StabbyIndie 🪼

Everything feels miserable now. But i lie when i say this, because it’s not everything all the time. There’s moments when my elation rivals my misery, where i wonder what fucked up attention-seeking method I’ve tested to delude myself into thinking I’m anything but content, that my life is just so perfect people wish they were me. And then there’s moments like these, where I’m misery’s number one companion, when I’m finally someone’s number one companion.

It’s said that understanding yourself on an intrapersonal level guides you to the best version of yourself, that you can finally attain the ideal image once you’ve understood how your mechanisms work and where your faults lay. I think that’s a load of bullshit. If self awareness has ever brought me anything it’s existentialism. It’s knowing what’s wrong with you constantly and never understanding how to fix it because no one else seems to see the faults you know are there, that every interaction could be better and that you’ve said the wrong thing but everyone’s still laughing but that’s not what it’s supposed to be like because for fucks sake that can’t be all i am, that’s not all there is to me. It’s knowing why you can’t ever seem to reach that perfect version of yourself you’ve conjured up because you cannot humanely be perfect, but godfuckingdamnit you can try. It’s knowing that you will never be loved the way you want to be and that melts any semblance of compassion you have for yourself away because all you really are now is unloveable, that there’s something so severely selfish and nihilistic to you because nothing can ever seem to be enough. Nothing anyone can do is ever enough and if it ever seems like it is, it’s a hopeless lie and I’m not naive, I’ve been there before.

You’ve resigned yourself to never attaining what you actually crave, that the validation you want will never actually come because no one ever sees what you want them to see, they see you for what you are and not your mentally metamorphosed self. You won’t show it either, even if you could, this part of you is a secret that you and your only companion share. You use it as leverage to water your corroding roots, tangling them into knots with misery, so entwined you don’t know where you end and she starts, or if you've ever been yourself instead of some amalgamation of angst in a flesh suit. What happens to you is the way of the universe because you’ve established yourself as an entity deserving of pain and reprimand.

The passive ideation of disappearing. Of what life would be like if you were either to snap out of existence or exit the planes of everyone’s memory. A ghost amongst the living, forgotten and withering. It’s similar to the feeling of dissecting the very opinion of you people harbour, how you stop texting first to see how many people would reach out through their own unprovoked will, only to be disappointed time and time again. You realise that you’ve never fully been loved, and the most someone could give you was never enough. 

The suffocation of being stuck in a place where you know you aren’t anyone’s primary person. You’re so used to being important to that special someone that when you’re suddenly not, it feels as if the world is wronging you, that you’re repenting for past sins, that at some point, in a distant foregone timeline, you’ve wronged someone so severely that you deserve only the worst of the worst. Every single fucking day. Waking up has to seem like a chore and going through the monotone motions of living the life you’ve been bestowed with turns into mind numbing exhaustion the more you repeat the cycle. What worth do these happy moments hold when you know you’ll never experience the bliss and joys you did sometime in the past, that the people you love and care about are so out of your reach you have to wonder whether they ever existed in the first place, whether what they made you feel hadn’t been a cruel conjure of your desperate mind?

I find myself unable to decipher what I feel anymore, an astute and integral part of me that I pride in understanding under normal circumstances, under older circumstances. Maybe it’s the consistent fear of growth, of change or maybe the constant self destruction, an espionage into my own flesh, sent to hurt, sent to burn.

With every passing day, I find myself growing miserable. It’s not everyday, if it were I’d be able to label myself just that, an alcove in my being filled with morbid sabotage, an infection that’s run its course and settled. No, what remains in me is a cancer, where I experience periods of remission before being hurtled onwards into chemo and medicine. medicine that brings me momentary relief in the form of chemical reactions within the confines of my mind, lasting seconds of euphoria before dispersing and leaving me dependent and aching for more; while chemo left me breathless, chest aching with every expansion and hair falling out in chunks, locks I had grown with pride and care frayed in between the crevices of my fingers and palm all in the name of recovery, for the sake of looking in the mirror and not pinching layers of fat and skin and cellulite and so much fucking fat because chemo took it away in the form of fingers down my throat and an incapacitated meal schedule, bearing results.

I get better every time I get worse and it’s such an addictive feeling I realise it’s wrong because no high comes without a crushing low. Icarus flew so close to the sun only to fall so much further away from it he never got to feel sunlight anymore, only the cold wash of death. He didn’t die unsatiated though. He experienced his ultimatum and knew nothing else would compare to the bliss of finding and touching his eden, death seemed merciful, granting him reprise and the freedom from wandering around aching for relapse, for that momentary ecstasy once again. Icarus personified what it felt like battling the urge to reach your very best, to feel the greatest you ever will before hitting so far into rock bottom all you taste is obsidian and soot, soot from the remains of cremated bliss raining down like ash from the last vestiges of your prior position in the sky, hand in the clouds and mind even further above. You see what you were, what you’re never going to be again, and you grovel, you grope the ground to find purchase to push yourself back up so you can climb to at least a quarter of your peak, by any means. It doesn’t matter if the further you reach the worse you fall, what matters is the height of mania and the overreaching limits of content.

Every meal sits heavy, shackles and boulders in my stomach that ache worse than the ever present pangs of hunger, a minor change but so very impactful. Is my hair falling out metaphorical to the sacrifice I make every time I repeat this cycle to achieve the minimal decline on the scale, is the agony of starvation and the pulses of nicotine my rock bottom and the decimal decrease in those god forsaken kilograms and centimetres my Sun? It feels so worth it, Icarus made everything seem so real, so comprehensible. The myth of flying too close and getting burnt cannot begin to explain how good it feels standing in the midst of the flame, how liberating the licks of plasma against skin as you stand the cremation of your stability and inner peace. What good is the awareness of the resounding wrongness and consequences to your actions when the result, no matter how fleeting, outweighs so heavily in comparison?

I think to be able to relapse, you need to tackle sobriety first, which I don’t think i’ve ever needed to do, considering addiction isn’t a word I'd use to describe my relationship with substances. I find a weird solitude in knowing that I'm worsening myself, that consciously, I've chosen to fester erosion and mold inside my mind. I had a choice, I've always had a choice, no one’s ever forced me into this, it’s a personal gain, and sometimes, a loss. My parents never touched cigarettes or vapes, and are only occasional drinkers the way most adults are. They’re clean.

They’re good people, and i love them to death. I fear i would burn worlds if anything were to ever happen to them, and i know they’d do the same. That’s why i don't understand why i am the way i am. I think ive always known that there’s been something different about me, good ways at first. I didn’t lack the confidence to express myself, i think i’m emotionally smart when it comes to understanding others and i’ve never found it hard to make friends the way i know many others do.

The problem came with keeping ties, holding onto relationships. My parents and my brother are constants in my life, considering i actively meet them everyday and share my living spaces amongst them, but when i inevitably drift away from them, lost within the prospects of social norm and the future, i fear i won’t be able to enjoy their presence the way i would before, i wouldn't need them like i need air. It’s difficult to face criticism when it's aimed towards your reflection, am i really fighting with a secondary visage of myself in my mind, one i've differentiated from the rest of my consciousness because i deemed it unlikeable, when the possibility of it being the truest me is so distinctly high? I realise i my pathetic efforts to keep those around me afloat, on the same degree as me, which may simply be a maladaptive convolution of an ingrained sense of mental superiority.

You entered my life nearly seven years ago, and you’ve never left since. Your heart cradled mine, a twisted beat we drummed together. I didn’t realize how into you I was. I did years too late, when we both promised fleeting love to each other, only to turn them into torturous and prolonged goodbyes. When we finally bid farewell, you came back like a carefully lit inferno a year and four months later, burning down any semblance of normalcy I built for myself, paper walls of denial, a man, a boyfriend, shallow relationships. You left after scorching my tongue and heart again, your hands leaving trails of want on my skin, my flesh, my bones. You ingrained hope into my consciousness again, ignited that flicker of love I still held for you, sheltered and burrowed under layers of viscera, raging so bright my chest hurt with heartburn for days on end.

Did you ever realize the impact you had and still have on me? A word from you and I come crawling like a dog, a touch from you and I burrow into it like an unloved puppy, the sight of you leaving me craving for your attention like a neglected child. You go days, weeks, even months acting like i don't exist and i can’t go a single song without imagining a life with you, Sunday mornings filled with soft touches, hard kisses and sultry words, weekends filled with nicotine rushes with every shared breath, lifetimes filled with just us, us, us, us. It’s a chore, a schedule, a self imposed ritual, to check for any word from you, only to find none time and time again, to realize unprompted words from you are too much to ask when I can’t even afford to get replies from unfinished conversations, closure.

You promise so much, you lower my shackles only to pull them up so fast I’m left disjointed and pained. You tell me you’ll answer my numerous calls, whenever and however, only to never answer a single one and leave shallow explanations with no follow ups. Reminds me why we never worked out, why we can’t work out, but yet i wait for you to come back and ruin me again, ruin my next attempt at a put together life and relationship, only to leave me aching with that god awful want again and again and again until i can’t feel anymore, until the only attachment i have left is the one that connects my soul to my body. You’re ashamed of me, of my neediness, of my mistakes, you hide me from your friends, and fair enough. But you hide me from yourself too, you don't like that you can’t get enough of me either, so you run away and you drag me with you, covering me with road burns and friction rashes. You run me ragged to get better for yourself, and you have no idea you do that.

But what exactly do I do about that? I crave too much of you to act as if you never exist, especially not after you’ve ruined the one attempt I made at doing just that, proving that it's impossible. That I’m a fool stuck in the eternal loop of unrequited love, or love that just cannot be, because that’s what we have, love. Calling this a crush, something so frivolous, makes me nauseous, makes me feel so disgustingly wrong, infatuation even worse. Obsession maybe, but love moreso. My friends think I’m ridiculous, they think what’s here is unimportant, not that deep. But I can’t convey how much I rely on this terrible relationship to function as myself, that without it I cannot work, that if this gear were to stop moving, my entire autonomy would fall apart. That if I do ever burn this bridge, I will never be able to build another one ever again.

Sometimes I hope something horrible happens to you, so that at least I’d finally have a reason to grieve you, so that I’d finally be able to enter the torturous sequence of moving on, so that I won’t be burdened or left with my own disgusting thoughts all the time anymore, so that I give everyone I know a reason for my psychosis, for my desperation to angst over you. Is this really what puppy love is supposed to feel like? Is this simply the start of a lifetime of love and heartbreak? I feel like I’ve had enough of both with just this one for the entirety of my god awful lifetime. Maybe my brain grew up too fast because of this sack of horseshit we called a romance for years, maybe that’s why everything else seems like it can’t compare, because nothing was nearly as fucked as this was, as this is. Look at what you’ve done to me, a labeled cheater, an indecisive bitch. Is this what you wanted from me when you came hurdling back in again, were you seeking a fucked up form of consolation, were you trying to see how much of me you still had wrapped around your fingertips, to see how far I’d go for you so that you could go back home and use the hours of sleep I’ve lost over this for yourself, earning yourself well deserved rest? Is this how we were supposed to play out? A losing side and a winning side? 

my desire to not exist emerges from the carnivorous and omnipresent void in my brain, ever growing and ultimately there. My heart yearns for a day where my mind rests, systematic in the way a young girl’s should be, not unhinged and unstable the way the constant reprimand of aging and existing brings. I see no difference in me and my peers for I ultimately don't know the way they work, the way they collect their thoughts or the accent of their inside voices. I am uncertain if they wake up unsated at ungodly hours, twisting and turning in malicious thoughts and wonder if their purpose in life is simply just to be. I wonder if they too believe that they are either destined to greatness or an early invitation to the grave, buried next to their negligent ancestors or cremated in the lands of religion and sacrilege. There is no in between, you either fail horrifically or win constantly.

I feel weighted when I think this way but cannot change the mindset i had implemented into myself years ago, my age but a number compared to the volatility of my thoughts. While most scientists describe memories as scriptures or films, I comprehend them as kaleidoscopic fragments, constantly vibrant and ever changing. My desires work the same way. They flicker every day, never once sated, but the desire to exist remains constantly null.

And isn’t that a funny thing? 

Usually, the feelings of absolute sadness emerge from experiences and environments. How could I ever justify them when my environment is stable beyond belief and my experiences are nowhere nearly as dark as my thoughts.

The few terrible ones I do have seem so insignificant in the grand scheme of things and so impossibly easy to cast aside that it should not make sense to dwell on it to even chastise these feelings. 

Sometimes I don’t feel real. My consciousness remains disturbed and insatiable but my physicality refuses to acknowledge or keep up with it. The mass of muscle and viscera controlling my very being is sickening and disturbing, my soul ages and comprehends too much. I feel distant from the homosapien planes of existence, existentialism leaving my body. 

I sometimes feel as though I delude myself into thinking I am unique, a being of ludicrously built organ cavity and biology, not humane like everyone else I know. Then I fear the way I think, the normal do not convince themselves they are alike to their species. The normal do not believe themselves to be extraterrestrials despite being anatomically synced with the diaphanous hysterics of their own kind. 

I seek negativity daily, in the forms of words displayed on a led screen or horrifying images and songs. I tell everyone around me that my personality is that of a sadist and I simply find the chaos of terror and depression comprehensible so as to convince both them and myself that, indeed, that is my reason and I am but a simple sad and lonely soul. 

But normal people don’t find excuses and reasons to promote their crippling sanity into further demise, normal people don’t write monologues about their feelings of derealisation and depersonalisation at three in the morning with a building headache and no pants on. 

If I truly am deluded into believing I cannot and do not need to exist for I am not a being of existence, and am actually and ultimately part of the teenage girl normal, then I long to find my people for in the sixteen years of my life I haven’t even once. 

while I am completely destroyed because of chapter 109, I cannot stop giggling at the fact that Chuuya gave zero fucks about Dazai’s shot at that “friendship is magic” bullshit.

Like please, he didn’t even let him finish😭

Shit was mad funny (im coping hard)

I seriously doubt dazai’s dead since Asagiri gave us that scare not once but twice already -*cough* Akutagawa *cough* Chuuya- however, bsd has a knack for leaving me absolutely baffled so I’m not even going to try theorising atp

My first crushes ever were Nico Di Angelo, Keith and Robin, along with Sasuke.

And did anyone watch that show The Amazing Spies that aired on Discovery Kids back in like 2015 or something? There were four kids in blue, red, pink and yellow who two timed as spies and normal students.

Anyways, I liked the yellow one who *obviously* had black hair.

…see the pattern? The Black haired emotionally vulnerable and very traumatised boys were little me’s (and bigger me’s) type. 😭🫡

Me: Traumatized.

I’m pretty sure most BSD fans already expect this.

Why?

Well, i’m pretty sure everyone is aware of how all (if not most) characters in the anime are inspired and named after real authors. Most of their abilities are also named after book written by the irl authors. (ig: Fyodor’s ability is called Crime and Punishment, an incredibly famous classic literature written by the Russian author, Fyodor Dostoyevsky.)

Moreover, a few characters also are incredibly alike to their irl’s. (Not all, ig Kyouka, who is the gender bent version of the irl author Izumi Kyouka, birth name Kyotaro Izumi.)

Osamu Dazai was a man with an incredibly negative and nihilistic view towards reality, it was the reason behind his motivation to write his best seller book, No longer Human. The book, however, was also considered to be a semi-autobiographical story on none other than Dazai himself, basing itself on the depression and alienation the author felt towards society and himself.

Osamu Dazai in the anime/manga, is also a man with a negative view towards reality and living. The reason behind this is somewhat explained, but still incredibly unclear, considering we didn’t get exactly get a proper backstory on Dazai yet. His ability, No longer Human, nullifies other abilities, at least that’s all that has been said so far. (I have a slight head canon which possibly isn’t a head canon? Maybe Dazai’s ability was written out to be nullification due to his nullified response to existence, the fact that he believed he wasn’t human and was created to destroy. Quoting Oda’s words of “He was practically born to be one of them (a mafioso)”.)

No longer human, the book, was also believed to be interpreted as a suicide note, considering how Osamu Dazai had committed double suicide alongside his love interest Tomie Yamazaki soon after the book had been published.

Sound familiar?

Dazai always sings about how he too wants to go out (commit suicide) alongside a beautiful woman. I’m not sure, but maybe Tomie Yamazaki might be introduced as a character in the future of BSD (idk some people say she’s made an appearance already? I’m not sure, but do tell if she has, I’m not going to rewatch the entirety of BSD for this TT).

I really hope she doesn’t since that would just convince everybody what Dazai’s fate would be by the end of the series.

I personally have yet to read No longer Human, so can’t really go much into detail about the book itself, but considering the reaction it got, i’m guessing it explains Dazai’s character in the series a lot better.

Osamu Dazai died at the age of 38 in 1948, and BSD Dazai is currently 22. Maybe later on there might be a time skip, or the series might just end after covering several more years and many more arcs, but i feel like it will result with Dazai dying.

I seriously would hope that wouldn’t be the case, since Dazai is incredibly loved by the audience, but BSD hasn’t really held out on us has it? *cough Oda*

manga readers, where are you guys at?

But it would probably serve as good plot and will be somehow canon compliant to irl Dazai, since basically everything but the world setting already is.