The Everlasting Gaze
6 am.
I find myself unable to sleep.
Throughout the night I tossed and turned,
feeling my stomach burn with unrest.
I just want to slip into the unburdened bliss of sleep.
Sometimes it feels as if the isolation is burning holes in my veins.
I feel the tension weighing heavily in my muscles.
It feels like every breath is a mistake.
I really am everybody's fool.
I really am everybody's fool.
I feel that familiar grip of depression tightening around my throat. It's cold, unfeeling hands positioning for a better grip around me. I gasp for breath before the pressure begins once again. For some reason when I feel the physical sensation of depression pressing down, squeezing the life out of me, 'Today' by The Smashing Pumpkins tends to play. Corgan's hypnotic melody swimming through my bloodstream, turning me limp. Meanwhile, I'm doing everything I can to save face. Hiding the internal bleeding through humour, making people feel uncomfortable with lude comments so that they'll pull away from me...yet all I want is a plaster and a hug. And I wonder will this sorrow, this self-crippling illness last forever?
And I know that I will find another excuse to keep this perpetual bleeding going. Nurture it, indulge it and on many levels love it. It's made me special for so long. Loved me when no one else would. It soothed the pains of rejection and rehydrated me when I was dying of loneliness. Sometimes I truly worry that this self-destruction will be my only real companion. Then complete anxiety kicks in and I feel my chest burn, my heart rate accelerate, sweat drips down my back and I empty my guts out into the nearest container.
And I know that I will find another excuse to keep this perpetual bleeding going. Nurture it, indulge it and on many levels love it. It's made me special for so long. Loved me when no one else would. It soothed the pains of rejection and rehydrated me when I was dying of loneliness. Sometimes I truly worry that this self-destruction will be my only real companion. Then complete anxiety kicks in and I feel my chest burn, my heart rate accelerate, sweat drips down my back and I empty my guts out into the nearest container.
Behind closed doors, I'm cutting my heart out under sunshine pink skies.
There's not been one day the past three weeks that I've not been intoxicated. It's turning into the month of July all over again. This past July, I was intoxicated, fucked up off my face pretty much every day of the month. I wasted the month away under the constant haze of alcohol and mind-numbing chemicals, all the whiling complaining that I can't accomplish a thing. It was preceded by a month of almost constant euphoria, steady writing and accomplishments despite being under heavy seduction by my chemical companions. I spent the evenings drinking and swallowing anything I could get my hands on, laughing myself to the verge of insanity while my favourite childhood programmes or favourite grunge music blared around me. Now that I think about it, June was a similar situation, just far more simplistic and calm. Towards the end of the June, I felt that familiar cry to curl up and escape, indulge in a sort of pity party because I couldn't gather the energy to actually participate in my own mental health. And all the while there was this low-level fascination, no obsession, with killing myself. I'd run my hands over past scars, over the various methods and become giddy, almost drowning in joy at the idea that I had this. My forever escape. My final solution. (No, that's not a Hitler reference; but according to legend he did kill himself...I don't know.)
Meanwhile, I managed to systematically dismantle three budding new friendships, isolate myself further and worsen my surroundings. 'Well done, Danny. Really, bravo dear boy. Just look what you've managed to accomplish in so little time! And you said the summer was a complete waste!' Rather than focusing on what I should have been doing, I was nursing hangovers, self-inflicted wounds and piddle paddling in a sea of mindless distraction. Under warm summer skies and starlit summer demises, I indulged myself in another sort of death.
Then September came. I'd pulled back on my drinking and I'd run out of my chemical 'nom-noms'. It was getting harder to get what I needed and I'd also been fired so I had no sort of income. I paddled along, free-lancing a few of my many trades, feeling almost hopeful, poetic about going away for my birthday. I was in a relatively good mood, journalling, exploring things within myself and some of the relationships that I'd cultivated over the year. I was writing more for Happiness & Homicide. I was looking for new work. I was going to therapy. Things were getting a little better than the bump upward I experienced in the start of August, then I had oral surgery. While the procedure wasn't painful really and I barely felt pain, for the most part, I was given narcotics for it. I'd not told the dentist about my love for all things mind-numbing and mind-altering. On some level, I knew this the negative side of me and his self-serving agenda. They could have given me something else for the pain, but I suppose I just couldn't resist the urge to sabotage myself. I took the oxy and fell back into it's warm, loving arms. I could laugh so much easier. For a while, I was free. The relief would last 5-6 hours before I felt the ebbing of depression pulling at the hem of my shirtsleeve like a lost child in the rain. I'd take his hand and we'd stroll down the cobblestones together, watching our reflections in the glass of shops, laughing as people and time became distorted around us.
October hit me like a train. I headed to the New England coast for a bit of rest and relaxation. Under the unseasonably warm weather for the first month of October, I took in the beautiful sights. I put myself out there. I made a friend. I went to a museum, went to the zoo, had some of the best doughnuts I'd ever had in my life...then I got high. Two evenings were spent ablaze under the pink and orange New England skies as night seduced and consumed them. My mind bloomed as the stars did above me. I was content. The urge to self-harm was a far away, almost alien, notion. And in the blink of an eye, it became my refuge once again. I cried out for the nurture of the cold metal. I knew it was the last thing that I should have been doing, but nothing else felt right. I didn't feel like I could express the fears and emptiness that was crawling through me, once again turning me into a citizen of the undead space. I knew it was horrifying the few friends that I had; not only the sight of what I'd done to myself or what I was doing to myself but the complete hopelessness they felt when they were unable to stop me. It's not their faults. I harbour no anger at them for their fruitless attempts to help me in these times. I can't even help myself. And if I can't help myself, then I surely can't fault these people.
November brought tales of deeper self-hatred and confusion. I felt the weight of responsibility in my bones like I never had before. I was consumed with the number of things going on, all these eyes on me and the pressure of having to hold myself together when I knew that I was slipping. Rather than talk to people truthfully about how I was being burnt at both ends, I hid away in chemicals and displays of outlandish behaviour; and when I say the behaviour was outlandish, it really means something because I'm so far gone from the norm. I took risks that weren't necessary and I still find myself in the same vicious cycle of behaviour. I start to feel the slightest bit better and the tiniest thing can completely throw me out of orbit. I'd like to be able to set some time aside for myself to really focus and sort through a few of these issues, but right now realistically that's not possible. There are too many people depending on me right now. Oh, now running away looks so magical once again. I've spent so much of my life hiding, running, burying myself away that I don't always possess the tools I need to better myself, to moderate and regain control of things. I reach for the familarity that has been helpful, but more often than not worsened the situation and weakened me both mentally and physically.
This year has not been all that kind. I'd sleep on the floor, well no, pass out on the floor or lay on my old blood-stained mattress, too tired, too weighed down by negative thinking. I was being consumed by not only despair but my secrets. Locked into my cells is a type of self-hating poison. As far back as I can remember, I've been obsessed with the negative side of things, preoccupied with the macabre, romanticised the void. I'm not entirely sure if this was brought on by my upbringing or through some fault of my own or possibly the lottery of the genetic pool of humanity. Yay existentialism and conscious awareness!
And as so many of you who struggle with depression or bipolar depression self-care can sometimes be impossible. Everyday tasks are the same thing. Picking up the laundry off the floor sometimes feels like I've been tasked to climb Everest with a panda cub strapped to my back. (Actually, that might be pretty entertaining.) For days I'd lay in the same clothes, sometimes stained with food, vomit or baking ingredients from doing a Delectables with Dan, just unable to change. I'd either be too exhausted or just not care at all. Normally, I'm a pretty neat guy. I like order. Clothing in the closet and folded. Books & DVDs alphabetised by title and genre. Shoes arranged by petty childish favouritism. I'd just not care. The room quickly became a sea of trash, clothing, medications and other drugs, wrappers, shoes, books and whatever else I dropped on the floor. Sometimes I'd even lay in the clothing piles, too drained to attempt to pick them up. It just stopped mattering. Depression stips me of my ability to care about anything, then anxiety will kick in at the oddest time and I'll stress over the mess or state of myself, then I'm reminded that it's all meaningless; just a distraction of bullshit until I die. I'd look even more grunge than Kurt Cobain as I'd lay unwashed in the bed, the laptop glowing, my attention focused somewhere deep inside me, me not even comprehending the images on the screen. Curtains would be drawn for weeks at a time. I'd avoid the sunlight. For a while, I actually became afraid to leave the house. I didn't want to. It felt wrong, unsafe in some way. I'd panic at the idea of having to even leave my bedroom. I'd slip out to do the baking or cook meals for people then slink back up the staircase and lean against the wall or desk wanting to cry.
I can't tell you how many days mates had to force my ass out of bed to shower, brush my teeth or eat something that would help improve the state of my health. I decayed into the mattress so much of this past year that there was actually indent where I laid for almost 2 straight months all the while pretending on my blog I was feeling somewhat better. I felt that I needed to hide, I didn't want anyone to truly see how bad things had become. During the time I was given new medications, I gained weight, then I lost it all. I stopped taking the medications, feeling they were turning me into an even more useless puddle of jelly. I couldn't properly communicate my feelings to my therapist or psychopharmacologist. I was afraid of being locked up in a hospital again. Personally, I feel these 'hospitals' are nothing short of torture chambers. They strip you of your individuality, your rights as a human being, fill you with pills and empty sentiments that life gets better. Worse of all is the annoying bunkmate they stick you with, where you're not allowed to know another patient's diagnosis and you're left wondering will you'll be attacked in the moonlight.
I still sleep on the floor, actually. I got a new mattress so that's good. I've not slept in an actual, proper bed in my own home for let's see...5 years? Maybe a bit more. So many things are a blur. On tour, in hotels, I'd sleep in beds and it would feel almost wrong. Like I didn't deserve it. It wasn't right for me. I laugh and joke that I sleep on the floor because in case I stumble in fucked up I wouldn't have to try and climb into bed, I could just collapse into it. The truth is a nest on the floor feels better, more deserving; it can ease the thoughts of wondering what is right and wrong for me.
Then September came. I'd pulled back on my drinking and I'd run out of my chemical 'nom-noms'. It was getting harder to get what I needed and I'd also been fired so I had no sort of income. I paddled along, free-lancing a few of my many trades, feeling almost hopeful, poetic about going away for my birthday. I was in a relatively good mood, journalling, exploring things within myself and some of the relationships that I'd cultivated over the year. I was writing more for Happiness & Homicide. I was looking for new work. I was going to therapy. Things were getting a little better than the bump upward I experienced in the start of August, then I had oral surgery. While the procedure wasn't painful really and I barely felt pain, for the most part, I was given narcotics for it. I'd not told the dentist about my love for all things mind-numbing and mind-altering. On some level, I knew this the negative side of me and his self-serving agenda. They could have given me something else for the pain, but I suppose I just couldn't resist the urge to sabotage myself. I took the oxy and fell back into it's warm, loving arms. I could laugh so much easier. For a while, I was free. The relief would last 5-6 hours before I felt the ebbing of depression pulling at the hem of my shirtsleeve like a lost child in the rain. I'd take his hand and we'd stroll down the cobblestones together, watching our reflections in the glass of shops, laughing as people and time became distorted around us.
October hit me like a train. I headed to the New England coast for a bit of rest and relaxation. Under the unseasonably warm weather for the first month of October, I took in the beautiful sights. I put myself out there. I made a friend. I went to a museum, went to the zoo, had some of the best doughnuts I'd ever had in my life...then I got high. Two evenings were spent ablaze under the pink and orange New England skies as night seduced and consumed them. My mind bloomed as the stars did above me. I was content. The urge to self-harm was a far away, almost alien, notion. And in the blink of an eye, it became my refuge once again. I cried out for the nurture of the cold metal. I knew it was the last thing that I should have been doing, but nothing else felt right. I didn't feel like I could express the fears and emptiness that was crawling through me, once again turning me into a citizen of the undead space. I knew it was horrifying the few friends that I had; not only the sight of what I'd done to myself or what I was doing to myself but the complete hopelessness they felt when they were unable to stop me. It's not their faults. I harbour no anger at them for their fruitless attempts to help me in these times. I can't even help myself. And if I can't help myself, then I surely can't fault these people.
November brought tales of deeper self-hatred and confusion. I felt the weight of responsibility in my bones like I never had before. I was consumed with the number of things going on, all these eyes on me and the pressure of having to hold myself together when I knew that I was slipping. Rather than talk to people truthfully about how I was being burnt at both ends, I hid away in chemicals and displays of outlandish behaviour; and when I say the behaviour was outlandish, it really means something because I'm so far gone from the norm. I took risks that weren't necessary and I still find myself in the same vicious cycle of behaviour. I start to feel the slightest bit better and the tiniest thing can completely throw me out of orbit. I'd like to be able to set some time aside for myself to really focus and sort through a few of these issues, but right now realistically that's not possible. There are too many people depending on me right now. Oh, now running away looks so magical once again. I've spent so much of my life hiding, running, burying myself away that I don't always possess the tools I need to better myself, to moderate and regain control of things. I reach for the familarity that has been helpful, but more often than not worsened the situation and weakened me both mentally and physically.
This year has not been all that kind. I'd sleep on the floor, well no, pass out on the floor or lay on my old blood-stained mattress, too tired, too weighed down by negative thinking. I was being consumed by not only despair but my secrets. Locked into my cells is a type of self-hating poison. As far back as I can remember, I've been obsessed with the negative side of things, preoccupied with the macabre, romanticised the void. I'm not entirely sure if this was brought on by my upbringing or through some fault of my own or possibly the lottery of the genetic pool of humanity. Yay existentialism and conscious awareness!
And as so many of you who struggle with depression or bipolar depression self-care can sometimes be impossible. Everyday tasks are the same thing. Picking up the laundry off the floor sometimes feels like I've been tasked to climb Everest with a panda cub strapped to my back. (Actually, that might be pretty entertaining.) For days I'd lay in the same clothes, sometimes stained with food, vomit or baking ingredients from doing a Delectables with Dan, just unable to change. I'd either be too exhausted or just not care at all. Normally, I'm a pretty neat guy. I like order. Clothing in the closet and folded. Books & DVDs alphabetised by title and genre. Shoes arranged by petty childish favouritism. I'd just not care. The room quickly became a sea of trash, clothing, medications and other drugs, wrappers, shoes, books and whatever else I dropped on the floor. Sometimes I'd even lay in the clothing piles, too drained to attempt to pick them up. It just stopped mattering. Depression stips me of my ability to care about anything, then anxiety will kick in at the oddest time and I'll stress over the mess or state of myself, then I'm reminded that it's all meaningless; just a distraction of bullshit until I die. I'd look even more grunge than Kurt Cobain as I'd lay unwashed in the bed, the laptop glowing, my attention focused somewhere deep inside me, me not even comprehending the images on the screen. Curtains would be drawn for weeks at a time. I'd avoid the sunlight. For a while, I actually became afraid to leave the house. I didn't want to. It felt wrong, unsafe in some way. I'd panic at the idea of having to even leave my bedroom. I'd slip out to do the baking or cook meals for people then slink back up the staircase and lean against the wall or desk wanting to cry.
I can't tell you how many days mates had to force my ass out of bed to shower, brush my teeth or eat something that would help improve the state of my health. I decayed into the mattress so much of this past year that there was actually indent where I laid for almost 2 straight months all the while pretending on my blog I was feeling somewhat better. I felt that I needed to hide, I didn't want anyone to truly see how bad things had become. During the time I was given new medications, I gained weight, then I lost it all. I stopped taking the medications, feeling they were turning me into an even more useless puddle of jelly. I couldn't properly communicate my feelings to my therapist or psychopharmacologist. I was afraid of being locked up in a hospital again. Personally, I feel these 'hospitals' are nothing short of torture chambers. They strip you of your individuality, your rights as a human being, fill you with pills and empty sentiments that life gets better. Worse of all is the annoying bunkmate they stick you with, where you're not allowed to know another patient's diagnosis and you're left wondering will you'll be attacked in the moonlight.
I still sleep on the floor, actually. I got a new mattress so that's good. I've not slept in an actual, proper bed in my own home for let's see...5 years? Maybe a bit more. So many things are a blur. On tour, in hotels, I'd sleep in beds and it would feel almost wrong. Like I didn't deserve it. It wasn't right for me. I laugh and joke that I sleep on the floor because in case I stumble in fucked up I wouldn't have to try and climb into bed, I could just collapse into it. The truth is a nest on the floor feels better, more deserving; it can ease the thoughts of wondering what is right and wrong for me.
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You can purchase a physical copy or use your Kindle! For Kindle unlimited readers, you can read free! On Blurb, you can also purchase a digital copy of my work! Like what you see? Post a link for me! It's hard being a self-published author. Thank you all for the support throughout the past few years.
Little By Little (2017)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Little-Anja-Absinthe/dp/1542872456/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1513251678&sr=8-1&keywords=anja+absinthe
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/7726453-little-by-little
Dopamine (Liebe kann tödlich sein) (2016)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dopamine-Anja-Absinthe/dp/1533138923/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1513251678&sr=8-3&keywords=anja+absinthe
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/7084576-dopamine
Clean (2015)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Clean-Anja-Absinthe/dp/1364779471/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1513251678&sr=8-4&keywords=anja+absinthe
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/6630960-clean
Instant Karma: Just Add Milk (2014)
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/5361456-instant-karma-just-add-milk-anja-absinthe
The Suicide of a Wallflower (2013)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Suicide-Wallflower-Anja-Absinthe/dp/1533138362/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1513251678&sr=8-2&keywords=anja+absinthe
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/4535073-the-suicide-of-a-wallflower
You can purchase a physical copy or use your Kindle! For Kindle unlimited readers, you can read free! On Blurb, you can also purchase a digital copy of my work! Like what you see? Post a link for me! It's hard being a self-published author. Thank you all for the support throughout the past few years.
Little By Little (2017)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Little-Anja-Absinthe/dp/1542872456/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1513251678&sr=8-1&keywords=anja+absinthe
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/7726453-little-by-little
Dopamine (Liebe kann tödlich sein) (2016)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dopamine-Anja-Absinthe/dp/1533138923/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1513251678&sr=8-3&keywords=anja+absinthe
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/7084576-dopamine
Clean (2015)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Clean-Anja-Absinthe/dp/1364779471/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1513251678&sr=8-4&keywords=anja+absinthe
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/6630960-clean
Instant Karma: Just Add Milk (2014)
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/5361456-instant-karma-just-add-milk-anja-absinthe
The Suicide of a Wallflower (2013)
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Suicide-Wallflower-Anja-Absinthe/dp/1533138362/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1513251678&sr=8-2&keywords=anja+absinthe
http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/4535073-the-suicide-of-a-wallflower
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