed, you name it and it is a possibility.  I’ve had several boyfriends bring this to my attention, and you would think that would make me more self aware.  But that’s the thing; I’m not un-aware  –  I don’t care about my own well-being.  There is a difference.  I still don’t have any real concerns about anything bad happening.  I want to escape this world, and if I’m in a place where I’m not fully present and something bad happens, that’s how it goes.  I imagine I would be so scarred if they don’t take care of me, I would take care of it.

When I was growing up, I loved piercings.  I wanted more.  Always.  I had my ears pierced when I was 4 and got a second hole (only on the left bc that was cool) when I was 8.  Can’t remember all the ages of the rest but at 14 I got my belly button pierced, and I had in total at least 9 piercings in my ears.  When I finally told my mom I started cutting, she said she wasn’t surprised.  She said that when she asked me about why I wanted piercings in high school I said I wanted to feel the pain.  I don’t remember this but I believe her and suppose it makes sense I would move on to cutting.

Lost Items

Ok I’m back… I’ve been wallowing in a pool of self pity lately which only makes me mad for being ungrateful.  Let’s list things that I can remember I lost while drunk and/or high … Marc Jacobs sunglasses, two Tiffany bracelets, and silver and pearl bracelet from a family trip to Costa Rica (the last family trip we’d ever take the 4 of us), a Jamie Wolf + Derek Lam collaboration ring … actually I lost two of those and since it was a $1000 ring I told myself I wasn’t allowed to buy a third.  Which makes me think of my red flash ray bans which I obviously had before sororities ruined them … after the third pair I cut myself off.  I lose everything.  I’ve lost at least 5 AMQ scarves (RIP as today is the 8 year anniversary of his death) as well as an AMQ ring.  I worked at AMQ for almost two years and to be honest when I think back to my 11 years in NYC those are my favorite times.  Sometimes / all the time I wonder if I fucked up by leaving NYC.

By the time I left NYC I was a full blown and raging alcoholic.  If I had had more access to drugs, I would have continued my cocaine habit as well.

I’m going to switch moods right now.  Thanks to depression this is my life every February – switching moods like a bandit.  And right on cue I forget.  Story of my fucking life.  I can’t remember a Goddamn thing and the more anxious I get the less I remember.

I had an awkward conversation over text with my boyfriend earlier today.  I told him it was the 8th anniversary of Lee Alexander McQueen’s death and he obviously had no idea what I was talking about.  So I brought him up to speed and his next message was “suicide is never the answer.”  He knows my struggles with depression anxiety and cutting.  I tried to restrain myself aside from letting him know if you don’t live it, you don’t understand it.  I’ve never fully tried to kill myself…just lots of thoughts and wishes.  The worst I had the courage to do was swallow a bottle of advil which just made me feel sick.  But I get it.  I understand people that have to let go.  I honestly always figured I’d be dead by now.  Thought I would be a member of 27 club but I wasn’t.  I thought maybe I’d found the 28 club, but no luck.  So here I sit at 32 completely unprepared and confused.  I’m confused because I think I am not supposed to be here anymore.  I’m here so I don’t break my parents’ hearts.

I know I am jumping around but that’s how this fucked up brain works.  Because this is a fucked up brain.  I’m so grateful the mental illness stigma is slowly declining, but at this point I’m 32, and I think some of us can’t be saved.  I will always be desperately sad.

The first night I cut … I hate to write this but I read in a gossip magazine (I rarely read them I swear!) and there was an interview with Demi Lavato talking about bipolar disorder and how she got a tattoo on her wrist to cover up cuts.  My sick self thought maybe that’s the release I need, let’s try it.  So I now have scars and tattoos on my left forearm and scars on my right hand wrist.

The first night I cut I broke the head off of a razor for shaving.  I had never felt so scared but still compelled.  At this point I was living in a 2 bedroom turned into 3 and my bedroom was made out of part of the living room.  I had no windows and no closet so I built (my very dear and best guy friend built) a loft bed.  My clothes hung under my bed.  It was tight to say the least.  This was the only apartment in which I had vermin … there would be mice poop in my lofted bed.

Anyways I remember sitting up there and cutting.  And I felt scared as fuck.  And sick. When I felt like I had enough release I texted my brother sobbing and he came to meet me at a bar across the street.  I was confused about what I had done.  And it was funny because up until then he was the fuck up child (we will revisit this later).

That’s enough history for now.  I guess the point of this post is I’ve lost thousands of dollars physically, and I think I’ve lost myself entirely mentally.

Worth a Shot

I don’t know a thing about blogging.  I don’t even have snap chat.  But I’m hoping this can be a therapeutic outlet for me as well as a connection with anyone who has ever felt as alone as I have in life.  I often think about all the of terrible things I have done while drunk and/or high, and I don’t have the courage to tell anyone who knows me but I can’t keep it inside anymore – so here we are.  Most people wouldn’t suspect me to have severe depression and anxiety.  I was told my whole life how pretty and smart I was, and I maintained a bubbly (albeit often fake) personality.  And I can’t deny that I lived a crazy, fast, unreal life working in luxury fashion in NYC.  At some point, as I continue my confessions, we will get to the first time I cut myself, and that’s when it gets juicy as a story but embarrassing and pathetic as a reality.

First and foremost – I am an addict.  I’m an addict who has suffered from severe depression and anxiety my whole life.  On one hand I want to say that’s not an excuse but on the other hand it is.  My childhood and family situation is and was ideal which just makes me feel guilty.  I grew up with two loving parents (still married) who supported me in every way.  At the risk of admitting how spoiled I was, I was given my dad’s 2 year old A4 Quattro when I turned 16.  I was lucky.  I wanted to try everything as a kid, and they let me even though I would quit in less than a year.  Piano?  Sure here’s an electric piano (keyboard?), horseback riding? sure … soccer, softball, dance, volleyball…  You name it, I tried it then quit.

I was a sensitive kid and idolized my brother and father because I thought they were the coolest, and I desperately wanted them to think I was just as cool.  I was anxiety ridden and lived in fear of embarrassing myself.  I will never forget my attempt at softball.  I struck out my first at bat during our first scrimmage and was so mortified I said I hurt my ankle and wanted to go home.  And that was it for softball.

The thought of failing, or receiving anything less than an A, scared the shit out of me.  When I think back, I don’t know why I was this way because my parents didn’t put pressure on me to get all As.  I put the pressure on myself.  In elementary school, I would stay up until 3am working on posters, projects, presentations, etc.  One time I made a poster board about dogs and glued a dog bone to it … obviously one of our dogs proceeded to eat it and ruin the entire thing so I started over at midnight the night before the due date.  Other times I would just decide I didn’t like what I had done, would throw it out, and I would start all over – again at midnight.

There is one fear that ruled my life from as early as I can remember until high school that I have never shared with anyone.  I lived in fear of peeing my pants.  I didn’t even have a problem with this, but I was terrified that I might end up in a situation where I needed to pee and had no where to go.  This fear literally ruled my childhood.  I faked sick for every field trip possible because I was scared I might have to pee while on the bus and what if I couldn’t hold it???  Brownies campouts where we would go on long hikes… Where was I supposed to pee?  Nope – not happening. I don’t feel well and need to call my mom to go home.

My parents sent me to a therapist for the first time when I was in 6th grade.  I have a terrible memory – which I will talk about later – but I remember my mother telling me she made an appointment with a therapist for me.  Luckily for her – my older brother had a girl friend that also rode our school bus; she would talk about her shrink, and I thought it was super cool.  So when my mom told me she made this appointment, I was like hell yes.  She confessed that she hadn’t slept all night because she was so nervous to tell me and see my reaction.  The reason my parents felt the need to put me into therapy was simple.  Like I said – I faked sick to get out of things that made me anxious.  Therefore I had a stomach ache literally every other day because everything made me anxious.  So when my mom said she made an appointment, she said it was because I was having so many stomach aches all the time.  Since I thought it was “cool”, everyone was happy.  At some point later in time I learned that they sent me to therapy because I didn’t want to see other people or do anything with friends.  This is true – it was all true.  Anxiety made my stomach hurt, and what if I was at a sleepover and had to pee in the middle of the night?  What if I became the weird girl that had to pee all the time!?  I lived in fear of my friends saying “Didn’t you just go?”  The anxiety that I might have to pee so often my friends would make fun of me actually kept me awake the entire night.  I ended up having my mom pick me up in the middle of the night more often than not.  Finally we even created a “secret code” so when I called on the phone to ask permission, I could let her know I wanted her to say I wasn’t allowed to stay.

The pee story is getting long, but it’s not over yet.  I’ll never forget a time we went camping for Indian Princesses, and one day everyone was going out on canoes.  I stayed behind at the cabin alone because I was scared I would be on the canoe on the water and have to pee with no where to go.  Indian Princesses is a father-daughter dynamic and I told my dad to go without me.  There was a period of time where we would drive to Canada as a family for a variety of reasons.  The drive is maybe 7 hours, but I was so nervous about peeing my pants I cried wolf every hour.  What if we were in a stretch where there was no where to pee???  I even remember one time my mom came into the bathroom with me because they didn’t believe I could possibly have to pee that much.  For me the anxiety of possibly not having a place to pee genuinely made me feel like I had to pee.  This is such a weird subject … but when you suffer from anxiety you can know its unwarranted but you still can’t stop it.

Other obstacles… summer camp… middle school camp…basically any kind of camping.  To come with my next rant …

I suppose it’s no surprise that this was a popular book in our house…