Last night, I was drunk, and also going through a manic episode that ended in me being severely depressed afterwards. To the point that I stumbled my way through my apartment, looking up at the ceiling to see if I had anything; a hook or some sort of object strong enough to be able to support my body weight if I were to hang myself on it. And then when I couldn’t, I simply slumped back into my chair, crying, and dialed up the first friend I saw on Discord. I was at a point where if I didn’t have someone around, even if only in a digital capacity, I would have found a different way to hurt myself. I’m thankful she was there. Like I’ve said in previous posts, I don’t want to die, but I also have a brain that doesn’t want me to live.
I should probably explain myself a little better. Despite all my public blog posts saying otherwise, it should be plainly obvious to everyone that I never actually did get over a lot of terrible things that happened in 2015. The post-gamergate harassment and all the shit with alt-games. I still have nightmares about how close I came to losing my friend Hazel because of what those assholes did to her. It’s unforgivable. The fact that they’re still hurting people doesn’t help.
In addition to that, another one of my long-distance friends has more or less been driven offline. Yet another example of “if we call the problematic tranny a pedophile enough times, everyone will believe it, even if it’s total bullshit.” That shit happened to my friend Sarah years back, and there’s a reason why you haven’t seen or heard from her in a long time. And it sucks, and it’s unfair, that the only way to avoid something like that is to silence yourself and disappear. I didn’t fucking destroy my reputation and put my personal safety at risk for a group of ungrateful white feminists four years ago just to say that yeah, actually, the only way to avoid online harassment is to not be online. To never express yourself and have a voice.
My friends are disappearing for their own sakes, what’s left of my family is slowly dying, my girlfriend is currently laying in a hospital bed in the ER because of a medical condition. All this stress, and my own fucked up mental illness are keeping me from making things; work on all my projects has been super slow, and I hate it. I feel like I’m letting down all the people who support me monetarily. I can’t help but feel like I’m a massive failure. A failure as a person (because everyone hates me; do a quick Twitter search), a failure as a friend, a failure as a partner, a failure as an artist. Just in general, an absolute failure. If I can’t be me, and I also can’t help the people in my life, then what good am I?
My coping mechanism has been to drink, and yell and cry over the slightest inconvenience. I have completely lost control. Nobody ever wants to feel helpless and powerless, and that’s all I feel anymore. My one constant companion is my own internal voice, helpfully reminding me that I’m horrible, and have always been horrible, and that the entire world is justified in its outright hatred of me.
And it’s blasphemous for me to say, as someone who is compelled to always be “on,” but maybe I should be “off” for a while. That I should take a break. I mean, yeah, I’m currently completely useless and unable to do anything of any worth, but it would probably be so much worse if I did something stupid and weren’t even physically around to be useless. I’m tired. I’m tired of crying in front of my friends because I had another PTSD flashback. I’m tired of being mad. I’m tired of being reminded of the past. I’m tired of everyone I care about being in pain. I’m simply tired of all this bullshit. The fact that I straight up planned to kill myself last night should be a testament to that.
So, I think, I should maybe go away for a while. Limit what I do online. Change my real life routine. It’s hard to move on when you’re constantly being given a daily reminder of what you’re trying to move on from. As someone who watches a lot of wrestling “shoot” interviews, I don’t want to end up like Bret Hart having to talk about the Montreal Screwjob twenty years after it happened. I’d like to go back to being happy, or at least as happy as a bipolar tranny freak can be.