Spectacular- mark lee

mark never intended on getting bit by a spider on his was home in the subway, he also never intended on saving you from falling in front of the moving train car either. it was all just some sort of sick coincidence. mark had never believed in super powers, yeah what he saw on TV and comics book was cool but it was never realistic. ‘someone just can’t magically change over night’ he thought to himself all the time.

that was, until it happened to him. after his little run in with you he went home and took a nap, shook up a bit on how well his grip on your jacket was, almost like his hands were stuck to you. ‘crazy...’ he chuckled drifting off to sleep. when he woke up his found his upper part of he bunk covered in spider webs.

“ew” he said quietly trying not to wake his roommate haechan up. ‘maybe if hyuck would be a cleaner we wouldn’t have this issue’ mark struggled to sit up something making him stick to his bed. he flopped all around his bed, webs confining his arms to the bed. he finally broke one and somehow tripped off of his bunk. he prepared for his body to hit the ground but something caught him. a string of webs wrapped around his ankle and attached the top bunk. he was confused, but he was mostly relieved. “mark?....” haechan opened his eyes wondering why he saw his roommate dangling from what seemed to be the ceiling. with that the web snapped causing mark to fall on his head.

“dude...” haechan observed mark like he was some foreign species. “did you do that?” he pointed to the the webs covering marks bunk. “n-no!?!?” mark looked at the younger boy like he was out of his mind “do i look like a spider to you?” haechan stared at him for a long minute. “...there’s a fucking web growing out of your wrist right now....”

“HUH?” mark flung his hand somewhere, flinching in a way. haechan grunted loudly his head banging aganist the wall. his body was taped to the wall with one big web. “MARK” he yelled in amazement and extreme pain and discomfort. “I promise i didn’t do that....” mark didn’t know what to do with his hands, he stuck them in the pockets of his shorts fearing himself and what he’d do. haechan eventually broke free, examining the web pattern closely. He had a thing for spiders.

“this is completely unique...your webs have a little M in them. we should take to these y/n, you know shes a science freak” mark completely shut down at the thought of you seeing him shoot webs out of hands. what if you thought he was some kind of freak? “THATS NOT AN OPTIO-“ then you walked into their dorm room, unannounced and unwarranted. “i heard my name from outside the hallway, why are you all so l—“ you were confused to see that mark was no where to be found. “uhhh?? i thought i heard marks voice”

“you di—“ haechan did a double take “oh haha, yeah we were on the phone he’s in the bathroom— he got stuck in the toilet”

haechan shoved you out the room nervously. “yeah so y/n, we’ll see you in class okay?” once you were successfully pushed out the room, mark was sitting with his legs crossed his head in his hands. “bro what the fuck was that?” haechan slammed the door and locked it. “what was what?”

“i don’t know your little disappearing ac— YOU CAN TURN INVISIBLE”

“haechan are you on drugs? you have to be on drugs only people with POWERS can do that and that’s not possible be—“

haechan clamped a hand over marks mouth.

“dude you’ve done the impossible for like 2 hours now, you have powers” the younger boy slid on his shoes and grabbed his jacket. “where are you going?” mark asked laying back down. “you mean where are WE going” he threw marks slides at his head.

“we’re gonna go see what you can do.”

mark and haechan went out to a abandoned parking lot. haechan was good at making something out of nothing figuratively and quite literally. “okay mark pick up that big ass tire over there” mark walked over to it, absentmindedly picking it up “this one?”

haechan pulled a clipboard out his backpack “okay superstrength...check”

after many trials and errors. mark and donghyuck found out that he was very agile, very fast, and very sticky. mark couldn’t go 3 seconds with out sticking to something.

as mark and haechan were walking back to the dorms, mark heard something his ears turned up as he looked around. “do you hear that?” mark pulled his hoodie up and walked a bit faster. “no what do you hear? is everything oka—“ mark took off running in the opposite direction past the parking lot, leaving his backpack and a confused Lee Donghyuck behind him.

mark turned the corner the feeling that was rushing through his body, it was more than adrenaline it was like an itch that so desperately needed to be scratched. he had to find out what that noise was. he found himself in the subway again. the same place his was now 24 hours ago. his head was now spinning the same place he was bitten now stinging more than ever.

his balance was off and his body felt weak. mark blinked harshly, the itch slowly fading away. but everything was fading away he slipped into darkness, passing out on the grimy new york subway floor.

“mark” a familiar voice called out to him. “yes y/n?” he responded, a swirl of neon colors surrounded him, his skin was no longer slightly tan it was neon red with some swirls of blue. he was still in the subway but it was empty. dead silent his own thoughts, and spiders the only things in the station. you were in the form a beautiful pink tarantula crawling all over marks body.

“you know what you have to do right?”

“what do i have to do?”

“save new york” you brushed against his cheek lovingly “save our friends, save me, and most of all” you had somehow reappeared in front of him crawling down from her own line of webs. “save yourself.”

“how do i do that?”

“22nd street my love”

mark heard that laugh he always loved to hear, then a sharp pain in his arm again.

“FUCK” he yelled when he woke up, surprised to see that it wasn’t the “pink tarantula” that hit him, but an IV going into the underside of his wrist.

“calm down mr.lee it’s okay, you had quite a scare there” a nurse rubbed his forehead “anything i can get you? some water? some juice you had a pretty bad panic attack there”

mark sighed

‘how am i supposed to save new york with anxiety?’

☀︎☂︎☀︎☂︎

“hyuck” mark said as they walked home from the hospital. “yeah?” he responded taking one of his headphones out his ear. “have you ever been to 22nd street?” haechan shrugged “yeah i’ve been by there, it’s nothing but some apartments...why?”

“i think we have to go there”

that piqued haechan interest, not in a good way though. “you’re not tired i mean...i know you have super stamina but you just had such a bad anxiety attack you passed out” he blinked “i don’t see how you’re not exhausted, fuck— even IM exhausted” mark shrugged and walked in the other direction in hopes to catch a bus, “you coming?”

“so am i like your agent or something” haechan said smacking on the lunchable from his backpack loudly, so loud that mark couldn’t even hear himself think. between the homeless people, the bucket drum line, haechan obnoxious chewing, mark couldn’t hear himself think. “OKAY JUST SHUT UP” he snapped, all attention on him. “oh— uh not you guys i—“ mark quickly became flustered looking at haechan for some help. “OH— uhhh, my friend here has a disorder. sorry about that” haechan rubbed mark on the back, watching as heads turned back to what the were doing. “thank god” mark sighed in relief as they reached their stop. “i feel something...” the same ringing in his ears was back, becoming quieter as he walked in different directions dragging haechan in zigzags along with him

finally, mark and haechan arrived at their “destination”. all it appeared to be was just a regular apartment building. “what the fuck?” mark huffed slamming his fists aganist the wall, accidentally triggering something.

the small alley way they were in between revealed a door, the two boys looked at each other in pure amazement as they jumped through. “what is this?” mark said in awe staring down the walls. “don’t touch anything” an older man said swatting his hand away “you’re the new guy?” he looked mark up and down “the standards must be in hell”

“hi nice to meet you too!” mark sarcastically said. “i didn’t ask.” the man simply replied. “follow me though.” the boys did as they were told. “i believe that we were all put on this earth for one reason, to wreck havoc and help when havoc wrecks things” the older man laughed at his own terrible joke. “that’s why some people their genetic code is different, they’re products of some very expensive experiments, and my favorite” he chuckled “wrong place right time”

“so where do i fall?” mark wondered out loud. “the third one sweetheart” the older man bent down into a mini fridge and got out something to drink. “so basically what i’m saying kid.” he slurped it loudly in marks ears “help when havoc wrecks, whenever it does”with the snap of fingers, haechan and mark were back home and mark was dressed in a red and blue spandax suit. a black spider embroidered on the chest. “bro? you look—“ mark raised a brow, thinking he was still in his regular clothes. “you look like an actual superhero!” haechan danced around the room. “i do?” he stepped infront of the mirror “oh— I DO”

“what should i call myself. tarantula boy?—no too weird spider boy? no too immature”

“spider-man” haechan suggested

“spider-man...” mark said to himself in the mirror.

“i guess i’m spider man...”

Hey, this is important if you care about me.

I’m leaving. I know I’ve been joking about it forever, but I really am going this time. This blog will still be here, because I can’t bring myself to delete it. (anditalsomeansicancomebackifiimmediatelyregretmydecision) I may log back in to look at it every so often, but this is the end. I’m not posting here anymore. Oh, and my discord won’t be around for much longer either. If that’s all you care about, feel free to leave. The rest of this is just emotional bullshit. And it’s long.

I joined tumblr in 2017 to follow some of the blogs that were posting good shit about Markiplier and Jacksepticeye. My anxiety disorder was wildly out of control, and my lovely genetics were just about to kick me in the ass with depression to follow it. I was also, at this point, a bit of a religious fanatic with no education on anything outside of conservative protestant beliefs. I had never felt more alone.

Within a few months, I was part of something. It started with @cosmicsnowcryptid back when she was still theowlandthefinch and me sending super cringey asks under a pseudonym, because I was hurting and I didn’t know what to do about it. And then came the CYM discord server. It’s been emotional for me, because I’m weird like that, seeing it grow from the three chapters of My Mistake to what it’s going to become, and I’m so proud of everyone involved. One of my biggest regrets is not engaging with the development of the game, and then promising I would, and immediately dropping off the face of the earth again. To any of you that this may have inconvenienced in any way, I really sincerely apologize. No one deserved that.

For a while, in this community, I felt like I’d finally been accepted and free. I learned that I’m asexual, I stopped denying that I’m attracted to all sorts of genders, and I’m finally starting to accept that I’m not cis. And I’m grateful for that. To anyone who ever helped me through that horrible period in my life where I didn’t know anything about the world or myself, and my brain was completely fucking me over, thank you so much. From the bottom of my heart. Even if we barely ever talked. Thank you.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and my bad habit of not keeping things in my head and grossly oversharing came back to bite me. I alienated myself from the friends I made, if any of you would still consider me a friend, if you ever did. I never felt like I belonged (which is no one’s fault), so I left. 

Allow me one last moment of divulging things you don’t want or need to know before I vanish into the void that is the internet: I never felt like I deserved to be treated the way I was. I was negative, annoying, pushy, and probably toxic, in some ways. And still you all kept reassuring me. You told me I was okay, even when I was so sure I wasn’t. I didn’t deserve that. So instead I ran away, and tried to convince myself you would forget, even if it hurt. When I felt alone again, I wanted to come back, but every time I was about to, I would worry myself into a near panic attack, because I was so sure you wouldn’t want me. Not with all I did and all the time I’d been gone. This is, of course, my own head, and my own fault. No one should feel guilty for this.

So I’m alone again, and that’s whatever. I’m used to it. Seriously, I know this sounds sad, and like I’m trying to get attention or some shit, but I mean it. It’s not a big deal. Still, my presence on tumblr and in these communities is… obsolete. I don’t need to be here. I hate my url, I hate the name I chose, I hate that I was still identifying as female when I started this blog, and I hate the mark I’ve left. Between all that mess and the simple fact that my blog is full of horrible cringe and the confusion of all the names I’ve ever gone by, it’s time for this to end.

If you care at all, I will still be around. I run another blog that I’ve had for a while now, and it’s not that difficult to find if you want to. But I’m not linking it. I don’t want to carry the identity from this blog to the next one. If you see me around, however, know that I probably miss you, and I probably still check your blog from time to time just to see what’s up. Even if we weren’t mutuals. I’m a sentimental person, and closing this chapter of my story, and the first time I ever put myself out into the world, is a bit of a painful moment for me. But it’s time.

Thank you for everything.

Long post ahead about the beginning of recovery. I don’t really expect anyone to read this but it feels so good to put this into words. I’m actually crying like a normal, emotionally stable person for the first time in three years.

Actually having professional confirmation and a diagnosis of something I’ve suspected about myself for years has been such a relief I can’t even put it into words. I’m finally prescribed and taking a medication that’s showing results and for the first time in thirteen years, I feel like I’m a fundamentally valuable and likable person. All it took was finally getting a psychiatrist that gives a damn about her patients, after five years of fighting for the diagnosis of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.

Four different psychiatrists have told me a variation of, “I think we need to focus on your emotional instability and your sleep before we start testing for ADHD. Not to mention the medications could be a dangerous combination with your panic disorder.”

Joke’s on you Dr. Reddy! Joke’s on you Dr. Falola! And all the rest of you! Turns out ADHD was the root cause of my panic disorder and subsequent depression! Something I knew for years and couldn’t get anyone to believe me about! What a concept, a doctor listening to your concerns and testing you for something you believe you may have. All these years, genetic testing I couldn’t afford, “trying out” seventeen different antidepressants, antipsychotics, lithium, benzodiazepines, how is that not more harmful than an Adderall or A Ritalin prescription? What do you think all of those years of withdrawals from those extremely potent and barely understood medications have done to my brain’s chemistry? All over a controlled substance. All over your DEA number. All over covering your ass because of the potential for abuse.

Anyway, apparently shit gets better. I actually talked to my professors for this upcoming semester about disability services accommodations and didn’t feel like an idiot and didn’t feel worthless the whole time. My words matter; what I say matters. I can clean my house and my car without getting overwhelmed. Simple tasks no longer take up a day’s worth of energy.

Thanks Dr. Hadley. Really. I can’t sing your praises enough. Maybe this is what the beginning of mental recovery feels like. Maybe mental recovery feels like being able to accomplish basic tasks, or maybe it feels like being able to cry real, actual tears after years of not being able to. Except they’re not even bad tears, I’m just so happy that I can’t stop it.

No matter how much I try not to think about this, it constantly pokes at me until I explode and Im really not in the mood to have another panic attack.

I had to make a day trip to the next city over to pick something up from my mom because she was just making my life harder by keeping it. So I asked my sister to grab it and hold onto it that way I could get home and grab it from her and not have to interact with my mom at all. Because if I did I was gonna explode on her and that wouldnt help either of us. Yet somehow, from me telling her Im not in the mood to talk and I'm on a strict time schedule (since I did just have to leave in the middle of school to catch 3 buses down here because you couldnt keep your word) She managed to make a whole issue out of it. She played the victim and made me out to be the bad guy and even though I didnt say anything, she would not could not let up. I was a block away when she called my phone to go on her classic spiel about how I'm such a bad child and she has feelings and blah blah blah. Now you may need a little more context if you're still not on my side here. Just know that I have repeatedly told her that I was struggling in school, mentally, and physically each day that I waited for her to send me that thing that she was supposed to have sent me a month ago. So when I got to the house and looked at her going, "how have you been daughter I missed you let's sit and chat" with a cheeky ass smile on her face as if I came home for a fun weekend getaway on a random Monday evening without telling her first... I really couldn't give less of a shit how she was feeling about the way I acted. But oh no, she can't just give her speech without a fight because even again, as I stood with the phone a foot away from my ear, silently letting her ramble on, she felt that she still didnt get the last word. Third times a charm! She hung up on me and then proceeded to text me to criticize my life choices.

I SAID NOTHING TO HER. To avoid conflict. And she managed to take that silence and retaliate. This is why I regress in her presence. There is never a day of peace. I can never just exist because she will always find a way to make me the problem. And if I react, I'm disgraceful and if I don't react, I'm rude and ignorant. And this is why now I have a hard time regulating my emotions. This is why I can so easily blame her for this stupid disorder. I don't care what genetics or psychology says. I want her to know that I spend most of my time wanting to die because of her. So that she may never know peace the way that I have continuously had to live.

TW: mentions of suic!de, ED, mental illnesses

a couple of weeks ago i laid in my moms arms crying and told her that i wanted to die.

yeah.

it wasn’t just because of my “friends” - ive had my fair share of unrelated mental health struggles, too. i’ve had diagnosed clinical depression since 7th grade, severe seasonal affective disorder (literally who named it S.A.D. why couldn’t have u called it seasonal depressive disorder), general anxiety disorder, ADHD (without hyperactivity, previously called ADD), panic disorder, anorexia nerviosa, and i have dealt with psychosis. lol yeah there’s quite the list there - and all of it is genetic. well, ok, events in my life and my upbringing have definitely brought them to the forefront at certain times, caused them to start, cause me to relapse, etc. my eating disorder is an exception because it was caused by my mom’s own toxic views towards food that she unknowingly and accidentally pushed onto me. i’ve recovered now and have learned to have a much healthier relationship with food - and have realized just how much my mom’s personal issues were projected onto me as a kid. if i’m sure my upbringing also had a major role in my anxiety disorder - my mom can also be a very anxious and overwhelming person. All in all, the disorders i have are also just coded in my DNA but external factors also played a role.

anyway, i digress about my family issues - imma do a whole post for that. i’m medicated for my anxiety/panic disorder so i haven’t had issues with that in a while, so what really has been affecting me recently is the depression and seasonal depression combo. it sucks ass. like winter is just such an ass time. not having daylight and being cold as shit constantly doesn’t encourage wanting to live and with the depression on top of it man i never stood a mf chance. my recent suicidal-ness was a combination of a mean-girl-induced identity crisis and personal mental health struggles. i mentioned in my last post that i now hate the person i was when i was friends with them. ok, yknow what imma give them some fake names cause being vague is just so unnatural. let’s call the 2 main offenders Diane & Ally. Not sure why those names came to mind but imma just roll with it.

The person i became with Diane & Ally was so lazy, unmotivated, stuck-up, and judgemental. I don’t want to go into a ton of details about them and rant because i’m trying to get them off my mind and in my past. But i will say that they are the most unmotivated, lazy, and judgemental people i’ve ever met. They do not have goals, they don’t care about getting into college, they treat school like it’s nothing. They expect everything to fall at their feet like they’re the main characters in a fucking netflix show. All they do is smoke weed and lay on their beds and talk shit together - no joke. They’re so quick to judge other people for having interests different than theirs or “tryharding” in school. Yea, ok... i’d rather be a try hard then peak in high school. I fell into their patterns when i was friends with them. i stopped being able to think about my future. i couldn’t see myself past college living a life, i had no goals, no dreams, no work ethic, nothing. yes, of course my mental health issues also played into this, but they definitely added fuel to the fire. so much fuel. fucking kerosine.

The person i became was also just not me. i was never once myself around them. it took the space between us for me to realize how disengenuous i was being to myself and my true personality. i am a positive person. i like to make people laugh. i like to have real, deep conversations - there’s nothing better in the world than having a good ass conversation with someone. i hate awkwardness and not being comfortable around people but for some reason i kept making excuses for the way i felt with them. i felt like a fish out of water and i was pretending to be someone i wasn’t. what i’ve realized is that they are not the people for me. they are not the right friends for me. and now i have to work on being okay with that.

I always prided myself on being above getting caught up in high school social hierarchy, but looking from a birdseye view, i made all these excuses for Diane and Ally (and the 3 other people that are kind of included in this group) because they’re popular. they throw parties (horrible parties, but still parties). people know them as the popular group. why the fuck did i care? why the fuck do i still care? this is the kinda self reflection i was talking about in my last post. i’m such a people pleaser and i want everyone to like me so much that i forced myself into this friend group that i cant stand to be around. they have the personalities of a fucking doorknob. What i’ve really realized from all of this is that i need to learn to be okay on my own. i need to be learn to be happy alone. i need to recognize that i am enough and i don’t need to rely on other people for happiness. i need to fucking love myself dude. i haven’t in so long. i wanted to die because i hated who i had become so much. this is why i’ve been trying to get more into spirituality and the law of attraction and all that shit. i’m gonna post updates on here on how that’s going but so far so good. i’m relearning how to love myself!!! yes!! aight that’s all i’ve got for now

-lilia

RECOVERY POST (long)

I am trying to recover.

I’ll tell you one thing: it’s very hard. On the one hand I feel strong for wanting to actually take care of my body and beating out disordered thoughts with rationality. On the other hand, I feel weak because I don’t feel like I got “bad enough to recover” (which I’m rationally aware is not a thing, you can recover at any stage of your disorder, even if you haven’t lost any weight). Plus, going from about 500-800 calories a day to 1200 a day (which I’m aware is still restricting, but it’s a lot better than it was and Rome wasn’t built in a day) feels like so much and sometimes I feel guilty about it.

I’ve been trying to stay off of tumblr for a little while because I’m trying not to trigger myself. However, I wanted to get some things out there. Just some baby steps I’ve been taking towards recovery on my own (I’ve told max 3 people I’m anorexic and have received no help so I’ve had to do this alone).

1. I stopped weighing myself every day. This has honestly been really difficult. I still get a lot of anxiety when I don’t immediately wake up, pee, and step on the scale. It’s scary to not know how much you weigh. It’s scary to change something that feels so fundamental about your routine, but I have slowly gotten used to it. Now I’m only weighing myself on Sundays and doing body checks once a month.

2. I upped my calories. I obviously mentioned this earlier, but i have started to slowly up my calorie intake and have managed to go from about 500 to 1200 a day. Some days I still eat below 1200, but this is a learning experience and there will obviously be hard days. Just the other day, I built up a meal plan for the following day, thinking “Yeah, that’s a good, normal amount of food.” Then I looked at the calories and noticed the whole day was only about 230 calories. I’ve had to shake a lot of things off and adjust myself to eating more. Honestly, my body has thanked me for eating breakfast again. I no longer feel dead by the time I get out of class. 

3. I started exercising in a non-taxing way. Basically, I’ve stopped doing HIIT workouts that completely kick my ass and overwhelm me physically. I’ve started to do yoga a bit more than I used to and have started walking more than sprinting. I understand that while my body is in recovery, I can’t actively try to destroy it. I don’t want to hear the rattle my lungs make after 300 jumping jacks anymore. I don’t burn off every single calorie anymore, and it’s been hard convincing myself that it’s not the end of the world, but it really isn’t.

4. I am still trying to lose weight. This isn’t really about steps to recovery, but it’s something I wanted to talk about. I am only about halfway through the weight loss I want. I still want that. I just don’t want to go about it in a way that will kill me and has been ruining my life for years. Here’s the truth: I still feel fat. I’m still overweight. I still want to get to my ugw. But I don’t think I could enjoy being skinny if I were still having panic attacks about chocolate (news flash: the disorder doesn’t go away once you‘re skinny). I still do things just because they’ll make me lose weight (i.e. drink green tea, walk nonstop around the first floor of my house to max out my step counter, pretending almonds taste good and aren’t only useful in chocolate and non-dairy milk, etc.). That doesn’t mean I’m not trying, it means I’m not where I want to be yet.

5. I haven't stopped fasting. Okay, bear with me here. I 100% do not recommend fasting for anyone ever. I know I shouldn’t be doing it at all. However, eating disorders don’t just go away when you start doing yoga and eat a bowl of Lucky Charms without calling it a binge. I have severely decreased my fasting time and how much I do it, though. I now longer do 48 hour fasts. I no longer do more than 2 fasts in a month (my mom suffers from hypothyroid and I read that fasting for 24+ hours more than twice a month can lead to irreversible thyroid problems. I’m already genetically susceptible and that honestly really scared me). I am hoping that eventually I will be able to stop fasting altogether.

So there’s that. If anyone actually bothered to read all this, bless you and I really hope you can get to a place where you’re ready for recovery too. If any of you see me reblogging thinspo, don’t be too concerned. I find it motivating and thus far, I’ve noticed it’s not triggering for me, so I will continue to look at it. Anyway, blessed be and thanks for hearing me about while I ramble about recovery and how it’s really hard (but hecka worth it, y’all).

Man I see so many people talking explicitly about their mental illnesses and I just, holy fuck.

I wish I was brave enough to post this onto instagram or facebook but…

My name is Sophia and I am Mentally Ill.

Which, if you’ve been following me for any amount of time, I’m sure you know. But. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I’ve had anxiety for pretty much my whole life. I didn’t really understand what it was when I was small, but I would replay bad memories over and over again in my head, and I remember it keeping me up at night. I learned to repress those memories, and that kind of set up my main “coping” mechanism, which turned out to be super fucking problematic because now I inherently repress my anxiety, which makes it about a million times worse. Panic/Anxiety attacks (man I still don’t know the difference) are less common now, but when I was Dealing (not dealing) with my anxiety, they would be fairly frequent. I remember there was a time in my life where I couldn’t go two days without an attack. Those were fun times. If you’re curious on how a panic attack looks (at least, my panic attacks), then feel free to read this. My anxiety is deliberating as heck. It’s made me fail my driver’s test three times, which is still something I’m still struggling with. It keeps me from being productive, it ruins my self esteem, and generally it just stalls me. I over-analyze, over-rationalize, and scrutinize when I shouldn’t. I get paranoid about irrational things, I vividly imagine other people’s despair and are incredibly senstive to certain issues because of it. I essentially overthink myself into a incoherent mess. My symptoms also make it hard for me to reach out to people; I literally stop experiencing things when I'm having an attack. I can't see, I can't think, I can't hear, I can't feel. It immobilizes me, and I am rendered physically unable to talk or walk. It's hard to reach out to a friend when you're literally unable to speak. The repression as a coping mechanism makes it worse, because I don’t stop thinking about whatever is making me anxious. It just festers in my mind, and comes back to hit me later, harder, and at a time I don’t expect it.  As of right now, I don’t really have any good coping mechanisms, which has made me reliant on other people. I’ve been trying to deal with it more now, obviously, but I still have issues with codependency, which is also awful, but a seperate thing from my mental illness. 

The anxiety I have is genetic, my dad has anxiety, which was passed down to me. It’s a purely biological thing. My PTSD though, wasn’t. 

I guess the short of this is that I suffer from PTSD because my cousin sexually abused me for three years of my life. Between the ages of 14-17, accumulating to an attempted rape. I don’t really care to go into detail about how that happened, because I feel like it’s unnecessary? But, that happened. And holy heck, PTSD is shit. It’s worse than GAD, in my opinion. 

The most prevalent symptom when it comes to PTSD is the nightmares. You relieve your experience, or something equivalent to it. The nightmares are intense, vivid, and violent. They usually wake me up at odd hours of the night, and I send chains and chains of texts to my friends freaking out about it. There was one time I woke up from a nightmare, having direct panic attack, which was fun. 

But it’s not always violent. Sometimes PTSD means being inherently afraid of boys, which I was for a while. It means not being able to talk to boys, because you’re afraid they’re just trying to chat you up to use you for your body. It means not being able to participate or listen to a conversation concerning sex, or just, being triggered easily in general. Sometimes I can’t even see sex mentioned in a book; I have to put it down and take a break from it. It also means being sensitive to things that relate to your direct issue, which for me, was domestic abuse. Domestic abuse fucks me the fuck up. There’s a lot of sensitivity, when it comes to PTSD. When people find out, they treat you differently. Like you’re a walking landmine, waiting to be triggered.  

Having PTSD also means a ton of panic attacks. I had to take abstain from sex with my then-boyfriend for a full year because it was so bad. We would be having consensual sex when out of nowhere I would shut down, start crying, and have a panic attack. It’s awful. 

There’s also so much guilt. The idea of being broken, hating yourself for not being “correct”, being worried that you’re going to hurt other people because you’re broken, never wanting another relationship because you’re afraid of subjecting yourself to others. Being scared of having sex again, being afraid that you can’t have sex again, because you’re broken. Not being able to have sex, not being able to masturbate, not being able to even accept the fact that you’re thirsty because you’re so senstiive…

It sucks.

It’s not as bad as it was before. I’ve healed a lot since then. But it’s one of those things that you think you’re over, but it comes back to bite you in the ass. “Surprise bitch, i bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.” 

I wish there was a happy ending to this story. That I can say that even though it’s hard, it’s worth it, or something. But the truth is, it isn’t. It’s shit. It’s really, really shit. And I think the main reason why it’s been so hard is because I never really understood what mental illness was until this year? Or really realized that I had it? When you live with a condition your whole life, you see it as normal. It wasn’t until last year (2016) that I finally admitted to myself that I was mentally ill. It’s been an uphill battle, and it’s hard. It’s really, really hard. Especially because I can’t afford drugs or therapy, it’s been really fucking hard. But I’ve grown a lot, because of it. I’ve learned a lot, dealing with it. I’ve been able to connect with others, because of it.

It was hard… writing this. Admitting this not only to myself, but to you guys. 

I hope this helps someone. I hope this inspires someone to talk about their own mental illness. It helps, even though it hurts, and it’s hard. 

Mental illness doesn’t get better. But, you do. You become better, and you learn to cope with it. 

Old writing, trying to save in case I need it again some day.

I posted this last night, but ended up removing it because I was scared. Frankly, I still am scared. Stigmas hurt, and I'm terrified of my own friends looking at me differently. Fortunately, a few of my friends talked me in to going through with it, since I hate hiding things from people, and the battles I faced this year played an enormous role in my life.

I'd planned on writing about the entire year, but that fell through pretty quickly as I realized just how strenuous of a task that would be. Not to mention, this fight has by far been my most important task this year, and its more than worthy of its own writing.

I figured since its a new year, I'd write a reflection of the best and worst year of my life; 2016. A bit of backstory to set up this writing; Addiction runs in my family, and through my blood as well. I fell deeply in love with alcohol at 14, when I had my first drink. Little did I know, genetic alcoholism was in my genes. This story takes place 5 years later, after a progressive battle against my addiction. My story of 2016 begins quite differently than most people would imagine. It was not grand, or splendid. It was not happy, or filled with love. It was not hope, or celebrating a new year. It was hell. I have no other word for it. It was drinking alone, in my room, from the time that I woke up (usually 3-4 PM) until 9 AM. It was over a liter of whiskey per day diet. It was buying liquor by the gallon, convinced this would be the last time. It was screaming at myself and crying as I drove to the liquor store, not even an hour after waking up out of alcohol, disregarding my last attempt to quit. It was black outs, vomiting, and crying on the bathroom floor. It was staying up as late as I could, until I inevitably drank enough to pass out, so I wouldn't have to be alone with my own thoughts. It was the absolute worst depression of my life. It was isolation to the extreme. It was suicide notes and cries for help, falling on deaf ears. It was praying to a god I didn't believe in to end my life, to free me of the suffering I was going through. This was how I lived from November 1st of 2015 until February 9th of 2016. Over four months of the worst misery you could imagine. Until the fateful day of February 8th. I was heading to Lansing to hang out with a Fetlife friend of mine I'd never met before. It was fun, but generally uneventful. The twist of fate was that while I was gone, my dad took advantage of my absence to tear apart my room. My parents had known I'd struggled with drinking for awhile, ever since I'd blacked out on our porch, returning home on my 16th birthday. However, throughout those four months, I'd somehow managed to convince them I was completely sober. Though trust was a bit of an issue between us, as back then I told so many lives that I'd forgotten the truth, and they began to doubt me. I had this gut feeling on the way back to Livonia that this would happen. I sped home, anxious as ever loving shit, trying to beat the clock, but knowing deep down it was too late. I arrived at home. The doors were locked, the lights were off. My dad greeted me at the front door. I could already tell what had happened. I'd seen the disappointment and fear in his face. No words were said. The silence was unbearable. He escorted me to my room. I knew what to expect; we'd been through this before. As I walked through the door, I was greeted by a terrifying sight, yet not one that was unfamiliar. The middle of my room was covered in liquor bottles. Not fifths, but half gallons. I'd had a hard time disposing of bottles, so I'd stashed them around my room in various hiding places, until I'd inevitably have time to sneak them all out of the house. There must have been around 30 half gallons of whiskey lying around. I don't remember much after this; I was in a state of panic and shock. I'd been found out. I'd promised to quit before, but had never had any intentions of actually doing so. I felt that this time, things would be different. I knew what was coming; consequences. Lets skip forward a few days to February 14th, 2016. Yes, that's right; Valentine's Day. Most people spend their Valentine's Day with their partner(s). I spent it being admitted in to rehab. Symbolically, it was beautiful. After all, my four month bender had been triggered by the break up with my first love. I'd been unequipped to deal with it, severely mentally ill, and had planned this relapse in the back of my mind the whole time. I was young, immature, and stupid, and was looking for any excuse in the book to drink again, as an alcoholic often will. I wasn't sober during that relationship for myself; I was sober for him, because I knew if I drank, it would hurt him. Even knowing that, I had multiple relapses throughout the relationship, which I was too ashamed to tell him about. Had I not been busted days before, things would be much different today. I would surely have killed myself on Valentine's Day. I'd tried to drink myself to death a few weeks previously, chugging a fifth of Kraken to try and give myself alcohol poisoning. That had failed, but I know that next time I'd make sure I wouldn't. I was in rehab for 12 days, and they were... Different. Being sober for the first time in a long time felt weird. I had complex emotions for the first time in four months. Everything was too clear, to the point where it overstimulated me. My body was constantly shaking from the alcohol withdrawal, my mind was foggy, and my mood was up and down. The memories of rehab that stick out the most for me are probably the least interesting ones you would imagine. I remember looking in to the mirror. Looking in to my eyes, and seeing them looking back at me. I didn't recognize my own face. I didn't know anything about the stranger staring back at me. I didn't know who I was, or what I'd become. I saw the stranger staring back at me, the pain he was holding on to for so long etched on to his face. There were no secrets anymore. There was no trying to be strong. There was only surrender to what I'd been running from for so long. I knew I couldn't keep living like this. I was terrified, but I knew something had to change. The current date I'm writing this is January 3rd, 2017. I've been sober since February 9th of 2016. And in the time between then and now, a true miracle has happened. I beat all my mental illnesses; the depression, the anxiety, the eating disorders and body dysmorphia. I kicked addiction in the ass, and never turned back. I learned how to handle life on life's terms. Instead of fighting an uphill battle against destiny, I learned to go with the flow and accept things as they are. I learned about all of my emotions, which were at one time foreign to me, and how to handle them. I learned to have compassion for my fellow human again. I managed to become infinitely more selfless, and to think about others more often, instead of just myself. I discovered parts of myself that were locked away, and embraced they balance they brought in to my life. I made real friends who truly mean the world to me. I even managed to change the way I think. I've shared my story wide and far. I've directly and indirectly saved lives of those fighting the same demons as me. I've learned who that stranger looking back at me in the mirror was. I've learned to encourage them and watch them grow. I've learned to love them for who they are. I've watched this stranger grow at such an exponential rate, that people from their past no longer recognize them. I've seen him let go of his pain, and move onwards, no matter how tired he may have been. I've seen the life return to his eyes, and his smile return to his face. I've seen him enjoy life as he never has before. I've seen him cry tears of joy, even as he writes this. That stranger is a stranger no more. That stranger is me, and today I am proud of that face that looks back at me in the mirror.

On a final note, I'd like to take a moment to address something. I don't seem to be the type who'd fought a battle like this, and I hope that goes to show that just like mental illness, addiction can take a hold of anyone, regardless of age, gender, race, sexual orientation, education, social class, etc.. Unfortunately, as someone who has suffered from both addiction and mental illness, I can tell you that the stigmas against addiction are much, much worse than those against mental illness, which is why I try to fight against them. And just like with mental illness, help will always be available for those who suffer from addiction. I've kicked its ass, and so can you, no matter how hopeless it might seem.

Day Fifteen

“Hell Day.”

This is a term I use to describe my busiest day of the week; a term I’ve been using for at least four years. Conveniently, that’s about how long I’ve had my boyfriend, and he absolutely hates when I say this.

He’s right. I’m not helping anyone with this attitude. But damn, I have a really hard time keeping myself together during my hell day. This semester, it’s Tuesday, a day that I have class and work from 8:30am to 6:00pm with only a cumulative hour and fifteen minute break. That includes the time I have to eat. It’s a mess, but as I've clearly established, I have to make money.

I think today I’m going to take a look away from money and focus on schedule. Though the two are certainly intertwined (take yesterday, I was able to find a convenient way to go to the gym, but I needed money for it to work), schedule is also a major factor. 

On Hell Day, I don’t eat breakfast. I don’t ever eat breakfast during the week actually, because I can’t get up early enough. When sleepy Julia is given the choice between sleep and food, the answer is always sleep. Sometimes I try to bring a granola bar or a smoothie or something, but it’s never much, and I struggle with the common phenomenon of not being hungry in the morning. However, I almost always bring a drink. Not caffeinated though, because that would mess me up.

Then I take the bust from East Bank to St. Paul. I don’t know what it is, but the bus always makes me nauseous or anxious. Last year, I had one of my few panic attacks due to a mixture of caffeine, lack of sleep, and bus movements. That was the incident that showed me that I can’t handle those factors as well as my peers can. However, the bus is difficult for me.

Then I have a studio class for three hours. Three hours that early in the morning absolutely kicks my ass. Honestly, that makes sense, because I don’t feel like eating and I don’t have caffeine. I have absolutely nothing to burn for energy!

Then I have a fifteen minute break between that class and Design and its Discontents. Thats when I usually try to eat something I brought or buy something from the vending machine.

Design and its Discontents is usually fine. After that though, I have an hour to get lunch and commute to work on West Bank. The line for Subway in St. Paul AND West Bank is usually, I am not exaggerating, 20 people long. There is not enough time in an hour for that and a 30 minute bus ride. The non-Subway lunch items are usually gone by 1:00. If I bring my own food, it can’t be anything perishable, because it needs to sit for 5.5 hours before I have time to eat it. 

Then at work, I do my homework. I’d say that the 12 hours I work per week are 10 hours of homework and 2 hours of horror. The horror is when something goes wrong, like a missing camera or spilled lab chemistry. It’s a great job, especially because I have time to do homework, but it can definitely be stressful.

Then, I go home. I can go to a dining hall or make my own dinner. I crash and burn. I finish my homework and then watch YouTube on my boyfriends couch while he plays Fortnite. It’s the best part of the day.

I try to go to bed at 11:30pm so I can get 8 hours of sleep. I always go back to my room by 11:00pm, but despite being awake for 16 hours, I am magically awake! My energy is restored and it’s time to paint a portrait! I usually force myself to lay in bed anyway, take my anxiety medicine and pass out after it kicks in, because it makes me sleepy.

That’s Hell Day. It’s busy, but none of these things are hell. They are learning, earning money, and working toward a good life. But there is no way in Hell Day that I am going be able to eat healthy foods or get adequate exercise. There’s just no time. And my Hell Day is definitely not as busy as some peoples’ Hell Week. Convenient food is almost always unhealthy, less expensive, and the only option for someone living in the United States. And schedule is just one factor. Now add in no money. And a mood disorder. And a genetic disorder or a predisposition for obesity. Where are we now? And why is society so mad about it?

Red - TW: Did someone say...anxiety?

It's 12:30am, I'm sitting on the goddamn floor of my bathroom (why is it always fucking bathrooms?!?) trying to calm my nerves for some unidentified reason(s). I hear all these goddamn voices in my head right now. And I can't tell anyone but this shitty blog that no one ever reads because it's minuscule and it's my only outlet because I hope that SOMEWHERE out there there is SOMEBODY JUST LIKE ME and can give me some sort of advice. This is ridiculous.. I am ridiculous. I want to text my S.O. But we're really rocky right now and he's busy with his own stuff. I'm supposed to have an WSA but I'm poor as fuck and I work two jobs just so I can pay my shitty ass bills. My mother doesn't and won't accept my non-binary gender and likes to proclaim loudly that I'm her beautiful DAUGHTER and that I will always be her DAUGHTER. My sister just graduated college and everyone is super fucking proud of her (which they should be she worked her ass off) and I realized that in three years that will be ME and I have no idea what I want to do with my life. Does anyone else scream bloody murder in their head or is it just me? Does anyone else want to hurt themselves 24/7 because 1.) they think they deserve it and 2.) it's the only god damn thing they can control in their lives? I see my entire life flashing by me and I'm struggling to keep up with it. I feel farther and farther away from everyone and it sucks. How the hell am I supposed to do this whole overseas study abroad thing if I can barely stand being a day away from home? Where the fuck is home? I'm getting fatter and fatter each and everyday and NO IM NOT PREGNANT I just can't stop eating like the fat pig I am. I had to go jean shopping AGAIN because all of my pants had fucking holes in the inner sides because of my disgusting thunder thighs. I can feel the pounds weighing me down and that's just my old ED reminding me it still exists and will always be there for me when I'm losing control. I hate eating. I wish I didn't have to fucking do it. God knows how many people would love to see me drop back to a size 12 instead of a size 16. Fuck me. I feel like there's so much I have to do but I don't even know what. I have a doctors appointment (because my 19 year old body is messed up) and I might have to get surgery THAT I CANNOT AFFORD. I have to work two jobs because I need the money, even if I have a hardass boss that will push me around (literally). I have to resolve my fear of alcohol problem soon or else my S.O will leave me..(he says he won't but we all know that's a goddamn lie. There are plenty of other perfect candidates out there that don't have so many mental health issues like myself.) I need more jeans and shoes that aren't falling apart but I only have $13 in my name after almost every paycheck because bills and gas and shit. And above all, i need more sleep but if anyone has read this shitty vent blog, they know that I RARELY sleep even with my medication. No rest for the fucking wicked. I want to reach out. I want to talk to people and ask. I want to be able to have a peaceful night with no nightmares or no bad thoughts. Just ONCE. But I'm afraid. I'm so afraid. I'm afraid of people, of pain, of interaction, of change, of solitude, and the worst: failure. I don't want pity. I don't want to be judged. I don't want to be called an "attention whore" or a "basket case". I don't want to have friends that only pity me. I want something that is real. Because this is real. And it is terrifying. Life is terrifying. I want to feel safe. But I will never feel safe until the fucker that ruined my childhood is put behind bars. I want to feel loved without feel guilty. I want to feel confident and powerful. I want to feel like I'm wanted and not a burden for once. I just want to be stable. I just want to be normal... I think I'm going to just sit on my bathroom floor and wait for the panic to pass. Maybe just listen to the fan overhead and the clock ticking. Try to zone out for a bit. I'm really good at day dreaming.. And for those who don't know (or don't care but who gives a shit, it's my fucking vent blog), I have 4 different mental health disorders, 5 including my EDNOS. -Panic Disorder -Generalized Anxiety Disorder -Post Traumatic Stress Disorder -Major Depressive Disorder (genetic) On top of that, I also have dyslexia and ADHD, plus the reoccurring insomnia. I am a whole mess of problems. That's why I don't expect to have many friends or hold a relationship (even though we've been together for 4 years) or to really succeed in life. Yes I've been hospitalized. Yes I'm on medication. Yes I have a psychiatrist. Yes I'm in therapy. My childhood was anything but easy. It could have been worse but it could have been way, way better. And because of what happened, it controls almost every aspect of my fucking life. I hate it. I hate it so fucking much. I hate myself so fucking much. I'm weak. Pathetic. A nuisance.. I should probably go before I get too riled up. I need to detox for a bit.

all this talk about beautiful princesses with disorders but which one of you is gonna buy me zoloft. princess needs his ssris