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baesopfables · 3 years

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life ain’t copacetic.

Imagine swimming in an ocean. Sometimes people are swimming with you and sometimes not. When they aren’t, it’s not too bad just takes some getting used to. You swim and swim, always struggling a little bit. Some days it takes a lot to keep your head above water. Everyone else has floaties or paddle boards or even boats. But you have none of those things. But you try your best to keep afloat and interact with everyone else. This is generalized depression.

Now, you are still swimming but you also have a fear of drowning. You know, logically, it is unlikely because people swim here all the time and there are life guards and boats in case of emergencies. But that doesn’t help the fact that you are swimming 30 feet above the floor of a seabed and 100 feet from any shore. You are still afraid of drowning, you can’t help it, it is just there. Also, so many other animals live in this ocean, not to mention some people who ride their boats dangerously close to you without a care in the world. This is generalized anxiety.

Over time, you start to slow down. I mean, everyone else comes has flotation devices, but all you were given was a suit. They can lay atop the water, laugh with their friends, maybe toss a beach ball around. But you have to keep swimming. Keep moving. Sometimes someone lets you sit on the surfboard or tosses you a ring. But they eventually want it back, so you are back in the wave-it. As time drags on, you become tired. you don’t really see the point anymore. Wouldn’t it be easier to just stop swimming? It seems sinking would be a final release. You arms wouldn’t be sore anymore. You wouldn’t have to pretend you are okay with the constant paddling. You wouldn’t have to rely on others to give you a break. You could just--let go. And it would all be over. This is depressive suicidal thoughts.

Whip! You are sucked underwater. You are in a riptide and it is pulling you away from everyone else. Generally, there is no reason for it, it just happens. Although there are triggers on rare occasions such as a cold spot that you should have been aware of and taken better caution to avoid. Now you are gasping for breath. People have told you before that when this happens, you have to stay calm and not panic. You have to swim with the flow and hope it lets you out some place where it is easier to swim back up to the top. Of course this makes sense in theory. But they aren’t the ones currently in the riptide getting sucked another 100 feet away from others, the lifeguards, the safe boats. Wonder if it sucks you to the seafloor, then what? You don’t have enough oxygen to make it to the top. So you panic. Sometimes it is a small riptide, maybe brings you down for a short minute. Sometimes it is stronger, bringing you down until you can’t see the sun’s rays through the waves. These are panic attacks.

You finally rise at the surface, relieved for the most part, but you generally feel exhausted. You don’t have the energy to be frustrated anymore or sad or anything, really. You are just tired. You don’t want a break or people to help out, because what is the point? So you can go back in the water and do it all over again? All that does is make you sad because you can’t have it all the time. The highs and lows are pointless. Might as well just stay constant. You might as well just keep moving. Just keep moving. Just keep moving. Just keep moving. Just keep moving. This is ennui.

Eventually the frustration comes back. You don’t want to drown. But you don’t want to keep swimming. But you don’t want a five second break after 6 hours of paddling. You just want to be like them. You want them to understand how the fuck it feels to be you. To struggle constantly. To constantly struggle and struggle and struggle and get more and more and more tired each everlasting second. They don’t understand. They have rafts and boats and floats and rings and you have nothing. It’s not fair. Fuck them. You snatch somebody’s raft and kick them away. “You see how it feels? Sucks doesn’t it!” You sit back and rest finally.. but it’s not really rest is it? You watch as the other person paddles and heaves for breath. They are asking other people to help and they pity them and drag them aboard or give them some relief with their ring. You feel guilty... It’s not their fault they don’t understand. You can’t just lash out at them because they don’t know how you feel. Did it really solve anything in the end? Was not struggling for a minute really worth the overwhelming sense of guilt you feel now? This is a hell of a lot worse because now everyone doesn’t like you. No one will share with you now or help when you need them. The lifeguards return raft back and you are back at square one. Worse off than you started. This is displaced aggression.

All of these feelings are a part of manic depression. You feel the highs and the lows but they always return to a below average state of living. There is no cure. Hurting yourself won’t solve it. Hurting others won’t solve it. Doing nothing won’t solve it. It is a constant cycle of trying to find the best solution, no matter how bad it might feel. Sometimes feeling like shit feels better than nothing at all. At least it is something. Something that makes you feel real. The only thing you can do is try to make the best of the situation. You have to try to make those connections enough where people care about you enough to share their raft and let you play ball and swim alongside you as they hold your hand. You can only hope that there are some people out there who love you enough to suffer a little with you and not judge you when you experience the lows of the never-ending cycle. You hope that they will know that they are the highs. And the highs are all that we have, and we are thankful.

Share your raft. And don’t judge other people for not having one.

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baesopfables · 3 years

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life ain’t copacetic.

I tried to do it. I tried to kill myself. It was my last chance of peace. But i pussied out. Of course I did, honestly. I just couldn’t do it by myself. Wonder if I was left paralyzed not dead? That’s what I was worried about. Because no one would let me die then. So I didn’t jump in front of that car. I dived out of the way. And I drove my self to the emergency room. They noticed I was in distress and she asked what was wrong.

I told her “I think I want to kill myself. I tried to stab myself but I didn’t do it hard enough. I tried to get hit by a car but clearly that didn’t work. I don’t know what to do.” She immediately brought me back.

They took my phone, everything out of my pockets, my shoestrings, my pants. They ran an IV and asked me about my medications. They asked if I had addictions. I said no. Although I drank very often and smoked a pack a day. I did tel them that. They gave me Xanax and I slept for a while. Six hours in they asked if I could call anyone to get me. I said no.

A few hours past and I started to feel guilty. I wanted to go home. But I knew they wouldn’t let me without someone. So i called my grandmother. I thought she would be upset. Hate me. Disappointed.

But she didn’t. She grabbed my things and brought me to her home. Fed me. Made me a blow up mattress. Put on a shitty Disney movie. And held me. Just held me. Like she had done many times in the past.

When I had panic attacks as a kid, at least once a week, she would do this. It made me feel safe. Like I was cared for. Like I was loved. To this day it is the only thing that can stop me. My attacks can last hours or days. But being held always seems to fix them.

But she knew even though this was different, it would help. She was the first person in my family that I connected to since I was a child. It had been so long before I had someone. And now finally, I did.

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baesopfables · 3 years

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life ain’t copacetic.

I left my girlfriend I lived with to be with him. My manager. I was 18. He was 26. I thought he was everything: smart, funny, thoughtful, inciteful. We had our laughs and our secret romance. But I never cheated. The moment I realized I was in love, I went home and woke her up and told her I had to leave. She left. On very bad terms. Attacked me. Ruined my things. And i sat alone in an apartment 30 minutes from my job. But you know who lived two minutes away from there? Him. So I stayed with him often. He never left the house anyway.

He had a lot of problems: bipolar, manic, severe depression, agoraphobia, trigger anxiety. But I supported him. And I supported his late night habits and his drinking habits and his fits of rage. I don’t know why. We only went on one date, my birthday, went terribly, he never spoke. Had a dress and everything. He did bring me to meet his parents. They talked about his ex often. I mean, so did he, the constant comparisons. Tried to prove I was different. I wasn’t a cheater. I was honest. I was too busy trying to prove to him I’m meant for him to even bother to cheat.

The last few months went slow. Never speaking. I was there though. Always stuck inside. Never went anywhere. Never watched movies together. Just sat there. Studied. I didn’t have school so I just watched. We cooked sometimes. Slow danced. But there’s was this ever growing distance. And I feared it. He didn’t even speak to me the last few months. Told me to stop when I touched his skin. Never kissed me anymore. I don’t know why I kept going. I would do anything to make him like me. Buy food. Clean his car. Read him books.

Then valentines came. And went. I come over in my outfit two weeks later, ready to go out on our rescheduled date. And he is wearing pajamas. Outside. On the steps. I sit down in my dress and heels and he tells me he wants me to grab my things and leave. I cry and plead and cry. I grab my things, go to the bathroom and lay in the tub. I cry and cry against the porcelain tub. A form of solace. And he sits next to me. Telling me I have to go and that he is sorry.

I leave. And sit on the bottom steps for hours. He sees me there. Does nothing. And I cry more. I sit in my car for all night. Not wanting to go back home. Alone. Abandoned. Empty. I have no friends. I have no family. I am completely alone.

The worst part, besides not having anyone, was that he told me he loved me. He promised he did. And my dumb ass believed him. Full fledged. Dumb ass. Why did I ever think anyone would love me. The girl and I loved each other, but not like that. And we both knew that. We knew this arrangement was out of convenience. We never grew to be in love.

But he lied. I felt betrayed. So our job closed. I got a new one. And began the next part of my life. The first six months were awful. I was always upset. I hurt myself often. Not like the cut myself sort of way. More like the let people punch me and take advantage of me sort of way. I had no sense of self worth. I let just about anyone abuse me the way they saw fit. Want to throw me down? Sure. Want to take advantage of me in my sleep? Why not. Want to berate me for hours and break me down until I feel worthless? Go right ahead. It’s all on the playing field now.

Some were better at it than others and I mean professional abusers. Congrats to them. These ones left scars. And while the world grew to hate me—maybe they thought I was a slut, unhinged, temperamental, crazy, unpredictable, weird—I grew to hate me too. Because what was I worth to anyone but someone to take their anger out on. I was convinced that this was the extent of my worth.

Then I tried to kill myself. And everything changed.

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baesopfables · 3 years

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life ain’t copacetic.

You know, I really wasn’t a piece of shit back then. I just didn’t care about impressing people or making them like me. I did that whole “be everybody’s friend” thing for years and it got me nowhere. What really pissed people off was one of three things:

1) I really cared about my job. And because I cared, I would call out people who didn’t. I was an assistant manager for a long time so, naturally, those traits carried over. I didn’t ask nicely and I didn’t ask twice. That’s what I was taught. When people respect you, it works. Trust me, that used to be the norm. But when you are in a new place with a low status AND you’re seen as, not only a woman, but a child—you are called a bitch. I didn’t really care about this because I knew I didn’t do it out of spite and I genuinely wanted everything to be better. It wasn’t until I stopped caring that I realized trying was futile.

2) I was weird. Outwardly positive and supportive. Friendly. Flirty as times. It was my way of tricking myself into being “apparently happy” but, although most people thought it was funny, some people saw it as a sign of a child. No respect for the child. Put up with the child. Ask the child to do anything and everything because you know she will. She will take your shift, do your side work, take your table. She’s not a hard worker who doesn’t mind taking on extra responsibility to help out, she’s gullible. Take advantage of the child. That idiot.

3) The manager and friend of everyone couldn’t stand me so proceeded to make rumours about me. I pointed out on multiple occasions that she treats people like shit and sexually harasses employees. Everyone knew thing. But they just let it happen. As someone who has been treated like shit and sexually abused my whole life, I wasn’t going to let this go. So I didn’t. And she retaliated. She said I slept with managers. That I stole money. That I talked shit about people behind their back. That I lied about things. All of—every bit of it— untrue.

But who is going to believe me, hm? Who is going to believe that child? Who is going to hear my side of things? Who is going to ask me what my hobbies are or my interests or how my day was? No one. So I let it go. And I let people hate me. And I let them abuse me. Because what was the point. It’s not like I haven’t dealt with this before, I just thought it would be over by adulthood. And I was wrong. Her time came and she left. So did the other one. I sacrificed myself for the job during a pandemic; worked twice as hard for half the money. Then I quit. After promises of promotion and better treatment for 3 years. All pointless. Because of my age, my gender, and rumours. No one gave me the chance I deserved.

This is why they hate me. Because they never gave me a chance. Because they’d rather talk shit to my face and behind my back, run all over me, serve me shit to eat because they knew I would let them. Because I gave up.

I gave up because of what happened to me several months before. Something that scarred me for life. And I was recovering. But my story doesn’t matter does it. It’s the stories around me that do.

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