A Menagerie of Maniacal Metaphors

Clickbait? Yes, unapologetically so. Just for that fractional chance that someone would give a damn even though this post is super useless and shitty and pointless, like me.  

.

.

So I remember high school very differently from one of my best friends. He said something I thought I’d never hear, that I was always happy. I guess I was happy around him. He was and is a happy person—the most stable person I know, in fact. We just talked a lot, and we got to talk about a lot of things and still do. Still, I remember high school so differently. We hung out during break times when I’d fawn over a crush, chat, or just chill. Or sometimes we’d cut classes together and just chat. Or go for a jog and end up just eating ice cream.

I remembered high school differently. I remember coming home from senior prom and hysterically crying myself to sleep because I’d failed to make one romantic connection the whole four years and it made me feel ugly and unloveable to the bone. Prom simply wasn’t special for people like me—ones who didn’t star in the romcom, random background extras, a snippet in the burn book. I remember going home and hating school so much I felt suicidal every night. I remember writing a short story about killing myself with shrimps and ascorbic acid—I was a nerdy kid. I remember diagnosing myself bipolar because of the experience. I remember being bullied and just sticking to my diaries. I remember failing at math no matter how hard I tried. I remember begging my parents to put me into a different school.

Of course, I also remember finding ways to cut classes so I can paint and debate the whole day—two of my favorite things to do. I also remember the great times with friends and hiding behind a pillar just so we don’t go through another boring class. I remember the laughs, the platters of instant noodles, the spots I’d linger at to see my crush. I remember it all.

I think of high school and I feel so many things colliding, so many colors bursting. All my memories are like so. And my friends tend to remember them differently. I was this, I was that. I was bubbly, I was friendly—but inside I was battling with social anxiety. They don’t know about how many hours I battled in the morning just to get up, just NOT to give up entirely. There were days I hated my friends because I just didn’t want to wake up and meet them—I just wanted to die instead.

I forget that people don’t actually hear my thoughts out loud. If they did, they’d be so turned off. I’m just such a party pooper inside. I’m always scared, always just wanting to fucking die. It began when I was four—that feeling that everything would be better off with my disappearance. My inability to carry on a suicide plan, really, up to this day, I consider a weakness, a form of indecisiveness, lackluster ambivalence.

I’ve had many dreams, of which dying has been the only consistent one. This doesn’t mean that people see me as emo, gothic or always wearing black. Far from it. I dress in rainbows. My favorite color has always been yellow. Specifically egg yolk yellow, Mercedes de Brazo yellow or that yellow dress I had as a child with the corset back I stopped wearing once it freaked out my mom because I had sleep walked in it.

No, I’m actually quite the party with the people I trust. I get it going. Ask around, you’ll see. It’s called hypomania after all. Still, it all crashes. It always does in a ball of flames and I get lonely again. I feel like a fucking freak again.

And I’m sooooo tired. I’m so tired of all this cycling. People don’t actually see me at my worst. Only my mom and sister do. They don’t see me when I just can’t fucking move. They don’t see me when I have panic attacks. They don’t see me when I descend and break down. They don’t see me starving for days. They don’t see me crying uncontrollably. They don’t see me curl up in a ball. They don’t see me shaking and twitching in a corner. They don’t see me when I bang my head on the wall or start hitting myself. They don’t see me when it hurts and I feel my brain is on fire. They don’t see me when I’m all alone and everyone is asleep and I’m still typing all this shit out trying to make sense of something, trying to find a reason to stay alive.

It’s so fucking hard. Sorry for the French. Sorry ma. Sorry God. Sorry! But life feels like torture right now. I’m just so tired and everything is forcing me to move like I’ve caught my foot on a roller coaster.

Life can be good. Of course. Life can be so fucking good. Especially when I’m in love. But life right now is hell for me. I’m doing stuff I love, sure, but fucking shit! Motherfucking  goats on a ladder, monkey fucking balls, jizz dripping dick, shit show. I’m fucking lonely as fuck. I feel like I’m on an island away from civilization. If I want to be cute about it, I feel like I’m stuck in a tower with fucking guard dragons named Penniless and Insanity.

Life feels like hell for me. I’m fucking burning and I just won’t die. Sure, hell is much worse, but fucking shit, you haven’t been in my head. God! Why? I just feel so fucking frustrated. Is there no way out?

I’m writing my shit, right? Just fucking finish this shit so I can pass it to Palanca which I won’t win anyway. I’m not getting my hopes up. But I want to finish it for the sake of finishing it. I know it’s not much. It’s just about time and unrequited love after all. There’s tons of other stuff like it. Still, STILL. I just want the satisfaction of finishing something. Having some sort of closure. BUT IT JUST WON’T END. I have the middle and end, but there’s that chunk, that problem solving part that just won’t come. You know why? Because I’m trying to write the solution to a problem I currently have no answer to. I’m asking questions I don’t know the answer to. It’s high school all over again, reading the same math problem over and over again and still having no fucking clue, that i wind up fucking crying. 

How do I cope with rejection? How do I become a better me? How do I be independent? Can i just insert “to be continued” in the middle of a screenplay?

Maybe my shrink knows the answer. I haven’t seen her in a while. Honestly, because I can’t fucking afford her like I can’t fucking afford meeting people right now even with isolation fucking driving me fucking mad.

Questions to ask my shrink:

What am I supposed to do when I’m suicidal?

Some people think I’m always happy, should I correct them?

How to not be a party pooper when telling people I’m fucking crazy?

 I think I might have over skinned my lips. Fucking burns. 

This feels just so dumb. Writing this shit down. No one’s ever going to read it. No one’s ever going to understand me. All my life has been about trying to make people understand just so I can feel a little fucking less lonely. Nothing’s changed. People don’t know me. I’m either sunshine or a storm cloud.

Sometimes I wish I could chop off my legs so people could see why I can’t run, walk or just stand. Like yeah. At least now they can see. It’s not like I want a pity party. I don’t. But I want to be understood. I want someone who gets it.

I wish I could treat this. I wish meds will make this go away. But it’ll just manage it. And when I get rid of the deepest blues, I get rid of the brightest yellows and I’ll just have nothing to live for anyway. How the fuck do I live?

I constantly feel fucking worthless and useless. I know it’s the disorder, but it’s not like I can get rid of the disorder. It might as well be an organ on its own really.

I just want to die so badly. I’ve just just had enough. My head’s hurt for what, how many decades now? It just burns and aches and vibrates and spreads throughout my body and nobody understands. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be scared.

The paranoia doesn’t help. Yeah, you can say it’s kept me alive, the whole panoptical life caused by years of trauma of mom reading my diaries, notes, letters, and text messages. Fucking motherfucking shit. It’s kept me alive in a way. I don’t do drugs, sex and very seldom drabble in legal potent substances. I very seldom lie. I can’t even leave the house without telling my mom. I’m “good” because I just live in constant fear of myself. I feel like everything is a gateway for worse things. I can’t let go. I can’t breathe. I wish I could just be.

I wish I could just breathe. I wish the pain would stop. I wish someone would get it. I wish I was worth it. I wish people believed in me. I wish he never had to leave me. I wish he loved me back. I wish my dad wasn’t an asshole. I wish my dad just loved my family. I wish my mom was ok. I wish I wasn’t so traumatized. I wish I could travel. I wish, I wish, I wish. We can’t have everything we want now.

Look, I have a lot. I got a great education. I got good grades even. I got an okay face. Mom says I’m too pretty, but she’s my mom, of course she’d say that. My mom also says my ass is wide but not big—which is bad because I don’t do enough exercise.

Fuck.

I have a lot to be grateful about. I can write—though no one fucking reads me. I can paint—there’s a giant blank canvass upstairs but no fucking paint (for weeks I SOUGHT). I can cook—as much as the next internet aficionado with taste buds. I can…

I can die.

The thought soothes me. Comforts me. I’ve told my doctor many times before but drowned it out with jokes and I’m okays. She counter checks with my mom who still wishes that all this was controllable, was just imagined. Can’t blame her. I, too, wish this was just a nightmare I could wake up from.

Pinch. No! Haha!

It’s reality. I’m suicidal and I don’t know what I can do about it. It’s not like I’m actively trying. I’m just always considering how much better it would be on the other side. I keep thinking about overdosing on chocolate or eating too much fatty stuff that liver cirrhosis occurs. I keep thinking of finishing something great, an obra maestra, then just jumping off a building or some shit. Anything really. I don’t know.

Sometimes, it scares me, up close. Like that heart attack scare, I thought I wanted to live. But wanting to live is such a fleeting thing. What is more constant, what nags at my brain everyday is what if, what if!!! WHAT IF THIS ALL JUST ENDS.

Maybe this is just a call for attention. But I’m sort of tired of the attention too. I’m so tired of telling people how miserable I am and them filing it in a folder under my name. “Jasper, sap.” “Jasper, toxic.” I’m tired of wearing people thin. If I die, it’ll be like pulling off a band aid, really. Quick. Not like this. A long torturous whine. My existence is like the nails on the chalkboard.

I scratched the blackboard once or twice and it caught my crush’s attention. I kinda enjoyed it. Few times I existed in his orbit, even if it was in the world’s most annoying form. Gold.

This is why my humor is dark. It’s the only way I fucking survive. Laughing at myself. At the in-credulousness of it all. Of existing in spite. Of living through pain for nothing. Ha! Pathetic! To detach myself from myself, so I can look from above and laugh at me as I trip on my own fucking feet—my reason for living.

I’m hilarious. How I blunder through life. How I almost got suspended once because some girls gossiped about my armpit hair. How I fell in love with a man who felt absolutely nothing for me. You know why I fell for him? Because I’d never felt so loved before. Ha! Amazing. Just hilarious.

I don’t want your pity. I don’t even want you to fucking worry. I’m not going to kill myself. I don’t need you to tell me that I don’t seem crazy. Telling me that makes me feel like I just imagined my whole diagnosis you know, and that my brand of fucked up is way beyond medical science. I just want to be underfuckingstood.

Is that so hard?

I didn’t know that a movie about aliens was going to be the movie of my life. I’ve never felt so understood until the movie Arrival, it’s hilarious. I feel like I’m just talking alien and the only solution to my problem is to write a book in the future about it. Fucking shit. I experience life, also, I realized like an alien. Always experiencing everything in the context of the future and past. Everything to me is in medias res. I don’t understand linearity. That’s why I’m always lost. Left and right is a circle to me. Everything is so fucking nonlinear my brain is constantly overwhelmed. Am I happy? Am I sad? I don’t know. Hence my trademark HUHUHAHA/HAHAHUHU. Sort of sounds like a monkey.

WHINE WHINE WHINE

Who the fuck will ever read this shit.  NO fucking one.

My whole life I dedicated to be understood--my whole college thesis all about it. In the words of Ursula: Pathetic.

I remember in fourth grade was it? Yeah, probably. I used abstract art to tell my dad that I knew his deepest darkest secret and he was the asshole of my life. Of course he didn’t get it. I abstracted it for a reason.

Life is like a knot. I don’t know where it ends or begins—all I see is that it’s a tangle I can’t solve.

I’m so fucking needy.

I know the answer isn’t love. Pop culture would tell you it is. It’s not. But what if medication doesn’t help? HOPELESS FuCKiNG SHIT.

One day, I ask the wind, the farts I make when everyone is asleep, will I grow thin? Will I just snap? Will I just finally have enough? Will the guilt of leaving my family behind finally be secondary to my suffering?

Someone has it worse—they say. I just don’t like that saying. Like fuck that shit. FUCK THAT SHIT. Someone always has it worse, doesn’t cancel out the fucking chronic pain of my life. Now I have to feel guilty for feeling bad on top of feeling guilty for being alive? FUCK THAT SHIT.

I can’t sleep. It’s been 5 fucking pages. It’s 3 am.

I used to arrive with sappy you can do its. I don’t think I will this time.