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isa-ly · 3 years

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THE TRUTH UNTOLD

TW: mental illness, eating disorders, depression, anxiety

I know the title might be a fun little hint to a certain k-pop song (which is a reference about three people will understand) but despite that little quirky pun, this post I’m about to write and that you’re about to read, is not gonna be easy. Or witty, or funny like some of the previous posts were. It’s most definitely going to be the longest one, though.

Because, in all honesty, this is the one post I have been absolutely dreading to make. However, it’s also the post that I kind of started this blog for because, unlike my depression, anxiety, panic attacks, insomnia and quarter-life crisis, this is something only my closer circle and those who happened to ask, really know about.

And, once again in all honesty, this is the actual reason I started therapy almost a year ago. Because in every way possible, shit had hit the fan so hard that there had been nothing left but to step on the emergency breaks. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself here. So, let’s try and start from the beginning.

I’ve talked about my more or less mental breakdown and burn out during my last year of university a few times now. Didn’t spare any details either. However, there is one thing that I’ve been mindfully avoiding that actually took up a pretty big part of that time of my life. The reason I avoided it, was because in my head, I kept running in circles on how I would phrase it and explain it in a way that would a) not sound too shocking and b) not make me look like a complete stranger to people who, until now, had no idea of what I’m about to say.

Eventually, though, I realized that I was doing the exact same thing I’ve always been doing. Which was searching for excuses to not talk about the biggest struggle in my life and make myself vulnerable. And I don’t want to make these excuses anymore because, really, all they ever did was harm me. So, here goes nothing.

Hello. My name is Isa. And for over a year now, I have been suffering from an eating disorder called anorexia nervosa.

The sheer act of just having typed this sentence out on virtual paper, threw me so hard that I spent a good 15 minutes simply staring at my laptop screen just now. I told you, this wasn’t going to be easy.

Since the only place I’m really “promoting” this blog on is Instagram, I’m just going to try and somehow use that as a segue to this post. Over the last year, I’ve received quite a few messages from friends, family and sometimes also random acquaintances, whenever I posted a picture of myself on my story or feed. Some of them were jokey, some of them interested and a very select few were concerned, too. All of them were about my apparent change of appearance, however. Of course, I didn’t only receive those messages online. The people who know and see me in real life, the above mentioned inner circle, have known for a while and some of them, as much as I wish they hadn’t had to, saw all of it happen in real life.

I know I included it in the trigger warnings already, but I want to point it out one more time here because I know how incredibly triggering these things can be – especially to people who have struggled or are struggling with similar issues. So, if reading about body image, dieting, weight loss and eating disorders makes you uncomfortable or could trigger bad memories and behaviour, this post might not be the one for you. I don’t want to be patronizing, you know what’s best for you, just wanted to make sure to highlight it before I continued.

I also want to preface this by saying that I can and only will talk about my own experience here. I am in no way, shape or form an expert on mental health and eating disorders and what I’m going to say and talk about, is purely a narration of what happened in my own life. Eating disorders, just like any other mental illness, are very individual and I do not want to come off as blurting out generalizations about them. Just so that we’re clear here.

Therapy taught me that the psychological, biological and/or societal origin of eating disorders is still almost completely scientifically unknown. It is for that exact reason, that the various EDs are some of the most stereotyped and stigmatized mental illnesses there are – which is also why it took me so long to actually pluck up the courage and energy to talk about it. I imagined people reading about my anorexia and thinking: “Oh, I bet it’s because she was bullied for her weight when she was a kid”, or: “Well, just another one of those girls who wanted to be skinnier”. Possibly also: “I never would have thought that someone like her would end up with an eating disorder. She always seemed so confident!”

So, to combat the fear of coming off like a cliché or sob story, I knew simply had to tell my whole and honest story. Because even if I’m worried about being put in a box or labelled as something I’m not, it still happened. And it’s still my story. And to move on from it, or better, with it, I have to tell it. And I have to tell it right.

So, here it goes.

Ever since I can remember, I have disliked my body. Growing up as a Human Person™ in this society, I realize that’s not really something that makes me stand out (which, if you think about it, is actually incredibly fucking sad). Apart from my own self, however, no one ever really shamed for the way that I looked and I was also never bullied or teased by others because of it. So, that’s a no for the “Oh, I bet it’s because she was bullied for her weight when she was a kid”-stereotype. It makes me want to gauge the patriarchal beauty standard’s eyes out, to think that never actively having been shamed for my body or weight, is something that I can consider a “privilege” in this world. I’m aware that a lot of kids and adults don’t have that twisted privilege, which, again, just makes me want to set the world of body ideals on fire, but I don’t want to diverge too much from the point of this post.

Remember that society I was talking about? Yeah, with that around, having someone point out or shame you for how your body looks different from what’s considered the ideal, isn’t really something that’s necessary in order for you to still notice it and develop massive insecurities. So, even though I was “lucky” and “privileged” enough to have avoided being bullied for my body by real-life people, I still grew up not liking the way I looked, always noticing that my stomach, my thighs, my arms, my boobs, my butt, were different to those of the girls everyone called pretty. Which inevitably led to me harbouring a contained, yet undeniably significant amount of self-hatred for the way my body looked over time.

Now, I might have been one of many body-conscious teenagers, but, in quite stark contrast to that, I was also a seemingly self-confident one. Or at least I really, really wanted to be. It’s what everyone always told me I came across as. The loud, opinionated and self-assured girl, who didn’t care what people thought of her. Maybe that was to compensate for my own insecurities, maybe it was for protection, or maybe it was also because I just knew, or hoped, it was the right way to go. I believed and preached that how I looked, what I weighed and what I ate didn’t matter, both to myself and to all of my friends and family. I knew I was absolutely fine the way that I was, as long as I was physically and mentally healthy. I’ve always known that, and I fully believe in it too. And yet, here I am. About to tell you what both you and me are already suspecting: The story of how that knowledge didn’t end up protecting me as well as I thought it would.

Despite me always having believed in not giving a shit about beauty standards, ideal body types and the obsession with whatever the fuck “skinny”, “slim thick” and “lean” are supposed to be, it undeniably had an effect on me. Just like it has an effect on literally every other person, regardless of gender or age. It’s pretty much passed onto us the minute we’re born, like a part of our literal DNA. It makes me sick to my very core, but I always knew that this insecurity, no matter how much I knew it shouldn’t have ever been one and no matter how much I fought to stand above it, was woven into the very fabric of my being. The very minute we learn to interact with others and the world around us, the clear, limited and completely unrealistic image of how we’re supposed to look in order to meet societal expectations, is indoctrinated into our innocent brains – consciously, subconsciously and in literally every other way possible.

I don’t want to give a lecture on how society, media, and peers make us believe it’s necessary and right to chase bodies that, realistically, no one can ever outrun, but I felt like saying at least this much about it to set the base for what’s about to come. Certainly, this almost innate, underlying dislike for my body – or most parts of it – wasn’t the sole reason for developing an eating disorder in my early twenties. But it was most definitely a cruel predisposition that played a big part in how my anorexia unfolded and the leverage it had and still has on me.

I mentioned in the beginning how, despite it being one of the most common mental health disorders, there’s barely any scientific explanations as to how eating disorders really come to be. Which is why assuming that being unhappy with my body and the way it looked was the only reason I slipped into disordered eating, would simply be false. After all, I lived twenty-one years of my life being more or less fine with it. It was an insecurity, yes, but it didn’t dictate my every day life, it didn’t influence how I lived it. So, the “Well, just another one of those girls who wanted to be skinnier”-stereotype, doesn’t really prove to be fully true either.

Which leaves the last assumption: “I never would have thought that someone like her would end up with an eating disorder. She always seemed so confident!”

To which I can only say: Yeah, uh ... same? I mean, do you really think there’s anyone who found themselves developing an eating disorder only to think: “Oh, yeah, that makes sense, I always knew I’d end up like that!” Sorry, that was a bit dark. I know that this assumption is something that mostly I myself am worried about and that there’s no reason for me to actually get defensive. However, while most reactions to me talking about my eating disorder have been very comforting and caring, I’ve also had a few quite unpleasant experiences and well, those tend to have the harsher impact. So, please forgive my mildly cynical reasoning here.

Right, then. If I didn’t ever get bullied for my body or weight, didn’t just want to “be skinny” and really am that confident – how did this happen?

Well, I’ve already given part of the explanation just now, when I told you about my unfortunate predisposition of never really having fully loved or accepted my body. The other part of the explanation, lies in pretty much every other post I have written so far. Most of all the latest one: Control.

It was a real challenge to have written that last entry without ever mentioning my anorexia with even one word. Because really, for me personally, control is literally all it ever was and will be about. My therapist told me that it’s quite common in other eating disordered people too. But again, I’m not here to talk about anyone else, I’m here to talk about my own experience. And it starts just like I said in my last post: With losing control. And in many ways, the combination of always having disliked my body and suddenly having slithered into a massive life-crisis where I felt like I had lost all power and control over everything, was the very dangerous mixture that started it all.

I don’t want to make it about that too much, but it’s still worth mentioning that after my semester abroad, which had ended in January of 2018, I had gained some weight. Weight that, having changed up my diet a few years prior, I had actually lost and that all of a sudden, was now back on again. It had just been a very wonderful yet also stressful time abroad and well, heaps of uni work, very little sleep and the general student lifestyle, just caused me to pile on a few kilos. The part of me that genuinely never gave a fuck about body standards, once again did genuinely not give a fuck about that. And yeah, when I came back, there were the occasional family remarks of “Look at you, gained quite a bit of weight there, didn’t you?” (which I know are made with no malicious intent, by the way, but, forgive me if I say this: just shut up) and I had also obviously started noticing that none of my old clothes fit anymore and I did indeed look a lot larger than in any of my older pictures. Was that a blow to my self-built confidence because we live in a society that rewards weight loss and punishes weight gain? Sure. Was that when I developed anorexia? Nope.

Because, if you’ve been following the timeline of my mental health issues that I have oh so passionately been crafting in the last few posts, it wasn’t until autumn of 2018 that I first started struggling with my back then still undiscovered control issues, which lead to my anxiety, depression, insomnia and – now that I’m telling my whole story – my eating disorder. Or, to be fully correct, disordered eating, back then. Because just like the rest of my mental health issues, this too, crept up on me slowly at first.

I remember the first time I had this very simple thought. At least, it felt simple. Simple, but so deeply wrong and dangerous. And yet once I had had it, it wouldn’t leave anymore. It should have rang all the alarm bells in my head. It really should have. But I understand now, that the reason I had this very simple, deeply wrong and dangerous thought, was because I was desperate to control something, anything at all. Regain power over just one part of my life, whatever that might be.

So, that thought kept coming back. Over and over again:

What if I just stopped eating?

I would snap out of it and tell myself: “What the fuck, Isa? That’s ridiculous. Also, what does that even mean, are you crazy? You love food, you love eating it and you need it to survive.” And I’d ignore it again. But it would come back. Every now and then, usually in the moments where I felt worst about myself, it would echo stronger in my own head and ignoring it would become harder and harder. It was a thought so insane and so ridiculous, I told nobody about it. My rational mind knew that it was totally stupid to even consider something like that, and so I felt stupid for doing it. Which is why talking about it was off the table for me, back then. It was my dirty, little, silly secret and I was going to keep it that way.

I was smarter than that, I knew better than that.

It didn’t change the fact that I felt so lost in university though, and even more lost in life, and so that shitty thought just wouldn’t leave me alone. Until eventually, I budged. And that’s the part where it really stops being witty and smart-assy.

Because that’s the part where I made the decision to only eat once a day. And it was a decision that I fought for with an iron will. A decision that gave me control. Over all the wrong things.

I said I would tell my whole and honest story, but in case you were wondering: No, I’m not gonna give any numbers, not when it comes to weight and not when it comes to calories. Mainly because the only thing they do is create competition and shock value. Even to people who don’t struggle with eating disorders. And apart from that, they’re also triggering to me, even if it’s my own story. So, all I’ll say is that I limited myself to one meal a day. For an entire year. It didn’t always work, thank God for that in hindsight. But I tried to do it every day nonetheless, and even though it wasn’t a by-the-books eating disorder yet (which is a whole other rant I have but that’s not for now), it completely ruined my relationship with food, my body image and my own self-worth.

Every time I ate, I would feel guilty, it made me feel like a failure. I had never experienced this kind of shame before, the idea of feeling accomplished whenever I managed to go without eating for almost an entire day. It was this sick sense of pride and, you guessed it: Control. And yet it wasn’t enough, because my body would obviously fight back, demanding food with every bit of power and rage it had over me. I felt awful. On top of university stress, panic attacks, anxiety, depression and insomnia, I was now also hungry almost all the time. And when I had my one meal a day, I wouldn’t enjoy it. I would simply gorge on it because I was so depleted and ravenous. And then I would feel guilty and hate myself for it.

This went on for many months. I hid it as best as I could and in most social situations, I would make exceptions so that people wouldn’t notice. Exceptions I would hate myself for, but they had to be made to keep this habit my aforementioned dirty, little secret. It was like an entire new personality was starting to form inside my own. A dark and hateful one that chipped away at all that confidence and rational I had built over the years. A few close friends suspected eventually that something was off, and some of them asked about it but I would immediately play it off as just not feeling well because of all my other mental struggles, the ones they already knew about. It was an excuse that made sense, so no one really dug any deeper. And I couldn’t really have given another explanation back then anyway. Because again, I didn’t know yet why any of this was happening. I didn’t know that not eating was a twisted and horrible coping mechanism, that I had developed to gain back some sense of control in my life.

At that point, I had started weighing myself too. Something that had given me a big, bad shock when I first saw the number on the scale. In my mind, it was big and bad too. I knew how much I had weighed pre-semester-abroad. And so I knew how much I must have gained and by now also lost again. And yet that number was still way too big. It crushed me. And sadly, only spurred me on more. I would try not to eat. I would “fail”. I would hate myself. Rinse and repeat.

And no one knew what was going on. Least of all me.

It got a little bit better over the summer of 2019, just like the rest of my mental health did. That was around the time I had finally made the decision to take a gap year and figure out all my issues. And that included the very bad eating habits I had developed over the last year. In a way, that decision was also a way of me gaining back control, which was presumably why all my other bad coping strategies, including the not eating, faded away a little. No more nightly panic attacks. No more insomnia. And a lot more breakfast, lunch and dinner. I still didn’t like my body, I was still scared of the number on the scale. But I was ready to turn my life around again, get therapy and fight that nasty, dangerous habit I had let myself fall into.

Unfortunately, as I already mentioned in previous posts, the therapy I was so clearly in desperate need of, didn’t work out as quickly as I had wished (again, thanks for that, health care system). I had gone to my first ever assessment where they had diagnosed me with anxiety and depression disorder. And, actually, the psychiatrist that I had had my first ever session with, had also decided to diagnose me with anorexia nervosa because according to her, while I hadn’t ticked all of the eating disorder boxes yet, I definitely did show signs of eating disordered and anorexic behaviour. To me, that had sounded quite ridiculous and harsh at the time. Anorexia? Pft, no way, I didn’t look like the girls from the shocking posters and depressing documentaries, it was no where as serious as that. (Tip of the hat to those stigmas and stereotypes I was talking about earlier)

But of course, she was right. However, they didn’t have a free spot for one on one therapy and group sessions weren’t really what I was looking for either. So, I went on a waiting list and never heard back from them again.

The cold season crept back in and the wonderful, warm and sunny-safe bubble I had lived in all summer, burst as quickly as it had been blown into existence. Everyone went back to work, back to uni, back to life. And I ... well, I went back to being lost. To not knowing what to do. To having to write my thesis I still couldn’t write for some reason. To having panic attacks. To having insomnia.

To not eating.

Only that after a year of being so miserable whenever I ate food and still feeling so awful in my own body, I decided I would have to change the way I was going about it. In my extremely mentally fragile mind, I thought I had to step it up if I really wanted results. And, as I like to say it, that’s when shit really hit the fan. In a way, it felt like I had spent an entire year sitting on a roller coaster ride that was slowly climbing up the incline, getting closer and closer to the inevitable drop. And just like on any actual roller coaster, when that drop came, it came fast.

It was no longer about just eating one and any meal a day. In the matter of a week or two, it became about numbers, calories, measurements, grams, milliliters. All of a sudden, I found myself meticulously writing down every single thing I ate and when I had eaten it. The food groups kept shrinking and so did my portions and the amount of calories I would consume in a day. I would set a new limit on Monday and decrease it again by Wednesday, pushing myself harder, restricting more and more with every week. All I could think about was food. And all I could do was not eat it. In what felt like a matter of seconds, a worry, a fear, a habit had turned into a full-fledged obsession. An addiction. And that’s when anorexia entered my life.

I’ve re-written this part over and over again because I’m desperately trying not to make it sound like a pseudo-romantic and tastelessly dramatic young adult novel. But I realize that’s just my fear of sounding like a cliché again. So, I’ll stop scratching and writing everything anew now, and just keep going.

In the first few days and weeks of crashing into this new, horrible world, I remember yet again thinking another very simple, yet dangerous and devastating thought. The one beside “What if I just stopped eating?”. And this thought, to me personally, was even scarier than the last one.

It was the thought of: “What if I can never eat again?”

Because that’s exactly what anorexia felt like to me.

Many people describe it as a whole other person in their head. Almost like a foreign entity, taking over your life. And while I very strongly relate to these descriptions, I have learned that it’s best for me to not always manifest my eating disorder into a separate identity to my own, because in certain times, that gives it too much power and makes it seem undefeatable. Which it isn’t. So, I’m going to try and describe it in another way. The way I first described it to my therapist. With a metaphor, of course.

It felt like up until this point, I had been sitting in the car that was my own life, driving down the road of my present and future, looking in the rear view mirror at my past. I was the one with the foot on the gas and the breaks, I was the one that decided what turn or exit to take. Autumn of 2018 had felt like breaking down in that car, having to pull over and being lost in the middle of nowhere, without any signs to guide the way. My bad eating habits felt like someone stopping and pretending to help me, jump staring my car and having it tucker slowly again while following me at walking speed, with me still not really knowing where I was going. And finally, anorexia felt like that someone kicking me out of my car, buckling me into the passenger seat, taping my mouth shut and taking over the stirring wheel.

All of a sudden, it felt like I had no say in where I was heading, how fast I was driving or what road I was going down. For over a year, I had used this dangerous and awful habit of coping by not eating, to wield control and have power over something. And now, it had taken that power away again, like a pact with the god damn devil, and had started to use it over me instead. Which is exactly what eating disorders do, and what my anorexia did too. They give you a false sense of control because control is all you want, and yet all you can’t have. All you need to do is replace control with food. Because food is all you want, and yet all you can’t have. Anorexia gave me my own, fucked up metaphor for my control issues.

I knew that what I was doing was more than just dangerous. It was no longer just trying to eat once a day, not managing to and then hating myself. This was barely eating anything at all, setting the bar lower each day and starving myself. And not in the figurative way. I lost weight so rapidly, I could barely keep track. The scale became my second home, the calories my worst enemy and food, or more trying to avoid it, the entire purpose of my life. Nothing else mattered anymore.

Falling into anorexia has been the scariest and most horrible thing I have ever had to go through. It felt like I had lost myself. I was still there, in my own head, somewhere. Still strapped into the passenger seat. But I had no say in any of my actions. I just silently watched and witnessed, obeying everything my eating disorder told me to do. I know I said I usually avoid completely painting it as a separate person in my own head, but back then, back when I was still severely anorexic, that was just what it felt like. Like a literal parasite, that had latched onto me and was sucking me dry of any and every life force and fight I still had left.

All my days would consist of trying to navigate around food, doing my best to avoid it, lying to everyone, most of all myself. I would look up every single nutritional information of everything, every meal at a restaurant, every drink. I had lists where I wrote it all down, tracking my calorie intake and weight loss. Documents that contained all the calories from every single food and also non-food item imaginable. It would start with things like fruits, vegetables and condiments and end with things like tea, vitamins, chewing gum and toothpaste. I would google how many calories a panic attack burned. I would pace up and down my room at night to get my step count higher. I would walk around the city aimlessly for hours every single day to avoid eating, no matter the weather, no matter the time. I would work out at the gym like a maniac and almost pass out every single time afterwards. At family breakfast, I would hide food in my sleeves and socks to avoid eating it. It was more than just ridiculous. It was insanity. But it was an insanity I couldn’t let go of.

Anorexia was the most twisted and horrendous full-time commitment of my life. I had felt lost and without purpose for so long and in the most fucked up way, my eating disorder had given me a 9-to-5 – no, scratch that, a 24-god-damn-7 job to do. It had given me a new purpose and a painful illusion of the things I had craved for so long. Control, willpower, strength, endurance. Only that it was exactly that – just an illusion. Because at the end of the day, I would go to bed empty, both literally and figuratively, feeling nothing and hating everything. Because that’s what anorexia does. It strips you of everything you have in life. It takes away every joy, every pleasure, every interest, hobby, passion or relationship, and it isolates you. Completely. It worms its way into your life and fills out every single nook and crack until it’s the only thing that seems to be left. And therefore, the only thing you still care about.

It felt like losing my complete identity.

Mentally, I was at the worst state I had ever been in my life. This was around December of 2019. I had barely been keeping all of this up for over a month, but I was eating so little that I had lost an alarmingly large amount of weight very fast, which came at a high cost. I was always cold, I couldn’t sleep, I had awful headaches, I kept forgetting conversations and talks I had had with friends, I felt dizzy and nauseous all the time and worst of all, I was so cripplingly depressed that I didn’t even care about any of that. Because when you deprive your brain of nutrients this much, it just shuts down. And that’s what I did, too. I just went into standby mode, as I kept losing more weight and becoming more miserable with each day that passed.

Both my body and mind were running on nothing but adrenaline and thin air and I lived life in this absolutely isolated and horrible auto-pilot, where I continued on as if nothing was happening, as more of me, both physically and mentally, disappeared and was replaced with complete emptiness. I still struggle to find the right words to describe how I felt back then. The only thing that comes close is just complete nothingness. Like a fucking black hole inside of me that had swallowed everything and created a complete vacuum.

Writing about this makes me want to just close my laptop and stop. In a way, it feels like giving my eating disorder and the hardest time of my life a spot light. Like giving it attention and a stage to perform on, to flaunt its dramatic tragedy. I can feel that the anorexia loves that, relishes every word I’m typing about it, every second of attention I’m giving to it. And hate that, I fucking despise it. Because it doesn’t deserve its own stage. It never did and it never will. So, let’s try and move on to the part where things changed.

Back then, I might have become a master of lying and avoiding most people’s questions about me never seeming to be hungry or wanting to eat. But thankfully, there were a few of my close friends that had started to notice. Not gonna name any names, but you know who you are. And I cannot even begin to say how incredibly thankful and lucky I am to have had you there. Because even when I had given up on myself, you didn’t. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine, oh no. I was still in a very, very bad place mentally, and my eating disorder was not planning on leaving any time soon.

But, with the help and intervention of said good friends and a few select, eye-opening experiences (that I won’t talk about because they really weren’t ideal but still ended up helping somehow), I finally realized the very obvious but up until then seemingly impossible thing: I had to start eating again. And I had to start now.

And I did.

Looking back, I cannot even express how glad I am about that. Because it had started to become really critical. And I consider myself to be very lucky that it didn’t have to get even worse. That I was still able to make my own decisions and finally get help. Finding therapy was once again not easy but eventually, I did find an outpatient clinic that offered immediate consultation, as well as an appointment with a psychiatrist for medication and an internist for physical check-ups. And, to maybe bring back a slight sense of cheerfulness: It was also when I finally got to meet my therapist Kerstin.

Again, none of this was as easy and swift as it might sound like with me narrating it in those few sentences, but this post can only go on for so much longer before I get too drained and decide to just delete all of it again, so I will try and come to a close, for now. There’s still so much more to tell when it comes to my journey with my eating disorder and my mental health, because it’s nowhere near finished. And worry not, I will tell it – not so much for the sake of those of you who read it, but more so for my own. But for now, I want to finish by saying this much – mainly to myself again, but also to anyone else who might need to hear it:

I know it might feel like you don’t care.

About yourself, about what happens to you, about the future, about happiness. I know it might feel like you’re faking everything, lying to everyone and just pretending all the time. I know you might feel so horribly and painfully empty that all you want to do is sit still in the void of your own head and let the misery wash over you in dreadful peace. I know you might think that the only sense of comfort you can find, lies in the things that hurt you most. I know your pain seems like an old friend, one that will never leave you and therefore is worth staying close to. I know that continuing to fight on and struggling through life and all the hardships it throws at you, sometimes feels so impossible, that it seems easier to just give in and give up.

The thing about that is, though: It’s fucking bullshit.

It’s nothing but a very mean and disgusting way of all your inner pain, trauma and warped coping mechanisms to try to pull you down to keep you “safe” from things that you can absolutely, completely and totally battle. And, yeah, it sure as shit ain’t easy. God, if I had a dollar for every time I had to pick myself back up after I stepped on a scale, after I ate something that scared me, after I looked in the mirror, after I relapsed, after I went back on track again, after I wished I could just melt into a formless blob and slowly whither away in peace– I would be a rich woman. But neither life nor capitalism work that way, unfortunately. So, why do I still bother?

Well, because after going through hell and back, it’s the only thing I have left. It’s the only option there is.

You might not know who you are. You might not know what you’re doing, where you’re going, if you’re ever going to get better, if you’ll ever feel happy and at home in your own mind, body and life again. But what you can and should know, is that you can always try. Even if it seems pointless, even if it seems like you’re running in circles, wanting to bash your head against the wall because of how senseless it all feels.

You can still try.

And try, and try, and try again. It’s a choice and it is a hard one. Maybe the hardest one you will ever have to make.

But I chose to make it, and I still continue to. Every day. With every morning I wake up, every therapy session I go to, every panic attack I breathe through, every depressive phase I crawl back out of, every meal I eat. I choose to do it, I choose to keep pushing because when it feels like all the bad and dark thoughts are more powerful than me and threaten to swallow me alive, making the choice to fight back as much as I can, is what proves that I am and always will be more powerful than them.

Because this is my life. My body. My head. My brain. My mind. And I’d be a god damn fool to give them up to those inner demons that would never know how to treat them right, how to cherish them and keep them happy, healthy and alive. Because I think we can all agree that, at the end of the day, being happy is a hell of a lot better than being sad and empty. And so, at the end of the day, I realized that nothing and no one, not even my mental health disorders and past traumas, can take away what will always, exclusively and fully belong to me and me only:

My choice, my happiness, my control – the right one, this time.

#mental illness #mental health #therapy #eating disorder #anorexia #depression #anxiety

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rusty-guitar-strings · 4 years

Text

So Dies the Hero

Summary: Heroes are supposed to help people. So why does being one feel so awful?

Rating: T

Pairing: Loceit

Wordcount: 3,756

Warnings: Death mentions, manipulation and general rudeness, Remus being disgusting, cursing, mildly detailed description of a hypothetical death, severe self-deprecation, violence, sympathetic deceit

Notes: for @snekky-boi: hi there! it me, your no-longer-secret Santa! there were some issues with your gift, i’m so sorry it didn’t get posted until now! but here it is at last, i hope you like it! if you’re not them, i hope you like it too! happy late holidays! find the fic on ao3 here!

Sometimes Darius wondered if he was actually a good person. To be honest, he wondered about it a lot. Pretty much all the time. He’d settled for a no, he wasn’t, because how could he be when he let people get hurt and killed and made messes and screwed up and didn’t do anything to fix it-

“Hey, Double D! Get to the guy, my distraction won’t hold up forever!” The harsh, raspy voice of The Duke tore through his thoughts, making him gasp and stumble a little. Remus’s nose was wrinkled in concentration, eyes locked with the shooter. The team of heroes had been called out to deal with the mess caused by the guy, in a school no less.

“Of course, it would be my pleasure,” he drawled smoothly, pretending he wasn’t startled by the noise. He ambled along at a slow, leisurely pace, ignoring his racing heart and shallow lungs, trying desperately to maintain an aura of smug confidence. He stopped directly in front of the shooter, smirking slightly, and opened his mouth to speak. “I do wish-“

“Deceit!” a voice shouted, shrill and desperate and afraid. He blinked, and suddenly he was against the wall and Slo-Mo was against him and everything hurt.

“What the hell?” he hissed, gasping in pain.

“He was going to shoot you, asshole.” Slo-Mo was wide-eyed and visibly shaken, pulling back and dusting his suit off as he copied Deceit’s signature tactic of pretending not to care. His dark hair was matted to the barely lighter skin of his face and he was panting desperately, though trying to play it off by running his shaking fingers through his hair and using his free hand to push his tinted goggles up in the process.

“You’re over-exerting yourself, Nate.” He frowned.

The hero’s face twisted in defense. “Yeah, and why do you fucking care?”

Something about the sharp tone of his voice made Darius want to throw himself right into the line of fire again. It felt like someone had dropped a football dipped in cement in his stomach and was now digging around trying to get it back out. He swallowed the lump in his throat and his humiliation, lifting an eyebrow. “I do apologize, I never meant to give off that impression,” he hummed, voice dripping with silk and venom.

“ ‘s what I thought.” Nate yanked his goggles back down and stalked off, shoulders hunched. Deceit scoffed and shook his head, but the sting was still there.

The fight continued. Remus had lost his control over the man with the gun, causing him to open fire again. Deceit had to keep trying to get close to him.

Minutes passed, or maybe seconds, but they seemed to be losing.The Critic was nowhere to be seen. Deceit swallowed and peeled himself off of where he’d been tossed to the floor, cupping his hands around his mouth. “I do wish you would keep the gun!” he shouted, and immediately the weapon was dropped.

“Cut his head off, Crit!” Remus squealed as their leader appeared from seemingly nowhere. The Critic had a bad habit of doing that, just sort of… appearing. It was a common thing among the group, really, especially for-

“Oh hell no, sweetie. Do you know how much blood that would spill?” The masked man lifted an eyebrow at Remus, who was spinning his morning star like a very dangerous baton and bouncing on his toes. His face was split with a too-wide grin that Deceit wanted to slap right off, along with that stupid, stupid mustache.

“No, sir,” he purred disgustingly, winking and puffing his chest out. “Why don’t you show me?” Darius shuddered and Nate made a face, but Crit seemed entirely undeterred, apparently used to it.

“Not now, Duke. We would want to… sully our good name. That would be dreadful, now wouldn’t it?” The leader inspected his nails and Deceit was personally threatened by his composure. It wasn’t fair.

“I think we’re already sully enough, papi.” This time the line was paired with a growl, and Deceit felt himself puke in his mouth a little. He was pretty sure that wasn’t even the correct way to use the word.

“Remus, do shut up. There are children here.” To his credit, The Duke snapped his mouth shut and was quiet for a whole seventeen seconds.

Something purple flashed in the corner of Deceit’s vision and he stiffened. He tried desperately to keep his grip on reality and not look, but he did anyway, despite already knowing who it was leading the kids to safety. Renowned hero-turned-vigilante, Tempest. Virgil.

“Deceit! We’re leaving this dump.” The Critic waved for him, and he approached obediently, although his eyes were narrow.

“But-“

“Butts are for assholes, dear.”

“Sir, the children-“

“Are in perfectly good hands, are they not?” He halted to look Darius directly in the eyes, making the younger hero’s legs shake a little.

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Then I trust you have no further qualms?” He tilted his head and quirked a brow, challenging, daring him to press it further.

Darius shook his head slightly. “No, sir…”

“Good. Close your mouth more often, it’s a good look on you.” He was already power walking majestically away, and Deceit heard a not at all subtle ‘ooo’ from Slo-Mo and The Duke. He wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor and drown choking on earth. Nevertheless, Virgil would not leave his mind.

When they returned to the base for celebratory takeout? Virgil. When Remus wouldn’t stop talking everyone’s ear off in rapid Spanish? Virgil. When he finally returned back to his own apartment to get some rest? Virgil, Virgil, Virgil.

The violet-clad vigilante had run away months ago. Everyone else was fine with pretending he’d never been there in the first place, but Darius was far from it. They acted like nothing had changed, like everything was fine and dandy and wonderful, like his only- his friend hadn’t betrayed them, hadn’t left for them. The vigilantes, or HILT as they were calling themselves, were their sworn enemies who thought they were better than them. The clean up crew.

Deceit and his team were the heroes. Of course they were, everybody said so. Lately, though, that hadn’t seemed entirely true. It felt wrong, like he was lying to himself, again. He was Deceit, he lied to himself all the time. I am a good person. I don’t need them. I can’t possibly mess up boxed mac-n-cheese again. I’m a hero. What kind of hero left people, victims, behind? What kind of hero left messes behind for others to clean up? What kind of hero snapped at his best and only friend and hurt him so badly that he felt the only answer and way to be free was to run away and leave him behind and abandon him and what kind of hero just let that happen?

Darius Lyre was not a good person at all, he realized. He stared at himself in the mirror, hating, hating, hating. He made up his mind. The bare minimum went into a suitcase. Three numbers vanished from his contacts, he changed his own number, Lace the corn snake was placed in her tank on top of the suitcase. He left no note, vanished late into the night. Virgil wouldn’t want to see him again, Hilt wouldn’t take him anyway, he was the enemy, after all. Instead, Darius went to the streets. He wandered.

The sun rose and set. He saw nothing of his old teammates except in his dreams-- nightmares-- when he dared stop to sleep. Head spinning, feet pounding a steady rhythm his heart followed, he realized his snake was more well-fed than he was. He questioned if Virgil hated him still. Darius wandered.

The sun rose and set many more times. He ate where he could find food and slept in the smallest nooks he could fit into. He still saw no sign of anyone he knew. He could live like this. Darius wandered.

Still the sun rose and set, almost the only constant in his life. It scorched his skin and all he could do was use aloe, a gift from a kind older woman who insisted that he looked “Just like my dear grandson!” His heart twisted at that and he thanked her many times. She’d given him money as well; he spent it on food for Lace. He contemplated what dead mice tasted like. He thought about Virgil. Did he hate him? Would he care if he died? Would he want to see him again? Darius wondered.

Soon his vision spun and all his thoughts were occupied with survive, survive, Virgil, survive. Too much effort went into putting one foot in front of another and his head pounded, hands shaking. It was warm. Too warm. He looked for shade and found it beside a building facing the sun. Ducking behind it, Darius leaned against the wall heavily to try and recover a little. It didn’t get better. His vision turned white, then black, he felt the handle of his suitcase leaving his hand, then he was on the concrete and his head throbbed worse than ever. Snakes were supposed to like heat, but Deceit was not a snake, so he was less fortunate. He closed his eyes. Perhaps he would just rest, his eyes and his feet were so sore. Just for a moment, he promised himself. Only a moment and then I’ll get back up.

•*•

missing in oblivion

i guess i forgot to shut the door

darkness beckons with a string around my throat

i remember

time was slow back when i knew serenity

now it rushes past

quick like my thoughts

wouldn’t it be something

to be happy more than somber

i guess i’ll never know what song you would have written

your music faded long ago

the final notes echo in my head for eternity

a merciless symphony that forbids me to forget

•*•

It was more than a moment. Too long later, someone was shaking his shoulder. Darius barely managed to peel his eyes open, expecting to see an angry or confused or sheepish employee. Instead, he was met with a masked face suited in dark blue.

“Apologies for the abrupt awakening Mx., but it is getting rather late. This particular area of the town is even more unsafe in the dark. I implore you to come with me to find somewhere else to spend the night.”

“Y’re helpin’ me?” Darius slurred, tongue thick and dry in his mouth. His chest was empty and he felt close to dry heaving, vision still spinning. Was this person even actually here?

“I am. And I assure you that I am physically present, neither hallucinated nor holographically projected nor any other possible method of faking one’s existence.” Their voice was smooth and rich and they were so tall. Just the sight of them, not even considering their face, was enough to make Darius even weaker. A large hand was held out to him. “Shall we, Mx. Lyre?”

Wait. Something’s wrong here. But… what? ‘S not them, it’s- oh. “He,” Darius croaked, wincing at the sound that came from his throat. It was both physically and emotionally humiliating. He took the hand anyway and was hauled to his feet. He stumbled and staggered, his vision flashed again, and he barely registered the firm grip on his shoulder.

“Mr. Lyre, do I have your permission to lift you and carry you?”

He made a noise of confirmation, really too out of it to do anything. “Wh’re?” Then his feet were swept out from under him and he was held against the stranger’s chest and oh no they were hot.

“A base where I currently reside with a small number of my peers,” came the fading response. Darius just nodded slightly and closed his eyes again, almost immediately passing out.

The last he heard was a small, mildly concerned, “Darius?”

•*•

often i return to september

sun-kissed skin glossy with sweat

how i wish to stop that day and keep it frozen for a while

just to see

just to embrace

just to stay

gunshots shatter time

glass shards tumble to the earth

dirt stained red

pain is unforgivable if you aren’t willing to try

and i?

i prefer revenge

•*•

Darius was just coming to when he heard it. A whisper, soft and earnest, from someone nearby. The echo hinted that he was inside, but where, and why?

“I would die for you,” the voice stage-whispered. His eyes shot open. He was in a room, like a bedroom, Lace’s tank was in the corner, and she wasn’t in it. Instead she was in the hands of a stranger who held her and cooed at her softly as they rocked in a chair. “You’re a cutie, you’re just the sweetest little spaghetti aren’t you? Yes you are, good girl, so pretty. Such a pretty lady, hi pretty! Oh, look at your little tongue! How do I smell, sweetie?” Darius laid there, stunned into silence for a long while. Eventually he cleared his throat and they looked up, eyes wide. He froze, but then they smiled in a way that was warm and soft and felt like the sun, eyes crinkling a little and shimmering with relief. It was quite a bit overwhelming how much emotion this person wore on their face. “You’re awake!”

He looked away. “...yep.”

They were seated at the edge of the bed in moments—he was in a bed, he hadn’t been in one in forever, it felt so good—staring at him with concern. “You passed out from dehydration. How much do you remember?”

“I remember leaving. And someone in a mask, was—that wasn’t you. Who was that?” He frowned. “Who are you? Where the hell am I?”

“Woah, woah, slow down there, kiddo!” The person held their hands up in surrender, laughing a little. “Let’s start over, I’ll fill you in in just a moment. My name is Patton, he/him! And you are?”

He swallowed. “Darius. Same.”

“Good! That was helpful, thank you so much!” The man seemed a little overly thrilled at the response.

“Thank… you?” He started to sit up.

“Be careful, you were really dehydrated. I’ll have someone bring you some water. Right now you’re at our base.”

“Base? Base for what? Is it secret? Does anyone know I’m here?” His chest constricted and his mouth was still dry. Every time he spoke it was like someone was raking barbed wire down his throat and it hurt. He swallowed.

“You don’t have to talk so much if it hurts. I promise you’re safe, and we can talk over the details more when you feel better,” Patton assured. Something familiar about him did make Darius feel safe and secure and protected. He almost wanted to sleep. Scratch that, he really wanted to sleep, every part of him screamed with exhaustion and strain, but it could be a trap and unsafe and someone could be there to hurt him, or--when did he close his eyes?

“Darius? Honey, can you hear me?” He jumped a little.

“Y... yeah, I hear you, sorry.” He rubbed his eyes and opened them, then lowered his hand to massage his throat as well, wincing.

“Why don’t you talk a little less for now?” Patton urged gently. “Just nod or shake your head, things like that.”

He nodded slowly, raking his fingers through his hair. The man across from him held out Lace, and he took her almost immediately. She curled around his wrist like a large, clumsily made bracelet.

“Good!”

“Hey, Pat, I got the- what the fuck?” Darius’ head shot up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash as he stared at the man in the doorway. Painfully familiar purple hair and dark eyes, with a hulking figure behind them. Virgil. Wait, if Virgil was here, then he was-

“Hilt,” he whispered, just as Virgil shoved the tray into his companion’s hands and stormed forward. Darius refused to flinch, pretending his hands weren’t shaking.

“What are you doing here, you son of a-“

“Virgil!” Patton scolded lightly. “That’s no way to treat our guest, be nice!”

“I’m nice to people who deserve it,” Virgil sneered and, ow, that stung. “Why is he here?”

“Oh wouldn’t you like to know, Judy Moody?”

“Of course I would, that’s why I asked. Pat, do you have any idea-“

“Virgil, please,” Deceit interrupted, less smug and more desperate.

The vigilante flipped him off. “Patton, you have to listen, he’s-“

“I want you to tell him who I am,” Darius suddenly blurted, words painful in throat, burning worse than just the dry scratching of dehydration. Virgil’s mouth snapped shut and Patton stiffened. His expression twisted with worry. A gasp came from Virgil’s companion.

“I know who he is, Vee,” Patton soothed.

That made Darius go rigid. “Wait, you know? And you’re still helping me?”

“Of course we are, silly, you need help!”

“But I- we’re enemies, and I literally just… I don’t understand…”

“Relax, don’t hurt your throat,” he told him. “Can Virgil still speak?”

“He can,” Virgil spat, shooting Darius a look that, could looks kill, would have dismembered him, harvested his organs, cremated him, brewed his ashes into coffee, and downed it in one gulp. “And he has many concerns about this.”

“We can talk about it, then. But first, Darius, would you like to stay here?” Patton looked back at him, eyes soft and sincere and so kind it almost made him want to throw up.

“Stay?” he croaked. “For- for how long?”

“Well, as long as you’d like!” The older man grinned. “I’d be happy to have you here, especially while you’re recovering.”

“I… for now, I suppose…” Darius nodded slowly.

“Excellent!” Patton clapped and stood. “Virgil, come with me. What has you so worked up? What’s going on?”

As the two voices and pairs of footsteps faded, he became more aware of the fourth person who had been in the room, but was now the second. They were tall and familiar, and their face was open and glowing with curiosity.

“Mr. Lyre,” they began, and suddenly it all came rushing back.

“That was you?!” he shouted, startled, grabbing his throat as it split with pain. How could his savior have been so tall and gentle and stomach-twistingly gorgeous?

“Indeed. I suggest you refrain from excessive speech for the sake of your throat.” He swallowed and nodded, no longer trusting himself to speak eloquently anyway. “In the moment, the situation required immediate action, and I was barbarically forced to put aside formalities and could not introduce myself. If I may, I’d like to make up for that now. My name is Logan Sagong. He/him, if you will. And yourself?” Logan lifted an eyebrow and Deceit tried desperately not to melt in on himself.

“You… said my name.”

“Ah, yes, I did, didn’t I?” The man looked mildly amused. “I had forgotten. You see, I have access to information about people, regardless of either of our consent. Knowing someone’s name without them giving it to you, however, has proven to raise defense levels and lessen the chance of trust, therefore I try not to use it so much.”

“What can you see?” he asked, picking his words carefully.

“At the moment, your heart rate and breathing are nearly normal. Slightly raised, but, given your current situation, that is a reasonable expectation.” Logan nodded slightly, as if to affirm his own statement.

Darius rubbed his eyes. “That’s… different.”

“But not nearly like yours. ‘Reverse psychology,’ it is listed as. Is that what you did to Virgil a moment ago?”

Every nerve in his body told him to answer a simple ‘no,’ or a ‘who’s to say’ or a ‘who’s Virgil?’ However, his mind moved too fast and he nodded before he could say anything.

“Fascinating. So you make people do what you wish by telling them to do the opposite…” Logan sat on the bed, studying the empty air around Darius. Well, perhaps the air wasn’t empty to him.

“Yeah.” He scooted back, blinking hard.

“Oh, my apologies. I had no intention of overstepping any boundaries.” Logan also moved away, making Darius’ heart sink a little.

“No, no, it’s fine, I just- I’m not sure what you want with me…” He winced, swallowing.

“There is nothing we want with or from you, we are only here to help. Patton was right, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like after you recover.” The vigilante reached for the tray that had been placed on a side table to offer him a glass of water. “Here, drink. And rest as well, please, you frightened us all.”

“I did?” he mumbled, taking the glass and sipping from it slowly. The water tasted dry and bitter for some reason. He watched as Logan’s face darkened a little and his eyes turned to the floor.

“Well, me,” he corrected, not sounding nearly as put-together as he seemed to be. “You frightened me.”

Darius’s face warmed and he stared into the glass instead. “Oh.” It was quiet for longer than he cared to know, both him and Logan unsure of what to say and simply settling for nothing at all. Finally, Logan was gracious enough to break the tension.

“Would you like me to go and let you rest? You appear to be drained.”

Darius nodded slowly. “I’ll rest, but… you don’t have to go. Not for long, anyway.” Please stay please stay please stay-

“Very well. Get some sleep, I’m sure Patton will have made something for you to eat by the time you wake up.” Logan’s expression turned soft and fond and half-amused, and Darius again found himself wanting to melt into a puddle and cry because it was so cute.

“Thank you, Logan,” he managed smoothly, laying back.

“Certainly. You are welcome here as long as you wish to be here.” A hand rested on top of his and Logan was looking at the floor again.

They kept saying that, but ... what about Virgil? he wondered quietly. What would he do to me? “I’ll ... think about it.”

“Good. Now rest,” he murmured, and Darius couldn’t help but comply. His head still spun with worries and anxieties and possibilities, but for the moment, he was here. In this moment, he was safe. Surely Logan wouldn’t let anything happen. If he did, well ... it couldn’t be worse than it had been before.

#sanders sides #deceit sanders #logan sanders #loceit #superhero au #hope ya like this my dudes #author ari #sympathetic deceit #patton sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #procrastination #nate sanders #the critic #critic thomas #lace #antihero au #fanfic

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doomedandstoned · 4 years

Text

AS I DIE AT MY DESK

Interview by Shawn Gibson

Can you tell me the meaning of the band name As I Die At My Desk? I imagine dying in a cubicle in corporate hell!

The honest answer to this is that it was a joke. I overheard a co worker say it at work and I thought it would be a hilarious band name. It is also a bit ironic as I always told myself that I would do work I truly love and follow my passions as they tell you that stuff in high school and college and it hasn't worked out that way for me yet! I am not deterred. I do get to make music in my spare time. Music gets to be my fun escape. It gets to be my artistic outlet that I don't have to share if I don't want to. All that aside I am a man who loves to laugh and loves to joke. Despite the themes and sounds of the music which are very real and emotionally heavy for me, the band name was a way to take the piss out of the situation. I can laugh at myself for being a weirdo who likes heavy music, where people scream and howl like demons and laugh even harder at how ridiculous I must look doing that in the bedroom for my music. I am pretty serious about most things, but I have to remember to have fun. That is what I think is important. I'm sorry it's not a very metal answer!

Suicide as Cleansing by As I Die at My Desk

You do everything in As I Die At My Desk, all instruments right?

Yes, I do all instruments and my main goal is to try to not suck. I actually record through a pre amp and I use different virtual amp sims like Amplitube for my tones. I used my Sterling by Music Man John Petrucci 7 string guitar, Ibanez BTB7 7 string bass, and an Alesis brand electric drum set for this record. It's a pretty basic setup, but given the size of my recording space, it's the best I can do. I have been writing for the past eight years or so. This is my first attempt at a metal release despite the fact I am a huge metal head! I was pretty happy with what I was able to do by myself.

What are your influences musically?

My influences range from classical music to jazz to anything under the rock umbrella. I am particularly interested in Soviet era composers. Dmitri Shostakovich, Sergei Prokofiev, and Igor Stravinsky. The first instrument I started playing was a cello at age 10. I graduated college in 2016 and gave a recital featuring Shostakovich and Prokofiev. The desperation and darkness they were able to convey so beautifully have influenced me greatly. I don't have a lot of experience with jazz, but the works of Coltrane, Thelonios Monk and especially Miles Davis have influenced me, as well. I just love especially experimental music and anything that ties to reshape and reform the genres wherein they find themselves pigeonholed. My music doesn't really sound like it to me, but Dream Theater and Iron Maiden are two of my favorites. I didn't actually start to get into doom or sludge until college. Now I love that stuff! Eyehategod is one of my newer favorite bands, as well as Sumac and YOB.

What are some of your favorite books and movies?

I tend to read non-fiction. I am a big history nerd. However I have spent a lot of time in the fiction world, as well. Some of my favorites are Catch 22 by Joseph Heller, Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Twelve Chairs by Ilf and Petrov. I am a big Lynch and Tarantino fan! Blue Velvet and Eraserhead are two of my favorite films. Reservoir Dogs had a really big impact on me, as well. I first saw it when I was 14. It was so gritty and real to me then. That was a very realistic show of violence.

Are you a fan of horror books or movies?

I was a bigger fan of horror when I was in high school. I must have read every Stephen King a dozen times. I don't tend to like a lot of horror books or movies. There are some exceptions, I love monster movies. Give me Jaws or Godzilla any day! I tend to like movies that are creepy or unsettling, but I don't get into paranormal stuff. There are plenty of flesh and blood horrors in our world that are much more terrifying than ghosts.

You have some very heavy music with some very dark themes. What inspired 'Suicide As Cleansing' as your album title?

I am depressed and have anxiety. What more is there to say? To answer your question, though, the title popped into my head one day. I remember I was reading something on social media about mental health and the act of suicide. Someone described suicide as an act of cleansing. That idea stuck with me and I thought about it for quite some time. I decided to use that in an overall positive way. I thought that since I was channeling my negative and destructive feeling into my music, I was attempting to kill myself. Attempting to kill a bad part of myself that I don't want to have to deal with all the time and thus conducting a cleansing of sorts. I wanted that to be the album title because it reflected the whole reason I was making the record. It doesn't help to keep those feelings bottled up cause they fester. I urge anyone who has suicidal or self harming thoughts to seek help. Talk to people; they will listen. You may feel like it doesn't help, but it does. I struggle, but I feel better when I know I'm safe to talk about it. Here's why I give my wife a huge shout-out for being so supportive and understanding!

What was the inspiration for your songs on 'Suicide As Cleansing'?

The inspiration for this whole record was feeling trapped and depressed. Modern day life appears to be doing that for younger generations these days. Waking up one day and realizing careers that you were dead set on are no longer sustainable. Seeing all of the political strife becoming more prominent and ruining friendly and familial relationships. We live in a very depressing world. I don't need to get into all the issues facing us but there are many and enough that are potentially world ending are enough, to make anyone uneasy. In that way I feel that genuine themes of feeling trapped, powerless, isolated and really angry are appropriate.

I would say "No Pride" is one of my favorites. The gallop of the drums, the riff! I feel myself rocking and swaying. Definitely banging my head!

Thanks! It might be my favorite song on the album. It was actually fun to record that one and I did it in far fewer takes than the other ones.

"Trapped In The Bass-Ment" is hypnotizing! It's almost a chance to catch your breath from the other six songs that precede it!

I appreciate the comments! The whole track was written and recorded in one sitting. I am a big fan of drone and ambient music so it seemed fitting. I felt that even I needed a break after "No Pride." It just hit me really hard in conjunction with all the earlier tracks. I worried it might be boring for people, but I silenced that voice. I try to make music for myself, but I really appreciate it when people like my work!

"Annihilate Me" is the equivalent of the musical Dim Mak! Nine-minutes-and-fifty-eight seconds of destruction! Tell me about this song.

"Annihilate Me" was written over a span of about three days. I was in the middle of a very depressive episode and I remember sitting down with my guitar and playing the heaviest, angriest, gnarliest stuff I could get out of it. There was no preconceived plan as to lyrics or vocals. After I recorded the guitars and drums, I screamed anything that came to mind. It was a very cathartic episode and I view it as the perfect ending to an unpleasant journey.

Where did the artwork for 'Suicide As Cleansing' come from? What does it mean to you?

The cover art is a photograph taken from my lovely wife, who gets another shout-out. We were hiking at the Englewood Metropark and we noticed the tree almost all by itself. She took a bunch of photos of it because it was cool and interesting, also creepy. One thing I remember clearly, was the tree's base was covered with these beautiful yellow flowers. In a way I felt it represented the album. The tree itself was dead and bare. It was a little unsettling especially in the photos my wife took. The fact that life had sprung from this dead tree seemed to fit this theme of killing a part of yourself or perhaps a rebirth.

Calculating the Cost of Existence by As I Die at My Desk

Your second album 'Calculating The Cost of Existence' (2019) came out in December. What can you tell us about the new project?

I will say in terms of sound, the new record came out with a different sound. It's a doomy, sludgey mess for sure. There are more introspective parts included. The music is expressing a greater array of feelings than the first.

Another one-man effort?

Yes, I did all the instruments again. As long as I possess the tools to do it, it certainly makes it easier in the creative process not having to deal with other personalities or egos on something so deeply personal to me. Now with that said, I don't mind collaborating or anything in the future.

Is that strenuous at times doing everything in the band?

The worst part about recording is I am not the best musician. It is strenuous when I have to perform everything and I am not that great. (laughs) My skills on guitar and drums are intermediate at best. I have played bass longer so I am a much more confident bass player than I am anything else but that's not saying a lot. It also doesn't help that I don't like the sound of my voice. I fancy myself as a composer, not a performer.

As I Die At My Desk is from Dayton Ohio right?

Yes, the band is based out of Dayton, where I have lived for most of my life so far.

What are some bands from Ohio you love?

To be honest, I don't know a ton of bands from Ohio. I will say I am a fan of Mouth of the Architect and Others by No One out of Dayton, Cloudkicker out of Columbus. Oh I can't forget Skeletonwitch!

Have you been to Ohio Doomed and Stoned Fest?

This might be shocking but I have never heard of Ohio Doomed and Stoned Fest. So no I haven't been but I am certainly interested now!

Will As I Die At My Desk play live or tour down the road?

Well, As I Die At My Desk will probably remain a studio entity. As I said I wouldn't be opposed to any kind of collaboration or possible touring but I don't have any plans for that at the moment. Now for my pretentious answer. As an artist I do not want to feel confined to any one medium as it exists. As I Die At My Desk was born out of specific life circumstances. As long as these circumstances provide emotional weight and depth for me, this project will continue. Once that source dries up(if it ever really does) then I will move on to a new project. As it stands I have a few other projects that I am working on that I can't discuss much yet. Stay tuned!

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amirdawar · 6 years

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ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Name: Amir Yusuf Khan Dawar.

Nickname: None.

Birthday: August 1st.

Age: 36.

Gender: Male.

Place of Birth: Chelsea, London, United Kingdom.

Places Lived Since: Karachi, Pakistan. Riyadh and Dhahran, Saudi Arabia. Oxford, United Kingdom. Boston, New York, and LA, United States.

Current Residence: Knightsbridge, London, United Kingdom.

Nationality: British.

Parents’ Names: Fatima and Muhammad Khan Dawar.

Number of Siblings: One younger sister, Faiza.

Relationship With Family: Family is the most important thing to Amir, by far. I went into a lot more detail about their relationships here.

Happiest Memory: The birth of his first niece, Ayeza. It wasn’t that long ago, but in an extensive history of happy memories with his family, that probably stands out as the best. He loves that kid more than life itself.

Childhood Trauma: Amir was bullied pretty badly growing up. In KSA with his dad it wasn’t an issue, but whenever he returned to London to see his mom, the kids weren’t kind. At all. They didn’t like him because he was overweight, Muslim, nerdy... Different. It made him feel guilty because he loved to visit Faiza and his mother, but during extended trips, he’d always be wishing to go back to his dad so he could get away from them. It’s definitely stuck with him. I’m sure he’s mostly over the confidence issues now, but I think it definitely scarred him. Contributes to why he’s so driven and desperate to prove himself successful.

PHYSICAL:

Height: 5'10”

Weight: 160lbs.

Build: Athletic. Not built like a monster, but he works hard to look good.

Hair Color: Black.

Usual Hair Style: As long as it looks neat, he doesn’t really care.

Eye Color: Dark brown.

Glasses? Contacts?: Contacts. Very rarely wears his glasses in public.

Style of Dress/Typical Outfit(s): Seeing him without a suit is a rarity. Going to Savile Row with his father when he was young was a tradition. To this day, he won’t buy a business suit from anywhere else. Huntsman or William Westmancott is his preference.

Typical Style of Shoes: Can’t go wrong with a good pair of Oxfords.

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: No tattoos or piercings. Always wears something from his impressive watch collection, but no other jewelry.

Scars: Only two. One from having his appendix removed, and another on his wrist from being bitten by a snake as a kid.

Unique Mannerisms/Physical Habits: Cracks his knuckles all the time when he’s stressed. Occasionally just to annoy his mother.

Athleticism: Because his appearance was one of the things he got bullied about most, he worked very hard to change it when he got to university. That routine has stuck with him. He rowed for both Oxford and Harvard competitively, and still keeps up the practice when he has time. Is a good distance runner. Enjoys playing cricket, and polo; the latter of which is a huge social thing for his family when they’re all together in London.

Health Problems/Illnesses: Amir is a Type 1 Diabetic, and also has a really bad allergy to peanuts.

INTELLECT:

Level of Education: Very high. Was homeschooled for much of his time in Saudi Arabia, but was sent back to England to study economics at Oxford. He continued these studies at Harvard, where he eventually began working towards a Ph.D., before suspending it to start investing in property, instead. Amir hopes to return to it one day, and perhaps go into lecturing when he’s older and ready to slow down a bit.

Languages Spoken: Urdu and English are his joint first languages. His mother made sure that her children learned both growing up. Also speaks Arabic and French fluently. Is currently teaching himself Mandarin for business purposes.

Level of Self-Esteem: Medium. I don’t think he’s too full of himself, and his childhood still weighs on him a bit. But he doesn’t hate himself. He realizes that he has a lot of good qualities he can be proud of.

Gifts/Talents: Aside from a talent with his profession, nothing else. It’s a shame, because he loves music and wishes he could play an instrument, but he can’t pick it up for the life of him.

Mathematical?: Absolutely. The man is a genius with numbers.

Makes Decisions Based Mostly On Emotions, or On Logic?: Logic. People often think he comes across quite cold because of it.

Life Philosophy: Take responsibility, don’t make excuses.

Religious Stance: Raised Muslim. Was very observant when he lived in Saudi Arabia—obviously, and some of it has stuck with him—but when he returned to the UK for university, it slipped. His parents aren’t happy about it, but they’re also not the type to force strict religion on their son. That being said, he does make an effort to be involved with the traditions and holidays, and never drinks in front of his parents. He knows they appreciate it.

Cautious or Daring?: Daring when it comes to work. Can’t be cautious in business, or you’ll never get anywhere. In his personal life, though, I think he’s a lot more hesitant. Tends to overthink things more.

Most Sensitive About/Vulnerable To: I think his reputation is so hugely important to him, that bad press is one of the things that really gets to him. He can’t just let it roll off his back like the others. People trying to tear him down after how hard he’s worked upsets him. Family is a weak spot for him, too. Amir’s also sensitive to people bringing up his failed relationship with Lara, as it’s still an incredibly raw topic.

Optimist or Pessimist?: An optimist, but not naively so.

Extrovert or Introvert?: In business, extroverted, because that’s where he feels most comfortable. He has no problem taking charge and putting himself out there. Less so in social situations. He’s not shy or detached, but sometimes he needs a little prodding to let loose and get involved.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Current Relationship Status: Single.

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual.

Past Relationships: The only two that are relevant are his first girlfriend, Lital Chadad, just because of how serious it was, and his ex-fiancée Lara, because he literally thought he would spend the rest of his life with her. When she cheated on him, it broke his heart, and he’s still genuinely distraught about it.

Primary Reason For Being Broken Up With: Doesn’t spend enough time with them.

Primary Reasons For Breaking Up With People: When they’re only in it for the money, which happens more often than he’d probably admit.

Ever Cheated?: No.

Been Cheated On: Yes. Multiple times by Lara.

Level of Sexual Experience: I mean, he’s not Damon, but he’s not Théo? Pretty high. (keeping this in, fight me.)

Story of First Kiss: On one of his trips back to London when he was around sixteen, a pretty girl from his sister’s tennis club had kissed him after one of their matches. Amir had thought he was so lucky, until he’d found out kissing him had been a forfeit for losing a bet. They’d laughed about it right in front of him. Stuck with him for a while.

Story of Loss of Virginity: It was with Lital on a drunken night out during the first few months of his time at Oxford. It was awkward, because he wasn’t exactly experienced on the girl front, and he certainly didn’t expect that she’d want to speak to him afterward, let alone ending up in a five-year-long relationship.

A Social Person?: I think so, generally, yes, though less so as of late; working to avoid his problems has also left him becoming slightly reclusive. I imagine he has quite a lot of friends. Doesn’t have trouble keeping them around, either. Though because he gets so busy, he’s fully aware that he needs to make more effort with certain people. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t enjoy time on his own. I think he treasures those moments of peace in his crazy ass lifestyle.

Most Comfortable Around: Obviously his family. Also his best friends, Revati, Bashira and Ashraf.

Oldest Friend: Bashira bint Mahmoud al-Ghazi, who incidentally, is also one of his ex-girlfriends. A daughter of one of his father’s Saudi friends. Amir has known her for as long as he can remember. Ashraf Khan, another Saudi friend, follows in close second. They’re an inseperable trio.

How Does He Think Others Perceive Him?: Uptight. Too serious. Smug. A bit of a snob. Work-obsessed.

How Do Others Actually Perceive Him?: Probably about right.

SECRETS:

Life Goals: To find the perfect balance between life and work, like his father seems to have done. Not currently working out for him.

Dreams: To eventually settle down and have a family of his own, though admittedly, I think he’s beginning to feel a bit hopeless on that front. I wonder if he thinks Lara was his last real chance, given that he’s getting older and has already wasted a considerable amount of time on dead-end/failed relationships.

Greatest Fears: Something bad happening to his family. Losing Lara. Loneliness. Being remembered for failure. Snakes.

Most Ashamed Of: How things ended with Lara. I think he probably blames himself. Wonders if maybe he’d tried a bit harder, she wouldn’t have gone to Théo.

Secret Hobbies: Cooking, though I don’t think he’s as good as he thinks he is. Working on it, for sure.

Crimes Committed (Was he caught? Charged?): Squeaky clean.

DETAILS/QUIRKS:

Night Owl or Early Bird?: Night owl, definitely.

Light or Heavy Sleeper?: Light sleeper, much to his frustration.

Favorite Animal: Fennec Foxes. Faiza had one growing up, and he was always jealous. Also tigers. Definitely tigers.

Favorite Food: Cheesecake, bitch. Also falafel. And dark chocolate.

Least Favorite Food: Tomatoes.

Favorite Book: One Thousand and One Nights

Least Favorite Book: Anything by Proust. Fuck Proust.

Favorite Movie: Ben-Hur.

Least Favorite Movie: Probably one of the terrible Bollywood movies Revati makes him sit through. Bad friend.

Favorite Song: Sympathy for the Devil – The Rolling Stones.

Favorite Sport: Cricket.

Coffee or Tea?: Tea. Always tea. Drown him in tea.

Crunchy or Smooth Peanut Butter?: Neither because death.

Type of Car He Drives: I mean, he drives all the cars, but his favorite is the Aston Martin DB11 that his father gifted him.

Lefty or Righty?: Left-handed.

Favorite Color: Green.

Cusser?: Occasionally. Usually only if he’s really annoyed, or exasperated. Not the kind of person to just curse for the sake of it.

Smoker? Drinker? Drug User?: Drinks—though not excessively—and only smokes then, rather than all of the time. Has never used any drugs.

Biggest Regret: Lara. All of it.

Pets: Since moving back to London, he actually decided to get a pet for the first time. It’s a service dog that can sense when his blood sugar is too low; something that happens a lot, since he’s been so focused on work to try and forget about his clusterfuck of a life. He’s a golden retriever named Raza.

#character development #didn't have to change as much as i thought but here it is for anyone who wants to use it!

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