I am love.

I am love. 

It is a ludicrous thing to say but I believe it. All this romantic platonic love I have for people makes me feel good. It satisfies me the way a single relationship cannot. I am not afraid to express my affections to the people close to me. I want to experience moments with different people that I meet randomly and by chance. Making every meet count and them seeing me as an experience. Making them feel something new,giving them something to think about, seeing them let go and be open with me,letting them realize what and who they can be: mad. 

Lone

Every single person is different in their own right. No one person is normal. Each person is mad in one way or another. I accept that I am unique in my own way. I know I am a highly sensitive person, I am creative, I see the good in a person first no matter what, I am fundamentally good, I love unconditionally and I can get crazy. 

I often go against the norm and I see how I get treated for it. Why can’t you be normal for once?! I hear. Being highly sensitive it affects me but over the years I have learnt to get over it,some days it’s easier some days aren’t. 

I do not have the time to keep picking myself up from rejection and or judgement from people who are meant to love me for me,not accept me, but love me for who I am. When I was in hospital my mother told me some women asked her if I was in a cult because of my tattoos and that I need prayers. Then my friends showed up with face piercings and body modifications and tattoos and you could see the nods. 

You can’t chose the family you are born into, but I am going to make my own family. I have a family, I don’t call them friends. I am choosing them. They have chosen me. 

Nauseous. 

I still have moments where everything comes back at once. I struggle to feel it, let myself have this moments where I am emotional and I am agitated and the days where I have managed to block out a pending downward spiral stops and I am knocked down to my knees. I am really fighting to be on my feet every day. I feel like my medication does not allow me to experience my emotions the way I used to. I cannot plummet the way I used to and I somehow like it cause I am now in ‘control’. However it is not control, I never want to imagine I have believed the delusion of being in control. It feels like your body wants to throw up, it reaches your mouth, you taste it but you swallow it back again. Every day. I get punches left, right, center and I am expected to remain okay. Because I am on medication. Trying to get back some parts of my life that I had 5 months ago. It is as if no one realizes how much I lost and just. I don’t know, I just don’t.

I have been going through a shift of my lifestyle, for the better. I have been able to come out of my depressive episode (as seen from a lot of my previous posts) from which I had given up hope about. I never thought it was possible. I accepted I was sick and began medication again and so far it has been good. In the beginning I could feel my mind trying to go back to that dark place and I would close my eyes and beg myself, please don’t please don’t, let me have this moment.

I began running every morning from 7.30am. It is therapeutic especially when listening to the audio of Erykah Badu live at the Jakarta festival 2012 or Dance this mess around by the B-52s. I come back and take a cold shower. Sometimes I fall asleep again cause I used to sleep till 12pm. I’m eating better too, less junk food. My skin is really good, I have not had a break out since December.

I keep thinking when will this ‘feel good’ end, when will I snap again, where will I be this time. I overdosed last month but I was not thinking of suicide, I just wanted to be in the clouds, the stars.

I’m about to get my own place again, my mother cried. She says she has not yet healed from the tragedy that happened last time I was living alone. She understands I have to live my life, she cannot cage me.

I cannot remember where I read about people who died, were already acting in ways a little dissimilar to themselves. They were more loving, they said it a lot, they were caring and touched a lot of lives. They were not aware of this. I’ve also noticed this from the people who died and the testimonies people give when they are gone. I have been acting this way the last couple of months. I have so much love and feelings for friends and acquaintances that I turn friends, my family members that I didn’t much care about. I find myself telling this group of people I love them, spending time with each one of them and listening to them. I am having some profound and intense moments with my close friends. Being told I have awakened their love of nature again that was lost, how to live each day fully not knowing how tomorrow will be. I get into conversations about life and spirituality  with a friend of a friend at 3am on on a balcony and tells me that star, points at it, will guide me. My medicine touches so many people, affects them and I don’t even know it. He said I have something for people and I have to give it out. I thought he was delusional until he started saying things that hit real close to home. I wish I could stop feeling so much because it is heartbreaking for me. Not everyone knows how to give it back, and it is okay. I’m okay with it. Not everyone has good intentions for you either.

I’m I dying soon?

Cosmic doom

Hi, I’m not enough, what’s your name? When you realize what you were doing was trying to project magical qualities onto someone that totally do not exist. You, you beautiful thin distraction with most forms of intellectually stimulating media and I spend moments alone and the quiet terror of being alive is growing louder and louder.

Two black holes silently and violently orbiting around each other, trying to get drunk every night to block out this consciousness that which feels like rodents in my day dreams, trying to block out the error of our romanticized fantasies.

I am enjoying the unreplied texts to death, I’m ghosted by death itself. Now it doesn’t even matter when humans ghost me. My inner demons are already tired of my inner monologue.

Our affair is so empty even the void is jealous of us. We definitely should perceive other realities. But nothing tastes as good as this void. Cosmic aloneness, my main bitch. We fucked reality and married fantasy. Taking walks on the beach, drinking coffee and imagining situations that cannot happen. I got something for you this valentine’s, disappointment. I don’t think you’ll feel it though…you know, with the lack of expectations and all.

Please deny my existence. Before that let’s go eat off the bare earth the delirium from which we were born. Like out of all the abysses in all the land, you had to stare into mine.

Not tonight love, I have to spiral into uncontrollable anxiety. Maybe we could avoid each other again soon, yeah? Even the skeletons in my closet won’t talk to me. Movie and chill? No thanks, but we could binge watch the rapid loss of our sense of self and compare darknesses together.

We are obsessed with ourselves, comes with mental illness territory, no good can sprout or be maintained from us and we secretly like it. We know it.

You know why I do not care what you do to me or anyone really, unintentionally or not, because it is like a confirmation bias with my inner self. With my fucked up ness I am okay with it. Don’t even apologize, that’s for people who care.

Be free, be enchanted, be ready to be cosmic dust. I released you when my fantasy of you ghosted me. I now belong deeply to myself. In a complicated relationship with my sense of self, self destruction, blue period, trying to find the return policy on the gift of life.

Maybe one day you will come over and binge watch my manic episodes.

I am not leaving. I was never there. Petals of illusion. I need to focus on being my own pestilence, you can destroy me, I want it but I want to do it myself, the satisfaction. I am desperately clinging to an endless day dream of drug fueled art parties.

Constant thoughts of decay. Everyday I am questioning why I am alive. Our depressions are not compatible. I wish they were. Maybe our silences won’t be so loud. I am being held hostage by human consciousness and that is the war I am fighting every day. All you tell me is what I go through but you may just be blind to that with the concept of how nobody understands you, so I will not my head and listen. I m done wanting to be understood.

That awkward moment you realize how cold you’ve become but you still want to say, “let’s dress up as our vague sense of incorporeal dissatisfaction and dance under the pale moonlight.” because you have nothing to lose.

“Loud music is playing in the next room. I’ve closed myself in a room. I have a knife with me. I’m pressing it against my thigh. Suddenly I’m getting texts from people who care about me.”

I wrote this on Sunday, January 2017 at 2.49pm. I had crashed again, I was wondering when I would go down again, it had been some days after the last episode. At that moment I realized, my ‘happiness’ will always come at a cost. I should live through each moment not knowing when the drowning will begin. I got two more piercings but I’m the only one who knows how much I had missed some kind of physical pain. It begun to hit me whether getting all this tattoos and piercings was my way of self harming. That pain.

They were looking for the knife and I could hear them asking around. I heard them say they don’t know. My door was locked and then I got a text from them, “Don’t cut yourself.”

Too late..

There’s a way I feel when I come back home. This shadow that descends on me, amorphous, ethereal,but dark. At this moment I can’t visually explain how much my chest hurts. It really hurts. I’m looking at my drugs and thinking of how I’d feel to be out,again. I want to be unconscious until it passes.

I was talking to my mother about art and my life and she told me how she would support through anything I decide to do. I can live with my parents and use my income to progress myself. Somehow that made me think of how my future would be like; will I always be dependent on my parents? Should I just kill myself now, I cannot have such a future. Suddenly I was no longer passively suicidal. I got that feeling of self harming. Maybe I should just listen to music till it passes.

I visited the mental institution I was at

Okay, I’m not horny right now…based on my previous  late night post.

From getting into a matatu and alighting at the institution, it felt surreal. I kept thinking of the men and women with whom I was admitted with. The tall kind one who loved watching television and knew when certain shows would be on, the constantly drugged guy under detoxification who wore sneakers and shorts every day, Pinky, the very confused etc. I could feel that numbness I had when I was told I had to be admitted. I thought being admitted would help me.

I remembered the waiting hours when I’d be visited. What time would my mother show up at the door? I’m not drugged enough to sleep till she arrives. Would my friends show up today? What time? It’s already 3pm. My cousin always visited me. He would come with a bouquet of flowers then leave for work. The goodbyes at the end of the day was always the hardest. As a person struggling with loneliness, waiting for people and seeing them leaving each time did not do well for my anxiety.

I was the only suicidal one. When the patients were being detoxified or treated for other mental illnesses, I felt fine. I felt normal. I was not like them. They shook their heads when they learnt I was admitted because of suicide attempts. I could not relate to anyone. There was someone else with bipolar but he was rather annoying.

I remember being asked if my cousin could sneak in cigarettes. The person asking was so medicated that white foam was on his lips, he smelt like a dispensary and his eyes were barely open. He was a banker, good guy. I wondered how he felt having that drip on his arm every day. I saw a lot of boobs, yeah. Butts too.

Days were very long if I was not drugged enough, if I didn’t have a counseling session or playing badminton. Playing badminton was my favorite thing to do. I was one of the more ‘sober’ ones and finding another sober player was quite tricky. The annoying guy used to play with me mostly. Well I found him annoying cause he thought he could rap.

I remembered how some patients would wait patiently for a visitor to be opened for the gate and try to sneak out as if the guard would not identify them. It was quite hilarious but very relatable. Everyday I would look through the gate when it was being opened and closed and that glimpse of the outside world made me wish to run away. I’m in a fucking mental institution! How did I end up here?!

The kindness of the nurses was so good. That was one place I did not feel judged or questioned about my suicide. How they took care of me after my Electroconvulsion therapy was pleasing. Everyone from the janitor to the cooks were sweet and friendly and were constantly available to listen to how you think you shouldn’t be admitted there. How normal you were.

Do I want to be admitted again? Hell no.

Grateful not to have a penis

You fit quite perfectly next to me. I’m distracted though, my body wants to be intimate. I can almost taste the want. I’m gonna kiss you, maybe it will help me. You are drugged right now and sleeping. But I’m gonna turn you to me, I just want to feel a body rub on my skin. Thank you for responding to this. I’ll let you sleep. Maybe if I touch myself I’ll be able to calm down. It was a slightly long day and someone else turned me on. I’m glad you understand I am a sexual being. Can I share you? Can you share me? Can I see you get undressed by someone else? Can I watch you fuck them? I wanna see how a person looks when they are momentarily out of this world. I think I’m burdened with the need to give love  to people. Me, you, them…do you trust me? My skin is burning for a touch, the sensuality of skin against skin, the feel of a tongue on my finger, the pulse against my lips when I bite your neck, that first feel of the wetness between your legs…your darkness, feed me your darkness, let me see your demons, them and me is all I want. Just for tonight, let them feed from me, let me show them my appreciation for comforting me during my darkest times.

I went for the walk. I left the house without a word to anyone and kept walking. The moon was bright, beautiful, mysterious and I asked it to be my guide tonight. I started listening to the latest Frank Ocean album and kept walking. I was receiving messages from them asking where I was and if I needed company. I wanted to be alone, I did not want to return. I wanted to keep on until my legs hurt. I had no money in my pockets, a little self conscious of not wearing a bra and being alone in the middle of the night. But I was not afraid. The guilt was bad though. I just wanted the pain in my chest and the shaking of my hands to stop.

I wanted to sit down with a stranger and talk about life while we watched the moon. I was willing to distract myself with anything. Thirty minutes later I had ignored the calls but I replied some of the messages. One ate at my heart,”For better or worse?” Then they reminded me of the word we were to be using when we needed time to breathe. I used the word.

Apparently my father had left the house to look for me around the area.  That somehow made me more upset than I expected and I felt like a brat, stupid child causing unnecessary anxiety. I told him I was okay and I just needed to breathe. I told myself if there was Hell, there was a special place for me. One hour later I was no longer shaking. I decided to turn back as I regained clarity of how deserted the road was getting.

I’ve always wished to be alone when my bipolar is erupting within me. I don’t want to worry anyone, to be seen so irritable, angry, frightened, uncontrollable and enmeshed totally in the blackest caves of the mind. I wasn’t like this a few months ago. I guess my illness is progressing instead of healing. I don’t want to be anyone’s worry and problem.

There’s something about having someone to come back to though. Someone who can calm you down. However, I am at the point in my life where it would still be okay if no one was there.