Bangs

I believe I have, at this point, completely and utterly lost my fucking mind. But in a very different kind of way compared to the mind losing that I’m used to. These days, instead of the breakdown and collapsing onto the floor and crying, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel and have those feelings eviscerate my soul and grind it into whatever kind of fake wood my floor is made out of leaving me irrefutably and irreparably empty, alone, and hopeless, yeah now instead of that I have bangs. Fake bangs, but still. Still a breakdown? Oh for sure. Pretty sure bangs are the one most generally socially accepted manifestation of female identity crises. Preferable to the historical pattern? Most definitely. I haven’t cried in days. Actually, maybe it’s weeks now. It’s insane how much control your hormones and neurotransmitters have on the experience of whatever the fuck life is. Which is to say, yeah existence doesn’t seem so torturous anymore, life seems much more manageable and interesting, and the days don’t seem so impossibly long at all. Life as an experience seems to make more sense. The pieces of the world fit together in a way that I have been unable to understand for the past six or so years. Instead of the constantly looping I’m not here, I’m not here, I keep seeming to think I get it now, I get it now. Which is in itself an insane course of thinking. Because by conferring meaning, the drugs really only prove that there is none. Humans are just bags of chemicals, and my genetically dictated bag just sucked big time. But if the drugs really do make my bag a little more fun and a little less awful, hey, I’ll take it.

I keep trying to write about the end of last year. Trying to put into words the despair and desperation that led to me purchase (for a steal, by the way) a small bag of chemicals that would stop my hot mess of a bag from functioning. Trying to work out what exactly was going through my mind when I decided to ask for permission to die, as if that would let me do it without guilt. Kind of a big task. And clearly one that hasn’t been going super well. Honestly, I just don’t know how I can do it artfully, or tastefully. Everything that comes out, on a reread seems so incorrigibly kitschy and overdramatized and self aggrandizing. Woe is me, for my life totally doesn’t suck but for some reason I totally think it does. That’s not true. I never thought my life sucked. Just kind of thought that I sucked too much to be living.