Dissociation is one of the strangest, most difficult to explain phenomenon I’ve ever experienced. Have you ever felt like nothing’s real? Like everything around you just just something that you’ve made up? That consequences have no meaning because nothing is actually there? Like you’re actually floating in some misty fluid, the sound muffled by the liquid in your ears, but you’re only half aware of it?

I need to ground myself. Being with other people is a good way to do it, but I keep making it about sex. And, to be fair, sex helps. It really helps. Physical sensation, particularly the kind that involves other people, is extremely helpful. But I don’t have someone who lives with me who can do that for me. Dustin would be good for it but he’s not available, particularly not at night, which is when it gets the worst. And I’m still really wary about having multiple sex partners (although my current behavior may suggest otherwise).

I just need attention right now and I hate it. I need someone to pay attention to me so I can feel like I’m actually here, that I’m real, and that I matter. That there is more to life than my own perception of it. It’s difficult to explain, but sometimes I sincerely doubt that other people are there. If I don’t see them, how can I prove that they’re there? How?

And so I relapsed again last night and I bled on my sheets a little bit and then Dustin came over this morning. And even though I had told him we weren’t going to have sex until he got his issues at least started to be working out, I just needed it. And it helped. But now he’s gone and everything is much worse.

I don’t really feel much of anything, to be honest. I’m not sad. I’m not unhappy, really. I mean. I’m not happy, either. I just am, and that terrifies me because that feeling of empty is something that I thought I grew out of. I thought I was getting better, but it seems that every time I do, it just gets worse. I feel like I’m stabbing myself in the back, like I won’t let myself get better, like I’m jealous of my own recovery and I keep trying to pull myself down instead of standing on my shaking legs.

I mean. I suppose it says something that I’m even writing this. I haven’t written on this blog in ages. My motivation has simply not been there, and I don’t know if my life and thoughts could possibly interest anyone else since they’re rarely of interest to me. But I’m feeling very shaking and I get the feeling I should do something about it.

I don’t know if it has to do with the fact that I’m in some way involved with an ex-abuser and I don’t know how I feel about that. My logical side knows that he’s changed and that he’s never given me any reason not to trust him. But it’s just so fucking hard after all the bullshit that I’ve been through that I’m one of those people on the other side of the situation. I know how it feels to have people believe you but choose not to do anything about it. To continue to hang around and support him. The difference- and this is a big one- is that in my case, the abuse happened literally weeks before I came out about it, and he wouldn’t even admit it. Dustin’s stuff happened two years ago, he admits it, and has been trying to change. He told me about this shit before we even got involved. He takes steps to prevent me from being uncomfortable every chance he gets.

I just don’t know anymore. And it feels weird because I’m not in classes because of spring break but I’m living on campus and there’s nobody here. But I’m terrified to talk to someone. I don’t want to sound needy because I am needy. I don’t really know what’s going on with me, but I hope that once I start getting more sleep, I’ll feel better….


05.10.2014: Aromanticism and Other Things

It’s just little things. Like the fact that whenever I look at a picture of Evan Peters, I remember that the reason I liked him so much was because he reminded me of Tom Milsom. I don’t know. I feel so stupid for still being upset about all that shit, because it happened quite a while ago and it really had nothing to do with me personally.

But it’s also reading all those posts about aromanticism and not feeling any less broken. Feeling like I want to tear open my chest so that I can find the damage and replace it with something synthetic. Still trying to find romantic love when I’m almost sure I can’t feel it. The sinking feeling and the anxiety of knowing that no one will take care of me because I won’t find someone to live with me because I can’t stand it.

I want to be proud of myself. I want to feel comfortable in my own skin. I want to be able to walk around inside my head and not feel afraid. I want to stop thinking about razor blades. I want to stop having dreams of getting my throat slit and feeling relieved as I was taken by exsanguination. I want to understand myself, so that I would feel like I had a chance of anyone else ever understanding me. 

Even my good choices fuck things up for other people because what I need to make myself happy seems to be in conflict with everyone else’s interests. I want to keep up with the people I care about. I want to be close to people without feeling pressured to say I feel things when I don’t. I have to spend days alone because hearing another person’s voice in my ear feels like torture.

I don’t know. I am just very sad right now. Even things that should give me comfort are raking at my skin.


I’m treating self-harm the same way I treated marijuana. A form of self-medication. Coping, I guess is what they call it. I tell myself I don’t need it, that I like it but it isn’t an addiction, it’s a form of recreation, it won’t hurt me, but I know it’s a lie. I don’t want anyone else to do it. Why is it okay for me to do it but not them? I’m not better than them. I’m not in any more control. I’m not any less (or more) fucked up.

I’m just so used to deluding myself that I don’t know where to stop. I don’t know why I’m doing it. I don’t know whether it’s because I need to find a way to get out of myself, or if I need to see the blood because of the violence I seem to enjoy, or if I need to find a way to get the feelings into my head into my body, or if I need something in my life to be permanent, or, most disturbingly, if I do it just because I’m bored. I need something to interest me.

I just don’t know. But I was a fool to think I could handle this. I disgust myself. When I die, I want to be dissolved in a strong base so I liquify and turn into a mash and the chemicals in my body become anything but what I used to be. More destructive than cremation. More fitting, I think.

I’m just at a point in my life where everything freaks me out. I used to just be afraid of slugs and snails. I still am, but now I’m afraid of my own fingernails and the things I’ll do if I’m left alone for any amount of time. Again I’m getting these images of tall buildings on a windy day and handfuls of pills and blood spilling out over my skin. I touch myself and feel like I’m not here. I shake but I’m not cold. I don’t know how to handle it.

I can’t talk anymore. I can’t breathe. I don’t remember the things I said to my mother when I was curled in a ball in my father’s chair. I didn’t recognize my house when I walked inside it. I’ve lost all sense of familiarity. I don’t know what to do in any situation. I don’t know whether I want to do drugs, try to be who I was last summer, or if I want to stay home and sleep until 3 PM every day.

I’m not the same person I was last year. No one here is going to recognize me. I’m no longer comfortable in myself. I’m no longer content with the present. I no longer feel like it’s worth it to come over to your house just to watch movies and drink soda. I’d rather be at home ripping my skin open.

Maybe I should be hospitalized. Maybe I should stay home next semester. Maybe I should spend the rest of my life coiled up inside of myself, waiting for the moment where I can spring free and leave the carcass that I inhabit. I can’t wait for the end of the day when I can lose consciousness and forget all the things I should be happy about, but which make me miserable.

I have to go take my medicines now.


I wonder if I ever helped anyone,

or if I’m right in thinking

that I wasn’t mean to get this far.

Maybe I was supposed to bleed out in the lake before half a decade separated me from my birth.

Maybe my neck was supposed to crack instead of my wrists, so often weak and useless,

a testament to the bag of bones they were tied to.

Maybe the fact that I can’t remember yesterday

means that it wasn’t supposed to happen to me.

I’ve always thought that it was brave to step out against the flighty temptress,

but now it seems like begging for oblivion.

The void approaches and sucks my words out of my chest like the thirsty pages craves the bleeding ink.

Everything is in slow motion and it makes my skin crawl until it ruptures;

it needs no help from the blade or my timid will.

Where does the storm go when it ends

and you look around to find the wreckage,

the  beached ships that settled in your sleep?


My parents always stared at me and asked me why I sighed so deeply when I said nothing was wrong.

I guess there’s just been a deep part of me that could never catch her breath,

who tried to fill the gaps between her lungs with cold air and salt.

I don’t know what it means to know yourself so well that you can see what you actually mean

when you’re writing.

I always end up being surprised by what comes out of my head.

I guess it’s because I never took the time to find out who I was.

But I know that I never wanted anyone to write about me.


You should have known by now

that your scars won’t fade to a

shiny, pearly white.

After all this time,

you’d think you’d remember

how they just cycle through

red and brown and

brown and red.

It’s never clean

or holy.

It’s either painful

or dirty.




I used to be able to draw blood

by simply dragging the sharp tip of a pen

over the fragile vulnerability of a soft white page.

It was beautiful.

It was poetic.

The bursts of wet color didn’t fade into browns

or sink back into my skin.

They were there when I needed them,

the scratches on the blank leaves,

the words, the words, the words,

but no one else could ever see them.

It doesn’t work like that

when you write lines of prose across your hips.

It doesn’t feel the same

when you drag your sharp pen over the mountains of your shoulders

and create ravines,


but permanent.

Because those are words I cannot take back.

And I can’t throw away the book they were written in.


Nothing is the same anymore.