Relief

There was a statement I read off a suicide prevention blog back in high school.

“If you kill your self then you will never be around long enough to feel the relief of death, your last moments on earth will be in pain.”

Every time a suicide idealization came back into my thoughts I’d remember this sentence and it would instantly bring me back to reality again. I wish I could remember what site I was on or had some way of letting that person know just how powerful that sentence was, just how many times it saved my life over the last 10 years.

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Family

Me to my dad as he continued to talk over me: “YOU DON’T GET A VOICE. YOU DON’T GET A VOICE.”

Him: “I always like your natural hair better. Why did you have to dye it so reddish?”

*It’s not red, but with box dye (after a bad professional job that turned the back of my hair orange), it’s the closest I could come to my natural reddish brown color*

Him: “It looks like you have a worm in your ear.”

*Daith piercing, which I was extremely open and upfront about the purpose of getting it to help with my anxiety/panic disorder* He still doesn’t believe I have either disorder.

Him: “You know, I’ll always be willing to pay to have those tattoos removed.”

I got them so I could fucking cope with my world. My world of bipolar and ptsd and queerness and independence and anxiety.

I got them to fucking cope and none of these things are a joke to me. 


Everything he criticizes me about are all the things I’ve done to help myself, but I’ve tried to be as respectful as I can about them. My tattoos are mostly hidden, I don’t talk about my mental health openly anymore, my hair is always dyed a natural hair color (also for work), and I am fucking stable, always.

I just want, deep down, I just want my dad and mom to be proud of me. I want them to be proud of all of me, not just the things I’ve done and the independence/space I’ve created. I won’t get them to love the tattoos or hair dye or girlfriends I bring home or even accept that I’m gay. I really wish they would, but at the very least, I wish they wouldn’t openly tell me how disappointed they are. I wish they’d keep those comments, those thoughts, to themselves.

I dread hearing how much of me they don’t like.

After Laura

Laura and I broke up Friday morning, 4 days short of our 1 month anniversary. She did most the talking and seemed like she wanted to move past the Wednesday night no-call fuck up. I disagreed and asked for a break because, as I explained to her, I think I’ve been hypomanic for a few days.

Regardless, I’ve been off my medication for about a month now and have done nothing (supplements, exercise, counseling, yoga, diets, meditation) to cope. Literally, I’ve done nothing, I just keep putting it off because I’m busy. So now its kind of come to a head and I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread and it feels a little dangerous.

She took a breath, then asked what my coping mechanisms are because her mother has bipolar too and she has “already been through that pain and disappointment” and needs me to be “strong and a constant emotional support during these hard times with surgeries and the healing process the next few weeks” and I can’t be that. Without thinking about what I want, looking ahead, I can’t be that support because I’m not stable enough.

So she broke up with me. And it sucks. And like Nicole, I don’t feel like I’ll feel anything for a few weeks until it hits. Or maybe, since we only dated for a month I won’t feel much at all. But, we lost our final virginities to each other. I call it that because each of us did everything else with other partners, except giving oral sex, and scissoring was new to each of us too I guess.

I want to drink and have sex with gals (maybe go back to guys?) and figure out what living unstable is really going to mean.

November 24, 2017

I had a lot of crazy dreams last night (rich food always throws it off). One of those dreams I was walking across a long, windy, skyscraper-like bridge behind a long line of women. We were all wearing the same uniform and my general feeling was unease and worry with what would happen to us when we reached the other end. Very suddenly, the woman in front of me turned around and held onto my shoulders and I felt a wave of love and belonging and strength. Her face morphed into my own face, like a mirror (my dreams always morph), and she/I said to my point-of-view, “You are ready to have sex again.” The words were so shocking to me they actually woke me up completely. LOL.

I think I’ve been kind of waiting for a sign or a feeling from inside that I was ready to go back to sex from this year long break. That dream felt so real and so much like permission, like my heart telling my mind, “I trust you again.”

The dream was serious, but with it waking me up so suddenly, I was laughing at the weirdness of it. Honestly though, sex is both meaningful and irrelevant all at once. Like, I don’t care how many people I sleep with, or which gender I’m sleeping with. I don’t care if my sex preferences are kinky or how my body looks when I’m performing them. I don’t think sex with one person, your partner, or multiple, non-monogamous partners should mean anything strange. Sex can be so physical and so pleasurable without reading too much into what it says about you or what it means that you sleep with so many people, or sleep with a same-sex partner, or sleep with a different person each night, etc.

And then there’s that point where sex loses it’s meaning completely. I hit that point slowly, dully. Sex became less pleasurable. I began to use it to fill a void so I slept with dozens of people, multiples per week. I stopped being adventurous in bed, so much more insecure. I began to only sleep with men because the sex was faster and there was no cuddling afterwards. My final sexual partner was a fwb, who I’d invite over late at night by leaving my front door unlocked and falling asleep naked. He would come in, we’d have sex with me mostly motionless or feigning to be too tired to move, then he’d get dressed and leave. To no ones surprise, he eventually stopped texting back. The last time he came over was on December 9, 2016.

On December 8, 2016, I was unofficially diagnosed with Bipolar 1 with anxious tendencies by a local counselor. And on December 12, 2016, I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar 2 and Panic Disorder by my first psychiatrist.

I’ve mentioned it before, but this year has been a whirlwind and a much needed break from where I was on December 9, 2016. I haven’t figured everything out, but I’m much healthier and have much better coping mechanisms in place than I did then. Having Nicole has been enjoyable, but I don’t think having a monogamous partner means I’m anymore healed than I would feel now if I was still casually dating. Still, it feels good to walk back to sex (semi nervous and still a little insecure) healthy and proud of myself. I am excited to get back to that point where again where sex is a fun activity, not a product of my mania or depression.