I like being in a room where I know someone smoked a few cigarettes. I like being in a room with empty bottles of liquor. I like sitting in these rooms that have a heavy air of self loathing and a stifling sense of despair because I feel a sickeningly comfortable sense of belonging there, because the greatest of the literary greats once sat there. I’ll smoke a cigarette every once in a while, not enough to call myself a smoker but enough to feel poetic. I don’t drink, not really, the burn of it keeps me from enjoying the arts. It might just be my age. I’m not sure, I’m not sure of anything really. I like the smell of stale smoke in a room and the litter of booze because it makes me feel experienced, like what I write is worth a damn, but it’s not, it’s juvenile, it’s mediocre and it scares me that it’s all I will ever be; juvenile and mediocre. I toss around the notion that my life might be so unbearable that my writing will make the literary geniuses— if you can call them that— of my time revel in its existence. I often find myself dreaming that maybe one day I will be a morbid, smoking alcoholic who writes beautiful nothings to a beautiful no one who once broke my broken heart, Like All The Treats.
What happens when you’re better? I wonder. How are you different? How are you better? Are you not who you were anymore? So, who are you. Do you feel differently? For so long you’ve been depressed, taking pills, seeing psychiatrist, coping. Are you really better? Are you even you anymore? How do you know you’re better? Does someone tell you? Do you get a letter? An e-mail maybe? For so long you have been not right, mentally that is, and then suddenly you are. I don’t understand, but to be frank I don’t really think the “professionals” understand either. So carry on with your head up or with your head low. You will always not be right in the head because right in the head isn’t real.
I wanted to be a part of your daily routine. I wanted to be a staple of your everyday. I wanted to hold a spot in your heart. Not romantically… not much anyway. I wanted to mean something good. I did not want to be a pity project. I did not want to be a glass figurine, only cared for when in need, otherwise forgotten. I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to be missed, like I miss. I wanted and wanted, but you didn’t want at all. I wanted too desperately. I wanted to be significant, but I am just a part-time friend.
Though I wrote this for a specific person, I know that it is very relatable. People seem to think that because I, and many others have depression we need special circumstances in our friendships. Well, we don’t. People with depression aren’t all gloomy all the time, we can have a good time, in fact we hunger for it. We want friends who will be our friends, not people who are always trying to make everything emotionally safe and stable. Sure, it’s a nice and thoughtful sentiment, but we, I’d like to just hang out on random occasions, at random times, for random reasons. I don’t want you to only be my friend when my depression acts up, that’s not friendship.
~The Boy In The Canvas
I really hate my life right now. Everyone is taking pieces and bits and time from me, it feels like my life isn’t my own. I have doctors appoinments almost every other week. I have Dance responsibilities nearly everyday, and my parents won’t get off my case for not finding a new job. My dance teacher is giving me shit for having medical appointments! are you shitting me?! Does this bitch think it’s my choice having bone problems. I have also been looking for a new job like crazy and all I ever hear from my step dad is, “Your son is so lazy. all he ever does is sit on his ass. He wil never do anything with his life.” This asshole thinks that work is more important than an education. When I try to tell my mom that I need help in classes and my dance teacher keeps us till whatever hour she bloody well feels like and then I have AP and advanced classes to do work for, but she doesn’t care. She says that since I don’t work I shouldn’t be aloud to complain that my life is hard. What the actual fuck. I just need some space to breath for fucks sake.
This has been a rant, followers sorry. I know you might not give a shit.
I don’t really know who I am anymore, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Perhaps I never knew myself to begin with. Either way, the feeling of being oblivious to oneself is overwhelming. Am I my name? My words? My actions? A combination of these? Or maybe who I am in their absence. Films make finding yourself seem so effortless, and books make it seem like a wonderful adventure, but the truth is finding yourself is a life-long journey because we’re constantly changing. Growing. Adapting. So maybe I haven’t lost myself. Maybe I’m just growing into the new me. That’s a comforting thought, I haven’t been to happy with myself lately. The thought that I might become a better me is very comforting. I might be lost. I might be changing. Either way I’m not who I thought I was, and I don’t know whether or not that’s a good thing.
I know I haven’t posted many posts about my depression and such, but with good reason. For a while I was doing really well. Really, really well, I didn’t worry about the big dark monster that haunts me all the time. As of late though I have been getting bad again, real bad. I started cutting again. We never really get better do we.
I write about you, and I hate you so much, yet all my writing makes me smile when I read it over. Occasionally I’ll let someone read some of what I write and they’ll say things like, “Wow, this is so pretty,” or “This is so relatable,” but I can’t relate to it, because I hate everything you did! So, why then, do I fall in love with you all over when I write about you…