grief for who you were, and who you might've been

 I am writing this because I am depressed and hopeless and sad.

I have no idea what I'm going to write. I just need to write something. I need to eject all these thoughts and feelings into some format, and these days writing is the only thing I can still do.

I may post this, or I may not. Who knows. I haven't exactly kept up with this blog that last few years. I want to get in the habit of writing more, whether it's blog posts or short stories or working on my scifi novel I started when I was ten. I can't dance anymore and I can't play my harp anymore and I just need some kind of outlet.

If you don't know, I've been in debilitating pain for over a year now. I've always experience pain, but in the past I wrote it off as dance injuries or that it was normal or that I was just plain weak. But in 2020 it suddenly got much, much worse and spread to new places and before I knew it I couldn't use silverware and had to use both hands to hold a book. My knees and ankles have become bad enough to where I use a cane (that I luckily bought from a thrift store years ago for a burlesque routine) to get around the apartment. I almost constantly wear braces on my elbows and compression gloves and often add my knee braces to the mix. I even went to the doctor (I hate doctors) and obediently went to specialist after specialist. No one could ever give me a real diagnosis, and no one seemed too concerned about the whole ordeal.

I'm still hoping and fighting for answers, but in the meantime there's an awful lot of waiting and pain. Turns out medical mysteries aren't like on House - where a highly trained team of professionals spend hours on your case trying to figure out the problem.

I never liked House very much. I didn't see what was so funny about a doctor being mean to patients and coworkers. My dad loved the show, appreciated how House treated "dumb idiots." Of course, my dad also likes the word libtard.

I've been sent to an arm specialist, an occupational therapist, a nerve study, a sleep clinic, and a mental health therapist who specializes in chronic pain. I finally asked to see a rheumatologist who I'll see next week.

Throughout all of this I've only gotten more depressed, and I've been unable to do any of the things that used to bring me joy - as well as the things that earned me money. Poor, depressed, and in pain is not a great combo, let me tell you.

Even if I finally get a diagnosis, if I finally get treatment, if I ever start feeling better and can function again... I know I'll still be depressed. I've been depressed my whole life and no one has ever been able to give me any kind of hope. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Maybe I'm just a dumb idiot patient in the world of House.

I feel like I'm constantly grieving something. All of my grandparents who died in the last five years. My dance mentor when I was growing up. Friends and family who don't talk to me anymore. Who I used to be before the pain settled in. Who I could've been if I had just been better.

I don't have a lot of experience with grief - most of the people I've loved who have died were old and had lived a long and fulfilling life. Sometimes I still get overwhelmed by memories, but in the end I can accept that they have moved on. But, selfishly perhaps, grieving for yourself never seems to stop. I'm still young. I haven't done anything great or made an impact on anyone's life. I'm not even dead. I'm just different, changed against my will. Desperately trying to find enough hope to keep going, to find some purpose, something greater than reading as many books as possible despite repeatedly being unable to concentrate on a book.

I used to be a little prideful of my hands. People said I had musician hands - long, slender fingers that precisely pressed keys, strummed guitar strings, and plucked melodies from a harp. I could express emotions through a simple port de bras in ballet, sending energy out of my fingertips to the farthest seat in the balcony.

Now my fingers are swollen. My pinkies are crooked, bending in unnatural directions. When I try to write by hand the words are illegible. When I try to type I have to constantly go back and correct typos because my accuracy has diminished. I'm afraid to try to play my harp. When at rest my fingers naturally curl into claws befitting an old wizened crone. 

I have nothing against old wizened crones. I've often had fantasies about being a little old person with an expansive library and multiple photo albums dedicated to every cat I've ever befriended. Of having a complete matching tea set to offer to guests and to invite them to browse my library and read whatever they like.

I just didn't plan on becoming that at 27.

My Blood Moon and Isolation

TW: depression, suicidal ideations

Sometimes I feel like I don't speak the same language as everyone else.

It's not just that I don't understand a lot of references and inside jokes. I'm pretty bad at watching TV and movies and absorbing pop culture in general and I'll often panic and pretend to understand a reference I actually don't. Or I'll just look at my phone because I'm only sort of involved in the conversation anyway.

Often people will say very simple things and I just don't understand it for several seconds, or minutes, or hours. Sometimes I will respond automatically and even as I'm saying the words, my panic will rise because what I'm verbally saying isn't actually what I wanted to say. Or as I'm speaking, I realize they were actually talking about something else and now I'm just making a fool out of myself.

Since finishing grad school, my mental health has dramatically improved. I haven't been depressed and anxious every moment of every day and I've been able to actually enjoy things again. It's not just that I have time to do things - I actually have the emotional ability to enjoy them again as well. But what has also come with the end of grad school is a crushing loneliness.

I didn't really have any real friends in grad school, but I was around people often enough to where it sometimes felt like I did. I saw the same people on a regular basis and we had conversations and got along. But then it ended and I stopped seeing those people. I stopped seeing anyone.

I don't know how to make friends. It seems like people around me just become besties simply by being around each other. They seem to speak to the same language. And I sit at the edge of the room, watching and not really understanding what is happening and unable to figure out how to do it myself.

Unfortunately I possess a uterus and currently it's the blood moon. (Usually) the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional craziness that happens for the week. All emotions, positive and negative, get amplified. My rare bouts of positivity go into full blown manic episodes while my default depression becomes a severe, inescapable despair. My casual suicidal ideations become frequent temptations as my brain gives me all these reasons for it being a good idea. My loneliness makes me further isolate myself because I'm convinced no one wants me around.

My periods scare me and it's gotten to the point where I have to schedule around them (they've gotten more regular as I've gotten older, so I guess that's convenient). No, I can't work an extra shift that week, I'll be trying to convince myself not to drink a bottle of nyquil. No, I can't finish that routine in time for the show, I won't be able to believe anyone would want to see my body. I have to make sure to finish this project by this date, otherwise I'll decide it (and everything else I've ever created) is trash and I'll destroy it.

I feel like I feed into the stereotype of the emotional, uncontrollable woman (not identifying as a woman is beside the point for the moment). I don't like using my period as an excuse because I don't want to feed that stereotype and make it seem like women (and all those who have periods) are unstable because of their periods.

But I am.

And instead of attacking myself for being an unstable disaster, I try to place the blame on my period. No, it's not that everyone hates you, it's that you're on your period and are extra sensitive. It's not that your insignificant, it's that you're on your period. It's not that you can't do anything right, it's that you're on your period. It's not that you're alone...somehow that must be your period's fault too.

I feel obligated to be positive when I write blog posts. To find hope and bring hope to others. To have a point, or a moral, or a life lesson, or an inspiration. I don't want blog posts to be a cry for help or attention. It makes me feel needy and wimpy. Like I can't actually talk to anyone, but here's a blog post talking about how I can't talk to anyone and maybe someone will talk to me instead? Because now that I've written this, if anyone tries to talk to me I'll assume it's because they read this post and are pitying me or feel guilty for not talking to me or some other shit. Or no one will talk to me and I'll feel more alone than ever with the added shitty feeling of being an attention-seeking fool.

Or maybe I just won't publish the post. I've been doing that more and more lately.

Am I censoring myself? Keeping myself from posting things I'll regret? Or am I just isolating myself even more?

Does publishing posts about how miserable I am actually do anything positive in the world? Do they help anyone? Do they even help myself?

I guess I write them because I have no one else to talk to. I write them when I feel overwhelmed and desperate but I know my friends also have a lot going on - or I'm just plain tired of whining to them about how I'm a sad boi. Or I expect them to internally sigh and say, "Ah, they're on their period again."

But it being my period doesn't change the reality of what I experience. It does not make the pain any less valid. It does not make the despair any less crushing. It does not make the suicidal ideations any less dangerous.

And yet you'd think that one could find some way to deal with it after experiencing it for seven days straight every month. But it seems to get harder, not easier.

One day I'd like to write a blog post when I'm having a good day and I'm happy and full of life and joy and excitement. But on those (rare) days I'm too busy off enjoying my life to sit down and write about it.

Thanks for sticking with me through my self-centered whininess. I hope you're doing well. Drink some water and try to get enough sleep and remember to eat something.

--Dexter

In My Skin

TW: self-harm, body image.

For various reasons, lately I've been thinking about (and look at) my skin. It has its problems, but it's changed a lot since my last post talking about it (why on earth did I not title that post "Counting Scars" and then write a full out parody of that song? Probably because that would be a little too morbid and offend someone, right).

I have many scars that are still visible. Although, as I mentioned in that post years ago, sometimes I'm not sure how visible they actually are and if they're recognizable. I've had people ask if they were self-inflicted or the result of cats. I did use cats as an excuse for a while, and I do have a few marks from an upset or overexcited cat encounter. But those marks don't generally last.

But now those aren't even the scars that I see first. Now I see the chicken pox scars, the acne scars. The one weird chicken pox/abscess combo right in between my breasts. An odd dry patch of skin on my arm that I have no idea when popped up. Probably some form of skin cancer but it's fine.

As many of you know, I'm doing my master's thesis on burlesque. This involves actually doing burlesque, which is absolutely amazing and I love it so much. I haven't performed yet, but just being a part of the world is incredibly inspiring and uplifting. For a significant amount of time each week I get to watch beautiful people be confident and love their beautiful selves.

Every once in a while (okay, most of the while), that little voice inside my head will whisper, "Why are you doing this again? You aren't beautiful like these people. You've got that weird scar between your boobs so your boobs aren't even pretty. Don't get me started with all the other imperfections."

I never used to care too much about my skin or scars that I didn't put there myself. But when I started doing burlesque, I began to notice my skin more. I used to have remarkably clear skin, but that's no longer the case. Who knows why. Stress, age, Florida. All of the above. Whatever the reason, my skin is far from perfect and my realization of that fact has given extra fuel to that little voice inside my head that likes to tell me about my shortcomings.

This voice usually has plenty of things to talk about as my anxiety makes me a perfectionist but my depression makes it hard to give anything more than the bare minimum. I like to think I'm immune to insecurities about my appearance because I've lived with my body and my appearance for so long that I shouldn't care about it anymore. Obviously that's a lie.

During one of my very first rehearsals in the burlesque troupe, one of the members was teaching us newbies how to pose in a "sexy" way. She said that you have to learn how to love at least one part of your body, and then you touch that part of your body and emphasize and show off how much you love that part of your body. Her instruction struck a chord with me and also made me acutely aware of how detached I'd become from my body.

When I was young, people always told me I had nice eyes. Kind older ladies would say they were beautiful, my best friend said I had the best "puppy dog eyes," and I was proud of how dark and big they were. Then one girl said I had "poopy brown eyes" and with the laughter of the whole English class, I lost confidence. Unrelated, I've always had a hard time making eye contact. Whether this is related to social anxiety or autism, I don't know. Probably a combination of everything. But essentially I learned to not love my eyes. Besides, how exactly are you supposed to sexily pose with your eyes (don't answer that, I'm sure it's possible)?

In the ballet world, I always had good feet. I have a high arch and good toe articulation that's useful for pointe work. So...every time I want to show off my favorite body part, I just need to take my shoes off, lift my leg up, and show the crowd how I can point one toe at a time. "There's always a foot fetish in the audience," as another burlesquer once said...

When I think about loving my body, I automatically think about it doing (or not doing) certain movements and positions. I had a pretty good arabesque at one point - but that's not really something you pop up in a sexy pose. I wowed many a modern class (and teacher) with my flexible hips (my hips frequently seize up, so I had to constantly stretch them out and keep them flexible), but what am I supposed to do, drop down into a cow face pose and wink at the audience?

Without actual dancing, I can't think of a body part that I actually like. I can think of plenty of reasons why I don't like every body part (and most of those reasons are linked to what it can't do or how injury prone it is). I don't like standing still because somehow it seems more vulnerable than moving. It's an invitation for the audience to stare closely at my body. It would seem like moving (dancing) would be more of an invitation and more attention grabbing, but it's never felt that way for me personally. Dancing, I always feel like there's a purpose other than my body. There's a story to tell, or a theme, or a concept. It's not about my body. Standing still and letting the audience look at whatever part of my body they want to feels far more vulnerable. It brings my physical existence into the equation.

In all of my years of performing and dancing, it was always easy to leave myself offstage. I could compartmentalize myself and only bring certain aspects onto the stage. Only the parts that were relevant, that were safe, that were acceptable, were displayed to the audience. When I was performing someone else's choreography, I embodied their topic, their character, their goal. I created a version of myself that only included what was relevant to that piece and I brought it to the stage. When I choreographed and performed my own work, I focused on one tiny aspect and shut out every other part.

For various reasons, I haven't been able to do that as easily as I used to. When working on my thesis, I find it very hard to separate the different factors and aspects of myself. I have to sit and deeply think about why I'm reacting a certain way. Is it because of my ballet training? Is it because I grew up in a church? Is it because I'm on the autism spectrum? Is it because I'm asexual? Which part of my identity is relevant here and how the heck do I keep the rest out?

I'm not entirely sure this is healthy. I would love to be able to fully embrace my entire existence - all factors, all aspects, all elements, physical and mental. I shouldn't have to constantly split myself into pieces and try to figure out which piece or how many pieces are acceptable for different situations. But I keep doing it over and over again until sometimes I can't remember who I am and who I want to be.

I may have gotten a little off track here. But if you've read even one post on here before, surely you expect that.

I've wanted to write this post for a while, but I kept putting it off because if I'm not writing my thesis, I shouldn't be writing anything. I don't have the time or energy to devote to anything else. But...this is my thesis. My thesis is about me and burlesque (and some other things). I've gotten too wrapped up in trying to be appropriately academic and write everything in a certain way and forgotten that really it's all about me. And this is how I work through issues about me. I have to write it out and follow my rabbit trails and act like I'm being inspirational and spouting words of wisdom and truth. And then I have to publish it because I just love attention, obviously.

Florida frequently makes me feel like I'm not good enough. Whether it's roommates or classes or allergies, it feels like there's always something out to get me. It's hard to not take things personally. And...man, it's just hard. I was going to say some more specific stuff but then I got overwhelmed with just how hard existing is these days and how pointless it all seems. The planet is going to die anyway, so what's the point? Gender is a social construct, women and people of color and minorities have been systemically oppressed for millennia, why bother trying anymore?

But...I will keep trying. I know other people keep trying and keep fighting and keep believing. It is hard.

Today I had a bad anxiety attack and did everything I could to break my skin with my fingernail, because I make a point to keep sharp objects out of reach. It is hard. But...I am still here. And I haven't broken my skin in a very long, long time.

--Dexter

ps. Even though "it has nothing to do with my thesis," I do want to start writing more posts again as well as go back to making videos. There's a lot of topics I know a lot about and want to spread awareness on (mental health, asexuality, gender, etc.). If you have a specific question or topic you'd like me to talk about and/or look into, let me know. Maybe you're genuinely curious and have a hard time finding answers, or maybe you aren't able or comfortable talking about it yourself. Either way, I am here for you.

One Semester Left

I wouldn't want to say that this is the most depressed I've ever been, because I've been in some pretty bad spots. But I think it's safe to say that this is the most my depression has ever affected the rest of my life. Somehow in the past, I was always able to function - sort of, at least.

The past few months I've been filling out PhD applications, following my big dream of becoming a professor and doing research forever. Balancing this with general grad school life hasn't been easy, but it also hasn't been impossible. I actually started off this semester feeling pretty strong and confidant.

I finally went to the university counselling center after hearing so many good things about them, and was feeling hopeful. We scheduled an official intake appointment...and then a hurricane hit, so my appointment was cancelled. I couldn't force myself to go back again to try to figure it out. Counselling centers are a huge source of anxiety for me (ironic, I know) because of past experiences, and it's insanely hard for me to take the first step in trying to get help.

Anyway, a few weeks ago as I was struggling to write a paper, I came to a kind of epiphany. I realized that ever since coming to Florida, I had been continually sacrificing the quality of my work in order to cling to shreds of my mental health. Because I knew I was not and had not been turning in quality work and it was starting to feel like I was just getting worse and worse instead of improving (which is what is supposed to happen in school, yes?). Every time I sat down to write something, even a tiny two page response paper, I would get overwhelmed with anxiety. Concepts that I fully understood only moments ago became complete mysteries, I couldn't understand what the words meant anymore, and I certainly couldn't figure out how to form a coherent sentence. Looking at the stuff I've written over the past year and a half is like watching myself slowly go insane and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

It's worse because I know I was a good writer. I got good grades, writing teachers loved me, I loved writing. I was a writing tutor for goodness sake. So I completely recognize how bad my writing is now and yet can't seem to do anything about it.

I wish there were something I could blame it on because then I might be able to fix it. The only thing I can clearly say is that I have been deeply unhappy since moving to Florida. Maybe it's just a coincidence and I was bound to continue spiraling downwards regardless of my location. Maybe it's the weather here. Maybe it's the absolutely insane drivers here.

I mean, it's probably the lack of a support group. That one time I went to the counselling center, one of the things the intake counselor said was most concerning was my isolation. When she asked about my closest friends or emergency contacts, all of them were at least one full state away. But I already knew I was alone, and I know I have a hard time connecting with people, and unfortunately my life is not like a melancholy comic where the solitary depressed protagonist stumbles into a lifelong friendship with a group of quirky individuals.

She was also concerned about how I had no "safe zones." There really isn't anywhere I feel at home here. I'm constantly on edge in my house because my roommates and their dogs, constantly on edge on campus, and too poor to hang out at coffee shops that often. Let me tell you, one of the most depressing thoughts I've had in the past year and a half is sitting at my desk in my bedroom on the verge of tears, desperately wishing I could go "home," and then realizing that I already am where home is supposed to be. Most college students go home for holidays and breaks - I visit my family, but that is no longer my home. There is not a lot of extra space in my mom's house and my home town just brings back a shit load of bad memories that I hate reliving.

During the last two weeks of this semester, I knew that if there were a way for my to drop out of grad school with no repercussions, with a source of income, with a purpose in life, I would absolutely do it and not come back next semester. Campus gives me anxiety, thinking about assignments gives me anxiety. At this point it's too late to go back to therapy and figure out some kind of accommodations for this last semester. I'm not saying therapy wouldn't be helpful and that I'm not going to try to go back, just that at this point it's too late to figure out a way to make my time here less harmful.

I will clarify here that of course I'm going to finish grad school. I would hate myself even more for quitting with only one semester left. I'm not counting on graduating with a high GPA or flying colors, but I will graduate. And if I don't, then, I don't, but at least I tried.

Like I said, my big dream was to go to PhD school after graduation. I'm only applying to three programs because I'm poor and don't have a lot of time (or sanity) to spend on a bunch of different applications, but I know my applications have not been stellar. I've received one rejection so far, which came as no surprise. I still have one application left to finish, and it's hard making myself work on it at all. I quite honestly feel embarrassed and ashamed to even try at this point. Asking for letters of recommendation from my professors feels like a waste of their time, not to mention the ever present thought in the back of my head that they think I have no chance anyway and are just doing it out of pity. I honestly think they are better people than that and they wouldn't agree to write a letter if they didn't think it was worth it, but I still think about it every moment of the day.

Plus, this whole time I've been talking about how I'm not good at grad school. So why on earth would I want to continue into more grad school? Part of me is clinging to the hope that maybe it's just Florida and maybe I would be more functional somewhere else. Maybe this time I'd have an idea of how to manage my life. Maybe I'd finally live somewhere I felt safe. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I still want a PhD, but part of me believes I should try to get my mental (and physical) health in order before continuing. Except, I also doubt I will ever have my mental and physical health in order. I don't have the money for that kind of thing. I feel like I will always be a mess and all I can do is damage control and try to stay out of situations that exacerbate it (i.e., academia).

But then...what am I supposed to do after I graduate?

One option is to stay in Florida until something changes, maybe apply to PhD programs again in another year while I'm not also trying to graduate. I could invest more time into the burlesque troupe I recently joined. I could find some kind of other part time job, I could start doing music jobs again, I could try some other random things and just hope I make enough money for rent. There are a shit load of downsides to this (I'd still be in Florida, I'd still be with my current roommates, I'd still be incredibly alone), but also some positives (I wouldn't have to move, I'd be able to continue with the burlesque troupe).

Another option is moving back to the city where I got my undergrad. It's a tiny little town, but it's one of my favorite places, and I think I'd find some peace there. I still have some friends in the area and potential living options. There's some burlesque opportunities, and I could still do music and probably find some kind of job. There are downsides (having to move, having to join a new burlesque troupe) and positives (a happier environment, friends, there's still burlesque, more dance opportunities).

Or I could move to the opposite side of the country to where all the PhD programs are, even though I wouldn't be in the programs. This sounds like a stupid idea if I'm not actually going to school, and sounds kind of pathetic if my goal is to just keep applying until they ban me or accept me, but that wouldn't be the only reason. I actually have friends in that area too. However, this option is a lot scarier and sounds a lot riskier than the other options, and seems the least feasible. Downsides (incredibly far move, big scary unknown city, who knows what kind of burlesque opportunities, potentially harder to find a job because there's more competition, high rent), positives (brand new city, very good friends, definitely some kind of burlesque, potentially easier to find a job because there are more jobs, would make getting a PhD easier if I ever do decide to try again).

Maybe I'll be out of this funk in another few weeks. Maybe it's pre-period depression. Maybe, somehow, my brain will start working again next semester. Maybe I'll be able to convince myself that I'm not getting dumber, I'm just getting sicker, and that it's not my fault. Maybe that will be enough to give me a little peace and to get through a semester, even if it it doesn't improve my actual work.

Every passing day makes me more and more convinced that I'm just incapable of taking care of myself. I've never been able to envision being able to support myself. I don't know how easy it would be to let myself depend on someone. I can't imagine there being someone who was in a situation where they could help support me, much less that they would actually want to. But I really have become incapable of doing a lot of things that are necessary.

It's kind of ridiculous though. In order to get any kind of help for my mental disorders (or to qualify for disability benefits or anything), you have to somehow surpass your disorder. But also prove you have it? And also have money?

After turning in my last final, I got absorbed in a video game and played it almost nonstop for a few days. Then I beat it. Then I got absorbed in a web comic and read it all day. When I got up to date, I read another one. And then another one. And then another one until 3 am last night, and then cried for a while because I felt so hopeless and exhausted and tired of trying to hide from myself and my thoughts.

Anyway. One day, things will be okay. One way or another.

It helps to write things out and clear my head a little. I feel like all I ever do is complain and vent, so I appreciate you for reading all the way through this. And if you're one of the people I regularly vent too, I appreciate you for listening.

--Dexter

First Year of Graduate School

After my freshman year of undergrad, I wrote a handy first year guide. Looking back at it, it's kind of funny because they all apply to my first year of grad school too.

I'm tempted to say that my first year of grad school was even more of a train wreck than my first year of undergrad, but that might not be true. They may be equal.

First of all, I hate Florida. I hated Mississippi the first year too, but I really just hate Florida. It's hot, it's rainy, there's a ton of half naked undergrads who don't know how to drive (LITERALLY I cannot believe how people drive here), the pollen is awful, and there's no parking anywhere. It does, however, have a lot of cool thrift stores and coffee shops and bars. I can't speak on the public library, BECAUSE THERE'S NO FREE PARKING FOR IT.

Anyway.

School.

There are a lot of parts I do like about school. I love the readings, I love the discussions. I love my thesis (usually), and I'm actually excited about what I'm doing. But there's so much more outside of all of those things that I hate and don't know how to do or just can't do correctly. It feels like everyone expects me to know how to do a lot of things already, but I don't.

Also, suddenly everything is written in Chicago style instead of MLA? Why did I spend four years memorizing every detail of MLA if no one uses it in grad school????

I've been thinking that maybe I'm not suited to grad school, but I'm halfway done now and in plenty of debt already so why not just get her done, y'know? My brain can't really handle it, I don't think. I'm constantly confused and I suddenly find it difficult to focus on four different final projects, and I feel like I haven't always had that problem. I used to be able to write twenty pages on something I didn't care about, but now for some reason it feels impossible.

I don't really know who I've become this past year. I've done really shitty work, missing some assignments completely just because I somehow forgot about them or got confused or couldn't keep track of the weekly syllabus changes.

Growing up I hated asking questions in class because I thought I should already know the answer, and usually I could go find the answer myself instead of having to ask. Even in undergrad, I could usually get away with it, though I did get better at asking questions. Now, all the questions I have can't be looked up. I can't google which syllabus is correct, I can't google the exact parameters of an assignment, I can't google how exactly the inner workings of the school function. So I tried asking questions. And it feels like every other question is met with disgust and awe of my ignorance. Or I need to check the syllabus. Which I already have, but am still confused.

It's also very hard to make friends in grad school. I don't know why. I honestly don't know how I made friends in undergrad or at any point in my life. But I don't see anyone outside of classes, so I know virtually no one who isn't an FSU grad dance student. But they all quickly formed friend groups and found besties and now I'm like, awkwardly part of some friend circles but not enough to actually do anything with them.

I'm used to that. But it's still hard.

And it's really really hard to have a shitty year and not have anyone there with you.

At the end of the first semester, my beloved car finally died. I spent several weeks with no mode of transportation and walked a few miles to campus every day. Okay, I know that's not that bad and now I'm really just showing what a wimp I am. But seriously, my body is falling apart. I'm depressed all the time so I'm already exhausted and low on motivation. And it's fucking hot outside. But it wasn't as bad as it could've been.

With an amazing stroke of luck that is absolutely unheard of for me, my grandfather gave me one of their old cars that's just been sitting in the yard for years. It's super old and doesn't run great, but I love it. It's an awesome little car.

Then, I got the stomach flu the last week of classes and felt like I was actually dying. AND THEN the flu left me with an intolerance for lactose.

Guys, I fucking love cheese.

I accidentally had some cream cheese and seriously nearly died.

But that semester did finally end, with an awesome little car and lactose intolerance..

Second semester was an absolute disaster. I almost failed one class and I'm not sure why I didn't fail one of the other ones. It felt like I couldn't do anything right, which just made me lose any motivation to do anything well. I just got more and more depressed and more and more anxious.

No, part of that definitely was my fault. Since moving to Florida, I have been pretty bad at regularly taking my medication. See, one symptom of anxiety is gagging in the morning. Literally every morning, I gag half a dozen times. I also reflexively gag almost every time I enter a bathroom.

Now, one of my daily pills tastes absolutely awful and dissolves really fast, so the taste just gets worse and worse and stays in your mouth for ages if you don't get it down fast. But sometimes I can't, because I start gagging before I even try to swallow. I have to hold my hand over my mouth, and sometimes it still doesn't work and I have to spit it out and at that point I can't face trying another pill and potentially wasting it. So the more anxious I get, the worse I gag, and the harder it is to take my medication, so I get more anxious, etc. etc. It's a great loop I have going.

I could also talk at length about my roommates and everything they do to make my life miserable, but I'll save that for a fun table book or something.

This past semester I did get to go to a conference in Indianapolis and present some of my own research, and that was pretty cool. I do love conferences. Except for the people who said, "Wait, you're a dancer but you don't like people?" and "You can't be a teacher if you don't like people!" and "One day you'll just have to get over it." Like, thanks tech guys who know nothing about me or my area of work. I just asked you to fix my nametag, but thanks for also telling me I'm a failure and can't do anything (I could write another fun table book about all the people who have told me I can't be a dancer and/or a teacher because I'm too shy, anxious, introverted, etc.).

The last week of classes, I was seriously considering taking myself to the emergency room. I was beyond stressed, super anxious, super depressed, and I had no one to talk to. However, my roommates were downstairs having a party, so I wasn't about to walk by them in hysterics to go to the emergency room, with no idea of what would happen if I got there.

When school finally ended (half a week after finals), a huge weight passed of my shoulders.

This last semester definitely turned me into someone I don't want to be. I don't want to turn in shitty work and I don't want to miss assignments and I don't want to disappoint professors or anyone. The stress also made me a really shitty partner to my boyfriend, and our relationship got super strained for a while. I was constantly having a crisis (which, let's be honest, isn't that unusual for me), and it was affecting more than just my schoolwork.

So... now what? I'll be working on my thesis all summer and would like to get some kind of job, but I don't have a lot of expectations there. Grad school has severely lowered my self esteem when it comes to me being capable of doing any kind of job.

But then school will start back in the fall. Will this whole cycle start over? I like to think it won't, because I'll be taking different classes and should be spending more time on my thesis and on stuff I care about. But I think I said that about grad school in general. That's what people told me about grad school.

I'm going to try to see FSU's student counselling, which is apparently free. Maybe I can get that sorted out of the summer or something. But I really, really hate therapists. I have had incredibly bad experiences with them.

I originally wanted to go straight to PhD land after grad school, but now I don't know. For one thing, I don't think I could do all the applications and take the GRE while still finishing my MA. Plus, I just don't know if I can do PhD school anymore. I still want to teach at a university level, so I'm required to have a PhD (not just an MA), but I really just don't think I'm good enough anymore.

I felt very supported and loved during undergrad. Maybe I'm romanticizing it, but it's at least partly true. I had professors who supported me, other people who supported me, an actually decent roommate. At FSU, it feels like I have...nothing. That's one reason why I want a job, to just get out of FSU.

I'm not trying to shit on FSU or anything. It's a great school and a great dance department. I'm just not so sure that I fit in or belong.

Sorry for the crazy long post, but oh well.
--Dexter

Panic! Attack

I was gonna write a post about some conference shit or something but then I just keep having panic and anxiety attacks every day so I thought I'd write about that instead.

Typically my anxiety attacks involve more and more frenzied snapchats to like, two or three people. I guess if you want to pretend I'm a decent person and not just an annoying whinypants, you could say this is me trying to reach out for help when I know I need it. Except in reality I'm just an annoying whiny bitch let's be honest.

I have a bad history with panic attacks. They didn't start in full force until after my assault freshman year of undergrad, when they quickly took over my life. I'm no stranger to anxiety attacks either, which come on slower but are just as devastating.

Well the past few weeks I've been really stressed from school and this conference thing, and the bullying of my two roommates has gotten worse. So after in general feeling shitty and exhausted from traveling and being told that I can't be a dancer OR a teacher if I don't like people (another story for another time), I came back to school to almost immediately be told that I'm behind in everything and am basically a failure and don't have my shit together and please tell me something I don't know.

It all culminated on Thursday where it was just too much and I had a bad anxiety attack.

Now here's my dark past of anxiety attacks: pretty much every single time I've had one, whoever has been around has gotten frustrated or angry with me because I can't tell them what's wrong. I will be tense, curled up in a ball, rocking, twitching, crying, whatever, but they'll keep insisting that I have to tell them what's going on and why I'm acting that way.

Okay, yeah, lemme just put this attack on pause so I can explain it to you real quick.

My favorite example is when my real life therapist got mad at me for having a panic attack during a session. He kept saying that if I refused to talk to him I was wasting the money of the people who were paying for the session, that he couldn't do anything if I kept "refusing" to talk.

I stopped seeing him.

But the response to my attacks is saddeningly consistent. Is my inability to communicate really that out of place in a panic attack? Am I really just that fucked up?

The internet tells me to call the suicide hotline but like, I won't be able to talk to them either so that's kind of pointless. People don't have patience for people who can't talk.

I had two emergency pills left and now I have one. Took a while to kick in but then I was just numb and depressed and crazy rather than frantic and depressed and crazy. I mean, i certainly prefer the numb part. Part of me keeps trying to say that it's not much better, but at least it doesn't feel like my insides are tearing out of my body and ripping my skin open in their attempts to get lost. At least I don't care as much about all the things that upset me or hurt me.

Sometimes I'd take a crazy pill to avoid cutting, to escape the desperate panicky feeling that required pain in order to find release. But then the numbness makes it easier to cut, because the initial urge and pain is still there, just not as frantic.

I feel like I have no home because of the way I'm treated when I am home. I feel like I just can't be good enough because sometimes the best I can do is honestly just shitty when it comes to academic work. I feel like a useless human being because I just hate sex and the problems it creates and I wish I could just be normal and like it as much as other people. I feel like I really won't ever feel any better because of my inability to communicate verbally and my inability to believe all the things that I know logically are probably true.

Like, come on. I remember most everything therapists and counselors have told me. I remember all the inspirational things they say. I remember all the activities we did in the psych ward. I remember being surrounded by older men and women who had been living with depression and mental illness for decades.

I remember some who had shock therapy treatment, or whatever the official name is now. I remember what they looked like afterwards, how one of them would swear it helped but just felt awful right after, while the other patient would just shrug and say he really didn't know if it helped or not.

What's the point in having to fight so hard just to exist? Having to be so brave just to exist? When you can't even do anything that contributes to society because of how fucked up you are? When all the "success" stories come from people who are now all like, "but now I have a beautiful husband and a baby boy and I love myself," but for one thing you don't want no baby boy but also what are the chances of finding a husband when you don't like sex (and have irritating panic attacks)?

It's like, there's just no redeeming qualities here. There's nothing that has potential for a success story. I used to daydream about it and being able to tell people that I made it through some really tough times but ultimately found some semblance of success, or stability, or achieved some lifelong goal. I wanted to be able to tell people that I did it, so that they could do it too.

I still think other people can do it, don't get me wrong.

Sometimes I tried to end these posts motivationally because I start to think of all the things I would say to someone who said what I had just said. I know all the answers. I know what all are lies being told to me by my brain and I know that some situations are temporary, yadda yadda yadda. I mean, guys, I was in the psych ward. Hopefully I learned something in there.

But I don't believe any of it, you see.

Maybe if I were just asexual or just chronically mentally ill. But being both is just...impossible. There really are no redeeming qualities or areas of potential there.

Invisible. Wrong. Whiny.

I have one emergency pill left. I have to call the doctor to ask for a refill, which I mean, he'll probably give me cause I got the prescription a super long time ago so it's fairly obvious I'm not like, popping them every day. Buuuut you know, I don't do phone calls or talk to people or anything so the odds of me actually calling to ask are low.

I already took one emergency pill tonight. Once it finally kicked in, it helped. Sort of. I mean, obviously I'm still not in a good state of mind. But I'm not shaking and crying and desperately trying both good and bad coping methods.

But I also want to take another pill just to totally wipe out the chaos and misery in my head right now.

I don't want to be alone, but there's really no one here in Tallahassee I can randomly call. I realize that I don't really have a "support group" here, because I have no real friends. I have friends, but no friends. No friends who would probably like, y'know, be okay with me having panic attacks involving no communication and being a whiny bitch.

Hopefully I'll pass out soon. Unfortunately not before I actually publish this post, though, because heeeey what's the point of being a whiny bitch if no one hears you.

In all serious though, THIS IS WHAT MENTAL ILLNESS CAN BE.

I don't know how this post could help anyone, but maybe if anything it could just give you an idea of what goes on in the mind of someone who lives with mental illness.

That's my futile attempt to make this post a little less self-centered and whiny.

What's the point in doing anything public if it's not going to help someone in some way.

Even if it's an internal chuckle. A brief smile. An idea of what their friends might be dealing with. A scathing commentary on social issues.

I lost track of this post.

I'm on (prescribed) drugs.

Bye.

--Dexter

Bad Asexual Representation (i.e. me)

Currently I've been mulling over the concept of asexual burlesque. Neo-burlesque is a newfound love of mine, and at the moment my graduate thesis will be on asexual burlesque. The two terms aren't as conflicting as they might seem at first, but nevertheless I've been having a hard time just thinking about what I've perhaps hastily committed to doing.

There are actual asexual burlesque performers out there, which is comforting and awesome. I want to get that out of the way first.

The reason why I love burlesque is that it's a celebration of self: of your body, your sexuality, your everything. That's why there's no reason asexual burlesque shouldn't be a thing. In fact, burlesque is the perfect medium to celebrate asexuality. Except that burlesque is seen as a sexualized event. I can't even break away from the inherent sexuality that I see in burlesque. And there's no reason why an asexual can't be sexy. Asexuality is the lack of sexual attraction, not the lack of asexuality or the lack of being sexually attractive.

But why on earth would an asexual want to be sexually attractive? What on earth do I want to get out of that scenario? Cause it's certainly not sex. But something in me wants to be sexually appealing, sexually attractive, sexually...normal?

It's hard for me to wrap my head around it all because I've always felt like a bad representative for asexuality. All of the stereotypes fit me.

I was sexually abused, sexually assaulted. I'm clinically depressed. I'm a plant.

I'm all the things asexuals are constantly trying to prove they're not.

Which does not make my asexuality invalid.

I wrote that whole post about the difference between fear of sex and disinterest in sex, so I know the difference. I know I'm valid.

But I don't feel valid. And my love of burlesque seems to just make everything even worse.

And instead of quietly sorting all of this out in my own head, on my own time, on my own blog, I instead decided to publicly commit to researching it in grad school. Telling all my professors about it. Finding out they're super excited and have been talking to other professors about it. Finding an overwhelming amount of support for the project even from people who don't really know what asexuality is.

What I don't like about support is that now I can't just drop it. Which is good. I shouldn't drop it.

But I don't exactly know what to do with it either.

I feel the need to be blatantly obvious with my professors, my peers, myself. My experiences and biases towards sex make me distrust all of my own inclinations and feelings rather than seeming to help me find answers and information. I still have bad days and bad nightmares and wake up never wanting to think about sex or my own body ever again.

One of my professors mentioned the need to add in time for self-care when planning research, especially when the topic is emotionally close. I don't think she was talking about me, but it definitely applies. 

The reason why I never tackled sexual assault in my undergrad work was because I was afraid I would just spiral into self-destruction. I managed to get through it all independently after I graduated, but I still wonder what would've happened if I'd been forced to talk about the process and the subject while doing it.

I can write graphic truths but I certainly can't talk about them verbally.

As usual, I've kind of been writing through lots of rabbit holes and dancing around topics, but if you've read a single blog post on here then you know that's nothing new. My head is always so jumbled with this stuff that I find it hard to actually lay it all out and look at it. Writing helps in that way.

I haven't found any real answers through writing this, but my brain feels a little less cluttered. That's all I can ask for, I guess.

Anyway, grad school is going about as expected. I still miss classes, fumble through assignments, panic and avoid responsibility. Still get way too drunk on bad days. Still am unable to figure out how the disability services works. But hey, I haven't hurt myself in a really long time. That's something, isn't it?

I'll take what I can get.

--Dexter

PS. Although I did actually book my own flight for a conference today. So somehow I'm still stumbling through life convincing people I know what I'm doing.

I Have Become an Angry Feminist: Now Let's Talk

I used to stay out of things. I used to keep my opinions to myself. I used to believe everything I was told if it came from any sort of authority. If I read something contrary to those beliefs, I'd refute it. I accepted the beliefs of the adults around me. I studied under their guidance, questioned their facts but never the foundations.

But now I'm an adult. Ignore the fact that I still have a ton of stuffed animals and that I watch My Little Pony and color with crayons and read kids' books.

I'm an adult. I'm a woman. I'm an asexual. I'm biromantic. I'm a feminist. I'm a student. I'm trailer park trash. I'm white. I'm a victim of sexual assault and rape. I'm a survivor of sexual assault and rape. I'm a survivor of suicide. I'm mentally ill. I'm chronically and majorly depressed. I'm socially anxious. I'm a recovering cutter. I'm a student. I'm a researcher. I'm a dancer. I'm a choreographer. I'm a musician. I'm a crazy cat lady. I'm poor. I'm a human.

I have struggled with so many things, and for the most part struggled alone. I spit out things on this blog but rarely talk about to anyone, and when I do it's probably because I'm drunk (sorry if you've been on the other side of those conversations...).

But I will not be silent. For the sake of myself and others, I will not let issues be swept under the rug. My voice, and the voices of others, will not be silenced.

So yes, at this point, I am an angry feminist.

I am angry and upset and scared and sad.

There are so many things I want to talk about. I want to answer all of the questions and comments that have been directed at me personally as well as others.

These things need to be talked about, and not in a one-way conversation.

Let's all just sit down with some coffee or a nice cup of tea and chat about these things that are incredibly important.

Except I might have a panic attack, so my cats will have to be there too to comfort me.

--Dexter

P.S. In the spirit of conversation, ask me anything and I will do my best.

nothing new here

It's been almost a week since I finished my film and shared it with the world. Since I conquered those fears. Or at least, faced them. Sort of. Sometimes facing doesn't equal conquering.

Fuck that. There's no such thing. Because I'm back, shaking and crying and being in general the unhealthy, dysfunctional, disabled adult I'm known for being.

I love my film, even though I get embarrassed and cringe thinking about people watching it and worry about their reactions or if they think the camera's too shaky or the editing too choppy or they don't understand something I did purposefully, which means I didn't do it purposefully enough. I do love it and I loved making it and without a doubt it helped me.

But I'm so far from functional and I hate it. Right now the idea of sex makes me want to puke. When my body enjoys it I feel betrayed and distrustful not only of whoever I'm with but of myself as well. It's not like I'm a slut or anything. At least, I don't think so.

That doesn't stop me from feeling so fucking dirty. I sit here and think of just that one guy and I feel disgusting and broken, and then I think of my first boyfriend and feel worse, and then I think of my second and feel worse, and then I think of when I was just a little girl and I feel so fucking dirty and broken and twisted.

I don't have coherent thoughts right now. I don't have anything. I have nothing but myself and really that's all I ever have and oh how I hate myself. I hate this body for its physical and mental and spiritual weaknesses. I hate it for not wanting sex and I hate it for wanting it and I hate it for being so ugly and yet for still having those stupid traits that make people want to touch me in the dark and then wipe their hands clean of it.

That's victim mentality, that's survivor guilt. It has to all be my fault, doesn't it? I can't find another reason. Wouldn't that make more sense than there being a seemingly endless supply of people who just want to put their hands on me and maybe don't mind my brain so much, but it's not worth much on its own?

I must be the problem. I must be doing something wrong to attract these people, to let them do what they want, to fool myself into thinking they're something or not or that I'm not something I am. I'm just stupid enough to convince myself it won't happen again, that I'll be stronger, better, more mature, more assertive. That I'll know what I want and I'll say it. That I'll actually do something, anything.

I haven't even technically started grad school and already I just know I'm not going to make it. Sometimes I feel at home here, simply because it's a beautiful community of people who love dance and love art, but I don't feel like belong. They're all passionate and willing to speak. I'm passionate and willing to do nothing but sit and work in silence and solitude. I'm either weird or creepy or stupid or "not right in the head," which is technically true.

There's this conference going on right now for graduate students that essentially is preparing us for being teaching assistants or teachers or whatever other responsibilities that will be thrown our way during grad school (and beyond). Today there was an extremely long segment about discrimination and sexual misconduct.

While without a doubt that thing is needed (which in itself is just sad and awful), I also had a very hard time staying in my seat. At that  point I was doing my best to lose myself in a book, blatantly reading during a lecture. Trying not to shake too much or to bite the skin of my thumb or to pinch the inside of my arm too hard.

Why am I trying to get an MA and be a professor and be a real person?

It's obvious I'm unreliable and weak and dependent. I can't take care of myself and stress gets the better of me far too easily. When I'm stressed, I get even weaker and more prone to panic over things that under normal conditions I might be able to handle.

But I'm just so fucking broken and gross now. There is no part of me that has not been touched by someone else. There's nothing I have left to give. How are you supposed to tell someone that they're getting used goods? A damaged product? Someone who is graysexual, which for me means means sometimes I like sex but also sometimes I might freak out and suddenly burst into tears, so just please don't take it personally? Who sometimes has a hard time distinguishing between actual desire and the compulsion to please? Between passion and obligation?

I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about anymore. Long story short:

I hate myself. Looks like that will never change.

--Dexter

Why I Don't Talk To You

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It is recommended you listen to "Bring Me to Life" by Evanescence while reading this post. Please see the PS at the end of the post to see why. Thank you.

Just about any time I write a more honest post about how I feel, I get lots of offers from very kind of loving people to talk if I need to, and to know that they're always there for me. I always appreciate these messages. I look at them, appreciate them, feel a flutter of shame at what they know about me, and resolve to thank them later when the post isn't so fresh on my mind. And then of course I forget that I didn't actually respond. But I do that in a lot of situations.

I don't know how serious people are when they say they're there to talk of I need someone. I don't doubt their sincerity, I just feel like they underestimate the tornado they would be welcoming into their home, so to speak.

When I am having a bad day or having a panic attack or have a manic phase or anything like that, I do not sound like my blog posts. Maybe that's what it is. I'm not at all coherent or logical and I can vehemently and wildly deny anything I want to while swearing up and down that my own idea of self is absolutely true.

Right now I have two friends I talk to when I am in those moments, and I feel worse and worse and worse about it every time it happens. I talk to them because I trust them and because they make me feel at least a bit better, or at least like I'm not so alone. They don't panic (to my face, at least), but just kind of...accept it, and do what they can. They are rather amazing people.

But I don't just have a crisis every once in a while. I've been in a constant state of crisis for the past week, and even though it finally seems to be normalizing, just the events of the week have left me terrified, exhausted, and guilty.

In those moments, I am terrified and my first instinct is to find someone, but then I remember that people have their own lives and that just a few hours ago I was feeling the same way and bombarding people with my issues. And already, here I am again, doing the same thing to the same person.

The more honest I get about my feelings, the harder it is to stop talking about them. I've almost always had them bottled up. I have rarely had someone to talk to about any of it, and the only way I could handle it would be writing it all out here, on a shitty blog. Having actual friends be with you turns out to be pretty different.

Plus, there are some things I cannot bring myself to write about on here. They may be huge sources of stress in my life, but they're also about someone else who certainly doesn't want their problems (or my problems with them) to be out in the open. It would be cruel to write about it.

I believe that is the main reasons my two friends have had so much to deal with lately. There are so many little things going on in my life that I can't vomit out into the world, but I have to get it out of me. But, being me, I don't even know how to have a normal conversation. So I skip around the subject because I don't want to whine or insist we talk about me, which results in a nonspecific depressing pity party hosted by me.

I consider myself a very open person because I like to talk about my problems, if only because they are real issues in the world that other people face as well. Some people will not speak out for themselves, and don't ask me why I feel that I have to do it for them. I feel responsible for being a voice, however soft and quivering.

But I also don't like to talk about me. I don't like to talk about my problems. If people ask specific questions and prove that they care and are interested, then yeah, I have no problem. I actually like that. It makes me feel human.

But if no one asks, then I feel vain bringing it up. I whine and I pity myself and force my "problems" on other people who surely have their own things to deal with. And so many times people have not told me their problems just because they knew I had too much going on. Even though I understand, it hurts. I don't want to be a friend who always needs help but never helps. I want to know how people are doing and if there's anything I can do.

So to kind of bring this back to where I started, there is a reason why I don't reach out to many of you beautiful people when I'm having a crisis.

I don't want to ruin anything.

I don't want to lose a friend when they realize how fucked up I am. I don't want to overwhelm a friend with all of my problems when I have no idea what they're going through at the same time. I don't want to turn a friendship into a one-sided therapy session.

Every single time, I try so hard not to reach out to those two friends. It used to be I would force myself to talk to someone because that's what you're supposed to do. You're supposed to ask for help. But I think in this perfect world, there is somehow always the best friend group where there will always be one person who somehow has a perfect life and is always able to help.

But it's not. I have two whole friends I trust and love and who I can count on to make me feel better (even if it's a little delayed). And I hate myself just as much when they are there for me, because am I ever there for them? Do I even have any idea what their lives are like right now? I want to. I want to know so badly. But then I start wondering if they'd even want to talk about it with me. I'm a "if they want to talk about it they'll bring it up" kind of person (even though obviously I don't bring shit up when I need to talk about it), which means I rely on vague "How is your day going?" questions.

I have been the sober friend trying to talk to a drunk, self-destructive, mentally ill person. While I would of course do it again, I don't want to make anyone else do that for me.

Sometimes I wish I could make them hate me, or admit that they don't like me or that they don't care, because then maybe I wouldn't care either and I could make myself stop talking to them.

I get so sick of friends, close or casual, telling me how amazing I am and that I'm cool or whatever. I sometimes believe those two friends. Sometimes. I never believe anyone else, because they don't know me. They read my blog and think they do, or they've gone through all of college with me and think they do, or they've had a few conversations with drunk Dexter (who is far more entertaining than sober Dexter) and think they do.

I guess now is where you could get philosophical and ask, "Well do you ever really know someone?"

Look I don't shit about that. But every time someone says I can talk to them, I think to myself, "Can I? What would you actually do if I called you crying mid-panic attack, or in the middle of the night when I'm drunker than I've ever been and have a knife, or if I'm in a manic phase and beg you to do something with me only to cancel five minutes later because I've fallen through that cloud like a brick? If I called you and just asked you to come sit in my house with me while I read, would you actually? If I showed you just how pitiful, dysfunctional, and fucked up I am, would you really still want to talk to me?"

I can guess that the answer would be yes. But I guess it's also something you have to see to believe. And no one's seen me in a very long time.

Out of sight, out of mind. I have always been rather forgettable (I grew up with a boy who I met for the first time at least ten times, so you really can't argue with me here).

I laugh and cry at the same time because I'm starting to look like Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas.

It's suffocating to wear long sleeves to go buy milk.

It's terrifying to have to find a cardigan before answering the door.

It's nauseating to visit an empty campus to go look at that little courtyard where you were date-raped because you are finally trying to get that story out of you and turn it into something artistic, to be that quivering voice for all of those other people who will talk to me but no one else.

I had planned a far more coherent post, but that just kind of proves my point, doesn't it.

I am a lot crazier than you think, and I'm afraid you will leave when you figure that out. Or that you will leave when you try and fail to "fix" me. Or you will leave when I do start feeling better and don't "need" you anymore.

I am so afraid of being alone that I'd rather just be alone.

-Dexter




PS. Evanescence just came on my Spotify and the angst is just too much to resist.

Not A Hero (Not the Video Game)

For what seems like forever, I have been in a seriously deep pit of depression. A bottomless pit, and yet somehow that's where I am: the bottom.

This particular forever I suppose started during my last period. It feels stupid and shameful to admit, but periods are incredibly rough on me. Usually they aren't bad physically (though this past one was debilitating and I actually felt like I was dying), but they affect me mentally more than they should. It's like one solid week of me not being on my medication, that's the easiest way to explain it.

I don't know if I would go as far as saying I get suicidal, because my cats if nothing else keep me going because I know Palmer doesn't like anyone else and he would be upset if I were gone. I don't get suicidal, but I do get reckless. I'm less careful, I do things I shouldn't, I ignore the warning labels on my medication.

My period ended around my 23rd birthday, which was a very depressing day. I certainly was not expecting a surprise party with fifteen hundred people (that would have been terrifying, actually), but all I really wanted was to see someone. But no one could or wanted to. Okay, shout out to the one who did bring me Canes at like, midnight. But I just got really depressed and lonely and drank too much and watched a really bad movie by DW Griffith.

It didn't get much better as time went on. I made the terrible mistake of trying to read Fifty Shades of Grey simply because I wanted to see if the writing really was as bad as I'd heard. Sometimes reading really terrible writing can be fun and humorous and good for the self-esteem. I was not, however, expecting to have a three hour panic attack complete with crying and shaking. I have meds to take for anxiety attacks, but I've only ever taken half of one. I took two during that episode and went super numb and can't really remember what happened after that. I passed out and felt like shit the next morning.

Since then, I've been having panic attacks more frequently, though none as bad as that one. That shitty book just awakened all these things that I hadn't thought about in a while, that I hadn't had problems with in a while. Then suddenly they're all back and it's overwhelming and just plain sucks.

And now I'm here. The past two or three days have been absolute hell. I've been depressed for no discernible reason, super panicky. I haven't been grocery shopping in a very, very long time. Right now I'm living off of Ritz crackers and peanut butter, trying to conserve the cans of not-so-great-soup I have in my cabinet. Part of it is that I'm genuinely worried about money because I'm about to move and I need deposit money and rent money and all of this stuff, and I won't start getting paid by the University until probably September.

But part of it is that I don't want to leave my house, and I certainly don't want to go to the store. I don't want to have to make decisions about what food to buy, and I don't want to have to exchange pleasantries with the cashier. I don't want anyone to look at me.

I've had a few good moments. I took out the trash the other day, which is really rare for me because I'm terrified of my creepy neighbor who always tries to talk to me and says creepy things. I've packed a very small bit for the move to Florida. I have done a few small things.

But I haven't really been eating, which kind of bit me in the ass yesterday when my body started shutting down and it was hard to go up and down the stairs and I felt like I was going to vomit and was really shaky and all of this stuff. I did eat, eventually, and miraculously felt better.

Yeah, eating is important. I'm not good at it.

I think I might've mentioned that I'm basically mentally disabled, and that certainly affects feeding myself. It makes me feel absolutely pathetic and pitiful. I am fully capable of feeding myself, and yet...can't always do it. It's stupid.

A few nights ago I drank too much again (have I mentioned that I'm becoming an alcoholic? Trying to nip that in the bud before it gets too far...) and took my anxiety meds that you're absolutely not supposed to take with alcohol. I found my old knife and played with it too much. I wasn't outright trying to kill myself, but I admit that I was hoping I just wouldn't wake up after taking my anxiety meds and going to sleep for the night.

I don't want to die, not really. There's a lot going for me right now. I've somehow gotten into a really competitive and amazing graduate school and somehow gotten a really nice apartment and somehow have friends who still love me even though I constantly make them worry that I might be dead. I want to go to grad school. I want to experience life and read books and get more cats. I don't want to die.

But when everything hurts so bad and you can't find something to blame it on, you end up turning on yourself. If there's no external source for your misery, it's got to be coming from you, right?

Useless piece of shit who only likes to complain and make herself miserable and draw attention to herself by telling all of her friends she's worried she's going to hurt herself.

These are lies. I know this. I know this very well. I know I have an illness that, while treatable, will probably never fully go away. I know that I will have better days and that every day will not suck like the past few weeks have. I know these things.

But it's still so hard. And then I get on here and try to write inspiring things to help other people who also struggle.

But don't you see? I'm just a massive hypocrite who is spiraling out of control and has no grasp on her life.

I'm not a role model.

I'm not an inspiration.

I'm not a hero.

I'm literally just a psychotic twenty-something girl (who apparently looks seventeen according to the entire population of Florida) who just so happens to know how to write well.

I am certainly glad that people know they aren't alone in their struggles. And I am certainly glad to talk about it and to be there for you (as long as I myself am not about to go over the edge, cause then I will not be much help). I am certainly glad that this blog somehow helps people, whether it's to understand others or themselves, or to know that they aren't alone, or to know that surviving hell is possible. I am certainly glad that you are still here and you are reading this.

But I'm just me. And that's nothing special. There are countless people just like me, who go through what I do and who do it better.

I read through my old blog posts recently, and there's one about me wanting to inspire people but knowing that I'm too much of a hypocrite to do it properly. So this is a follow-up post, saying that I don't know if "inspire" is really the proper word anymore.

I also had a good post about hope and encouragement that I'd completely forgotten about. Funnily enough, my own post made me cry and promise to keep trying for just one more day.

Okay so maybe I am inspiring. Whatever. Shut up. Leave me alone.

I have no idea where I'm going with this. But I'm not a hero and I'm not trying to be. I'm just a person, just like you. And, you know, you've gotten just as far as I have. You're still here too, and that's important.

If I'm a fucking hero, then you sure as hell are too. Don't forget it.

--Dex

Mentally Disabled

For me personally, the best coping method is to be with or talk to friends. It doesn't have to be about my issues, and sometimes it's better if it's not. But having someone with me makes it easier, gives me something to do, and keeps me from doing things I shouldn't.

I have become extremely dependent on my friends. I hate it. Every day is a new crisis for me. There's never a day where I feel okay from morning to night. Maybe it's a panic attack, maybe it's being too depressed to move, maybe it's the urge to hurt myself.

I try not to talk to my friends too much about it. On the one hand, it seems like I should. I should ask for help when I need it, I should try to take care of myself even if it means asking other people to help you do it. Right?

But do I have to ask for help every day? Do I have to constantly be seeking attention?

I'm just an attention whore hiding behind a mental illness.

So I don't talk to friends. Or I don't tell them it's serious. I brush it off when they don't respond or don't have time. They have their own lives and I can't expect them to be at my beck and call and not get sick of me every once in a while. I know I get sick of me. I've had friends with problems and I know I wasn't the best friend to them. I couldn't handle their issues on top of mine. So why should I expect people to do that for me?

But then people tell me they'll always be there for me if I need them. They just didn't expect that to be every day.

I will never be independent. I will never be able to take care of myself.

But is that so surprising? I am diagnosed as mentally disabled, mostly in the context of needing certain accommodations in school, but why wouldn't it affect the rest of my life?

It's not shameful to be disabled. Or rather, to be differently abled. There are plenty of people in the world who fall under the category of "disabled," whether it's mental or physical, and yet they are not lesser people because of it.

As much as I joke about it, I've never really considered myself disabled. I've always thought I could be independent, take care of myself, and at least sort of function in society.

But I can't. And I should come to terms with that. I have different abilities, but in our society I am definitely disabled.

But does that change anything? No, not really. I still feel like a needy annoyance constantly depending on friends and forcing them to talk to me. I let myself be dramatic and sensitive when they don't, regardless of the reason. Then I just hate myself more for being dramatic and stupid. It's an endless cycle and I don't ever see there being an end to it.

This is not supposed to be directed at any of my friends, and certainly not a guilt trip. I'm not calling anyone out and I'm not blaming anyone for my own behavior or problems.

I've just been thinking about it lately. So, as always, I try to give myself some peace through writing. Try to sort it all out as I go. Hoping that by the end of the post, I'll have found some life-changing inspiration in an effort to share a hopeful message.

Every day feels like an impossible challenge, harder than the day before.

You can list off all my good qualities and accomplishments, and it won't make a difference. It'll just make me feel worse. All that talent wasted on someone who simply can't get up to feed herself.

I did go grocery shopping today (which means I bought bread and milk). I read. I'm writing this. I guess I'm still trying.

--Dexter

48+

I have spent the past hour counting scars on my body. Obsessively going over it again and again, trying to figure out if the scar is actually visible or if I just remember it once being there. Am I responsible for it, or was it something else? The first time I counted 49 scars that came from me. The second time, 54. The third time, 48.

I have been told that I have unusually soft skin. My time on acne medications has left me with a surprisingly clear complexion, and I get one pimple for the duration of my period, and then it goes away.

For such soft skin, it is amazingly disfigured.

I pick at my skin a lot, especially my legs and my neck. This has left me with irritated spots that would probably go away if I were just a little kinder to myself.

I got the chicken pox when I was 19, and my back is absolutely riddled with chicken pox scars. I also have one right between my breasts that, for whatever reason, will get inflamed every now and then and will be extremely painful and sensitive. Probably means I have cancer or something, but whatever.

I have a lot of scars that come from overexcited cats.

I have one scar on my forehead from when I was four and ran into a wall while chasing a balloon (I ruined my older sister's birthday).

And then I have upwards of 48 scars that I purposefully placed on myself. Maybe there aren't even that many that are actually visible; I have a hard time telling whether I see the memory or the real thing. A lot of them you have to really look for. Some have completely faded, but I remember where they were, and I wonder if those even count. Some are bright red and impossible to hide. There are a few that haven't even become a scar yet.

Soft to the touch, rough on the eyes.

There is no inspirational message this time. I've just been stuck in my head for what feels like forever, staring at my skin, counting scars, trying to keep the number from getting any higher. I count them over and over and over and over again. I can't stop.

But what do a few more matter? At this point, no on will even notice.

Feel empty? This will let you feel something.

Feel like everything is going wrong and you're going to explode? This will give you release.

Feel like your nightmares will show up at your door? This will distract you.

Feel like the worst fucking bitch on the planet? This will help you atone.

Feel happy and hopeful? Mood swings are exhausting, but this will keep you grounded.

Feel like dying? This isn't quite as permanent.

--Dexter

PS. I graduated college a few days ago.

PPS. I ate two whole meals today.

Reasons Why I Hate Myself and Why They Are All False

You're asexual. You're never going to have a lasting romantic relationship because of it.

Not true. I was engaged once, remember?

Oh yes, what a happy relationship that was.

Shut up.

You say "asexual" and people assume you're aromantic too. Even if they didn't, they'd steer clear.

That's their fault, not mine. If they don't care enough to ask or to assume, then they obviously aren't worth it anyway.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. Guess it's a good thing you're ace anyway, since so many people have touched you now.

That wasn't my fault and it does not make me dirty or broken.

It's cute when you pretend like you believe that. You can't even keep platonic friends. No one likes you. You're annoying, needy, and constantly faking some emotional disaster just for attention.

Not true. Everyone's a little annoying and needy sometimes, but I actually have proof that people at the very least put up with me without too much irritation.

See, you can't even fully commit to saying people like you. You're so afraid of everything. You won't take the trash out because of your neighbor and you won't go to class because people might casually glance at you.

That is true. But considering those crippling fears, you've got to admit it's pretty impressive that I do actually take out the cat litter and do actually go to class half the time.

You're failing math.

That's an exaggeration.

Your house is a fucking disaster.

Yes, well. Y'know I've been involved in seven dances and three conferences this semester, on top of the measly seventeen hours of school, the occasional work day, and being chronically ill. I think I shouldn't be so hard on myself in the cleaning department.

Speaking of work. When was the last time you did that? You're such a difficult employee and you're lucky if you even still have a job.

Very true, I am lucky. I do wonder about this, but I know I also do the best I can, and any and all trouble I've had here has legitimately been out of my control, whether other people believe me or not.

You're mentally incapable of holding a full time job, you realize that, right? You're just going to end up living with your mom.

I refuse to believe that. No, I could not hold a regular full time job, but that's not what I'm after.

Oh yeah, the starving artist thing. You'll be good at that, since you don't eat anyway.

I'm working on that one.

Sure. There's the whole cutting thing. You working on that? That's pretty gross. And shameful. I'm ashamed to even know you.

Addictions are hard. Recovery is a neverending process.

You're ugly.

Thanks. Rationally speaking, I think that might be an exaggeration.

Since when are you rational? And why are you such a shitty daughter, btws?

It's complicated, and you know it. I love my family. I may not be the best family member, but I do hope they all know I love them, even when I don't talk to them.

You're kind of an idiot. You don't know how to talk to people, you can't do anything right, and it takes you like, five minutes just to remember how to subtract.

Okay, well. First off. Even if you use the argument of me growing out of my intelligence, somehow I still got into grad school and got an assistantship so I can't be that stupid. I may not be socially smart or mathematically smart, but please remember that, while those are important and valid, that's not all there is in life.

So remind me, what the heck is the point of a dancer who physically cannot dance due to injury?

I mean, at least I have a good excuse for not being very good.

Remember that time you had a panic attack while watching the stars? On a peaceful, relaxing night? Ha, good times.

Again, not my fault. That's out of my control and there is no shame in that.

Or the dozens of times in class, while eating, sitting calmly with friends, or on any of the other nice happy days of your life? Lolz.

That does not make me broken, shameful, or less of a person.

Keep telling yourself that. Maybe you'll believe it one day.

Maybe.

You're probably going to commit suicide one day.

But not today.

The only reason you're even writing this is because you don't believe any of it, and you're trying to convince yourself.

Yes. Because that's better than accepting it.

The Good News

In case you haven't heard, I GOT ACCEPTED INTO FLORIDA STATE'S M.A. AMERICAN DANCE STUDIES PROGRAM. This is a pretty big deal. FSU is a very very good dance school, and their graduate program only accepts around twelve people per year. On top of that, THEY GAVE ME AN ASSISTANTSHIP. That's right, imma be a research assistant and get paid and not starve and be homeless. I'm pretty excited.

I also recently attended the National Conference for Undergraduate Research with four other students from USM. I presented my junior research and got to attend a lot of other interesting presentations. I'm such a nerd, but honestly this was one of the best weekends I've had in a long time. For some reason it was just so enriching to be surrounded by passionate people talking about what they love, whether it's dancing or biochemistry.

I should be overjoyed with all of these great things happening, but I passed that stage long ago. I'm constantly waiting for an email from FSU retracting their acceptance, saying that it was a mistake. The post-happiness depression hit me hard after the conference was over as I get overwhelmed with self-doubt and loneliness. I replay the events so many times that I start thinking that it wasn't as good as it seemed, that I looked stupid, that I sounded stupid, that people were just being nice, etc. etc. It's not uncommon for depressed people to get especially down after they have a really great day. And that sucks. Like, we can't even enjoy the good times.

I had been waiting until after the conference to write a post about FSU and everything, to share all the nerdy happiness at once. I wanted it to be a happy post. But since when do I write happy posts? Since when am I a well-functioning member of society? Since when have I been a healthy human being?

I feel so overwhelmed with school right now. My house is a disaster. My personal life is a wreck, my emotions are trying to be happy and sad at the same time. I just lie down and wait for it to be over.

I accidentally started talking about the hospital yesterday, blabbering about how you can't have pencils but you can have crayons. We were talking about crayons only, there was no need for me to bring that up. But it came out of my mouth and once it was out I couldn't take it back and y'know it's those little things that make me hate myself even more.

But... but... good things happen. It seems like I'll actually be doing something with my life next year and that just maybe I'm not a complete failure.

Trying not to think about being alone in a new city surrounded by new people. In case you haven't noticed, I can't talk to people, but I get super lonely, so I try to talk to people, and then just freak people out or annoy them to death. That's life.

BUT GOOD THINGS HAPPEN. Trying very hard to remember that.

I feel like that's all I can ever tell people: I'm trying very hard. I swear I am.

--Dexter