Me and anti-depressants have had an on-going on-and-off-again relationship since I was 18. I was referred to a psychologist due to the overwhelming depression I experienced after my break-up with Travis. My parents were terribly concerned at my attitude and didn’t want me making an drastic decisions. At the time I thought I was bipolar but… It turned out to be depression. My friend, at the time, also went to the doctor and he thought he had depression but instead was diagnosed bipolar. What a fun little anecdote.
Lately I have been feeling like the problem. “It’s me. Hi! I’m the problem, it’s me.” My rage is making everyone around me uncomfortable and in the shower the other morning I had a thought that everyone would be better off if I were not around. I am not far enough gone that I didn’t silence the immediate mental reaction of, “Who would take care of Charlie?”
Taking the the “wake-up call” I started back on my medication. Again. The only way I’m tolerable to be around is if I am medicated. I have to just accept that fact. The back and forth serves no one. Resigning to this truth is the only way. I just fight it so hard.
The reason I stopped them back in mid-October was because in all the places we travelled my husband would want to drink. While taking Lexapro I cannot drink. It immediately takes all the medication coursing through my veins and throws it in the trash. The brother-husband suggested I keep taking it anyway, but why would I take medicine that I will immediately eliminate from my system. Why not just stop taking the drugs?
At least this time I stopped taking them because I can’t do “fun” things while on them. It wasn’t because they made me feel numb or lifeless, which has been my complaint in the past. Also, the previous medications took away my “manic” and I quite enjoy the rush of energy from my mania.
“I have this thing where I get older just never wiser.”
Not to abruptly switch gears, but I am convinced this song is actually about Trump, with some overlap to Taylor Swift. The middle chorus where she talks about “sexy babies” and how she’s an ugly monster standing on a hill references her aging in an industry that praises and is hyperfocused on “sexy babies.” Lately I feel like this is my personal anthem. I seem to make everything worse. Deliberately or otherwise.
At times I just want to disappear and start again somewhere else.
It is a good thing to realize that more often than not we are the cause of our own frustrations. Once we realize that we can fix it and move on. Lacking any self-awareness is a major hinderance is growth. On the flip side, taking to heart that you’re the problem can have severely negative results. Thus… medication.
I’m sad that this band didn’t have any other hits after this one. The whole album is incredible and I fail to find a song that doesn’t rock or hit an emotional nerve.
The first time I heard “Typical” was by a “dedication” from my husband to me. This song climbed to popularity (on our local radio station) on the heels of yet another one of Charlie’s and my break-ups. However, this time was different. We may have “broken-up” but we continued to live together, sleep in the same bed, etc… Basically we created the life we have now. Except we were “broken-up.” My husband chose this route because he didn’t want to do an “open relationship.” He and I were of the same mind, at the time, and thought that those types of relationships were beneath us. They were stereotypically gay and we weren’t the norm. (Yet ever the typical fags…)
During this time the idea was for me to work on myself. I had cheated on him repeatedly over the three year relationship. I was meant to take this time to reflect and figure out if I wanted us to stay together or not. It was also at this time when I entered into the SAA program as part of “working on myself.”
Despite societal belief that it isn’t a real addiction, I firmly believe that it is. It’s received such a negative perception because it appears to have been used as justification for the infidelity of high profile celebrities. While the validity of that assumption can go either way, I tend to think there is truth in it.
For most addicts they have to go to a source to get their high. They have to drink, smoke, shoot, snort, and eat their demons. While sex addiction is an obsession over the chemical rush that forever resides in our brains. That overpowering sense of euphoria that fills our bodies from head to toe after ejaculation. Sometimes it’s purely the heightened state of mind that one may get caught or the danger of the action itself. In those cases it may be more of an “adrenaline junky” than sex addiction. Either way… these are substances we don’t have to go anywhere to abuse. We have it at the ready on a moments notice.
To this day I use sex as a way of coping. Whenever I feel disgusting about my body image or self-worth I head to some cruising spot or use the apps to find someone to want me, because at that moment I sure as shit don’t. Their approval gives me the go ahead to feel good about myself. And the reinforcement of the euphoric rush just rewards the behavior. Afterwards I feel nothing but shame and guilt in my actions and thus begins the addictive cycle.
For years I ran SAA meetings, after having the responsibility to find us a new location thrust upon me. I was invested. I had a few sponsors try and get me through the steps and even took on the responsibility sponsoring two people. However, I wasn’t what they needed. I have a more “it’s your responsibility not mine” approach to it. I will get one the info, be an anchor to keep one centered, or be a shoulder to cry on, but I will not be your parent. That is not my job. I also require people to be relatively self-aware and that isn’t something you cannot force someone into. You can’t even lead them to the it. They have to discover that on their own.
Even though I love my husband more than anything, I will be by his side until the very end, but this song is one that I use for emotional cutting. Even now… It’s one I can put on, as a joke to recount how someone one time called me a whore, but in reality it’s my way of harming myself. Because I am nothing more than a typical whore.
I think it doubly hurts because he has only ever “given” me one other song, and I derive so much worth and love from a song “dedication.” It’s truly bizarre.
It should be noted that at the same time as this song he gave me another one that… It encapsulates everything we had gone through at that time, and even still go through. It was so uplifting and beautiful for me and was the perfect balance that this song brought. “Typical” cut me down but “A Beautiful Mess” built me back up. To this day, if I’m alone, I will ugly cry to it.
At first listen it sounds like an insulting song, but it 1,000% is not. So, I will leave you with Jason Mraz.
I am a rage monster. There is no other way to describe it. At some point in my life I was told, or decided, that showing any emotion other than rage was a sign of weakness. So whatever I may be feeling I re-route into that. The one exception is whenever I feel happy. Yet, at times, even then it pops it’s head up.
My husband has expressed repeatedly that the only thing he wants for or from me is to find a healthy way in coping with my anger. And I genuinely try. I am very self-aware that my anger effects those around me. Trust. I am fully conscious of the mood shift around me, because then I become even more angry from the shame I feel ruining everyone’s time. And I won’t allow myself to feel shame, so it fuels the rage. It’s this horrible cycle that, once I am caught in the spiral, I cannot get myself out.
One of my healthy coping mechanisms is to go for a walk but most of the time I am trapped in situations that do not facilitate that type of exercise. More often than not my husband wouldn’t allow it anyway because his choice is to talk it out. Every time. I have mildly adapted to it, but when he’s constantly with the brother-husband who gets uncomfortable being around the uncontrollable anger, it makes it way worse.
It’s gotten increasingly worse since my mother passed. I attribute it’s meteoric rise to me not managing the emotions attached with that loss. What really messes with my head is that in the wake of her death I actually feel more relief than anything, which makes me feel like a fucking monster. Then that throws more fuel into the rage-fire.
I have a therapist that I speak with about every other week. I sit there and gab on-and-on about everything that’s happening but I’m usually not angry at 9 A.M. Rest is something that soothes the overwhelming emotions. So, the opportunity I have to discuss it is lost. I either forget and get so caught up in “getting current” that it is never addressed. In the very rare moments I have brought it up, he wants me to work on “exercising.” Girl… I love the therapy trope, but that isn’t an option for me. Once I get home after work I immediately jump into caring for my husband. Sneaking off to the gym for a quite “sesh” on the elliptical isn’t doable without relying on a brother-husband/part-time caretaker who is already frazzled.
When looking at how my life has played out the last three years, my anger is “justified.” At the very least, understood. However, how I choose to or choose not to handle it is not. I am a monster and I am making everyone’s life miserable. I feel like Tia Pepa in Encanto. I’m always a monsoon.
This isn’t anything new. Like I said, somewhere I learned this habit. I don’t know when or where, and I have tried to look. Regardless of it’s origin I have to stop. I just don’t know how.
Music is one outlet I work through emotions. It can be healthy, but other times it also devolves into self-harm. This song, Chop Suey, being one prime example.
This song ushered in my true goth phase. On the heels of my break-up with Sergio, I had gotten really close with my friend Greg. Really close. At school, I was a Junior and he was a freshman and I moved my lunch so I could hang out with him. When we weren’t at school we talked for hours on the phone every day. For spring-break he accompanied my parents and I to Lake Tahoe. At some point we took a trip to K-mart and I found this CD amongst the mess that was their music section. Little did I know that this would become my anthem for the next few months.
One afternoon, while my parents were out gambling, Greg and I ordered an adult movie on the tv and I ruined our friendship by taking it to a different place. (Blowsies for the nosey bitches.) That one action fucking ruined everything. (I bet that’s where my weirdness about friendships becoming sexual comes from…) The rest of the trip he was quiet as fuck. I knew then that he was having an identity crisis, but I didn’t know what to say to help him. When we got back from spring break he gave me a note, in between periods, that said he was a Christian and couldn’t hang out with me anymore. (He claims that it didn’t say that but… whatever.) I was devastated. I broke down in second period so much that they sent me to the office and they didn’t know what to do so they sent me home.
After that I was so filled with sadness that it re-routed into rage. I listened to this CD repeatedly. I sang/screamed along at the top of my lungs so frequently and with such fervor that I gave myself laryngitis. I may not have been a cutter, but I was definitely someone who self-harmed. I just did it in the gayest way possible, by singing.
Now whenever I feel copious amounts of these emotions I’ll put on this album and rock the fuck out. By the end I have exerted so much energy into the volume of my voice and all that entails that I am exhausted. And I am left with a sense of peace.
Until the moment I find a real-time habit, this will have to be my go-to. That and journaling. Nothing makes the feelings dissipate quite like writing/typing everything out.
My birthday was over a week ago, and even though nothing over the top occurred I still could not be bothered to write my post. Which is utterly stupid because I am falling way behind. At this point I need to write 10 to catch up and, ultimately, meet my goal. Can the bitch do it?
For my birthday I wanted to choose a song that didn’t particularly resonate with any memories, but instead was one that more or less represented me. But what is that track? I jokingly said (to myself) “Flag Pole Sitta” but… That is a song that represents two Joshes ago. Then I thought, maybe I’ll just choose a solid favorite, since it is my birthday, and then share some memorable birthdays throughout my life. But that wouldn’t have been very good. They lacked any real substance and would have just been snapshots. The real story is what had I felt in those moments? What was I thinking? For some I could recall but others, they were just mental images.
Instead I chose just one song that reminded me of my most memorable birthday. One that could not and will NEVER be topped. It’s impossible. Don’t even try.
I’m going to be honest, my birthdays are kind of shit. The problem is I build up these astronomical expectations for it to be something fantastic and ultimately it never happens. I blame Hollywood. I am near the point that I would rather it not even be celebrated at all, just to protect myself and (really) those around me. Every effort made in it is beautiful. And I am grateful, but I’m so fucked in the head that I think it should be something else and… I’m just an asshole. There is no other way to say it.
The one birthday that shall and will never be topped was in 2013.
After having been together for 10 years my husband finally agreed to follow through with our engagement and get married. I think he was hesitant because, while our life was good, we had been through rough waters many, many times before. Which one of these rapids, on the river of our relationship, was going to be so rough that it tosses one of us out of the boat?
Regardless of his fears, he agreed.
As a safety net to make sure he never forgot our anniversary, we decided to get married 3 days before my birthday.
This also happened in the same year that he had surprised me in March with my birthday present: a trip to London. Now our trip turned into a double-whammy. Birthday and honeymoon in one fell swoop.
It should be noted that I am an absolute anglophile. I love anything British, except the tories and the monarchy. Everything else is gold to me and has been since I was a kid. London has been the one place I have wanted to visit since I realized travel across oceans was possible.
The morning of our wedding at the LA courthouse there was an active shooter at LAX. Our hotel room was a suite just a block from the airport and we watched in real time as the cops went down the road, shutting everything down.
“Oh my god,” I said, “I hope this doesn’t delay our flight!”
The two of us got dressed up and headed to the courthouse. We were married and then back to the hotel, where we passively aggressively argued with each other about whether to wait at the hotel or walk to our terminal.
“The app doesn’t show that it has been cancelled,” I said, “And our gate is literally, right there.”
“Fine, fine, we’ll walk.”
We joined the stream of travelers heading, on foot, to the airport.
As it turned out, this was the right choice because we boarded our flight, on time, and made it to London.
I could not sleep on this 11 hour flight. I was wide awake. I was too excited to do it, even with a full Ambien.
We landed in the late afternoon, took the tube to our hotel next to the Gloucester Station and then tried our hardest not to go to sleep. My father-in-law had suggested this routine because it makes adjusting to the time change a little easier. And as the man had done MANY an international flight we took his advice. However, after not sleeping on the plane and the fact that it was dark by 5… Neither of us made it. We barely stayed awake at the restaurant we went to for dinner.
“Let’s just go to bed,” Charlie said.
This turned out to be one of the best decisions we made. Because we went to bed to early we both woke up at 5 a.m. As we were totally energized and didn’t want to waste our first real day in the room, we got dressed and decided to walk down Kensington Street.
In those silly questions people sometimes get asked, “What is the most memorable moment in your life,” this would be my answer.
In this enormous city, we were the only people on the road. It was absolutely silent and this fact astounded me. Granted, as I later learned, this is the more affluent part of London, which is why I was probably “taken” by it. We walked all the way from our hotel to Kensington Palace. The park was absolutely gorgeous in the sunrise light. The orange leaves seemed to catch fire in the suns rays.
It’s such a simple moment but for me it was… everything.
On my actual birthday we went to the “Experience Harry Potter” at Leavesden studios. We rode a double decker bus from the station to the lot. This was back when I was, also, a Potterphile. Y’know, before she doubled down on her transphobia. While I do still enjoy the products I have already paid for, I will not be doing so going forward. That’s the most political answer I can give. Those who have decided to trash their purchased items seems nonsensical. She already got that money. But to each their own.
Regardless, it was quite the treat. My husband wasn’t as happy with the experience. He had read so many reviews beforehand that he ruined it for himself.
We went back to our room afterwards and took a nap.
For the following week we had no solid plans. It was whatever we felt like doing in the moment. And seeing as how we had purchased the London Pass for our trip, they gave us a big book of things to do. And every day we were there we did something new. Even if we had allocated an entire month we wouldn’t have tapped the surface of the shit to do in the city.
For it being London it didn’t rain very much. It was certainly cloudy often, which is my favorite kind of weather.
Near the end of or trip, we were running out of things to do so, being the rock hound I am, we took a trip to a Chalk mine. It was billed as this spooky ghostly kind of tour but as it turned out the terror in the trip was the elbaorate maze of tunnels and the five foot tour guide with his coke bottle glasses.
“We’re being led by Mr. Magoo,” my husband said.
“We’re going to die down here.” I whispered back.
We went on this tour with one other couple, which is true to form. Most of the tours my husband and I have ever done it usually is just us. One time on the Queen Mary the tour guide acted as though we were part of a large group the entire time. “Does he see more people here than just us?” I had whispered to Charlie.
In the chalk mine we learned that the only historical significance was that it was a hideaway for families escaping the blitz during WWII. Otherwise all of the creepy tales were mostly fabricated, much to the disappointment of the other couple. They had watched a ghost program the other night and wanted to see it for themselves.
There was one moment where this small man abandoned us around the bend, extinguished his kerosene lantern, and then banged a loud metal drum. He walked back up to us, in pitch black, talking and all I could think about at the time was the hobbit. “Riddles in the dark.”
The reason I chose the song above is because it was playing everywhere we went. That is no exaggeration. At the time I was not really a fan of this song, so it stuck-the-fuck-out. By the end of the trip, I thought it’d be easier to join them and I fell in love with it. Now whenever I hear it that entire trip comes flooding back to me.
The Journal of a Jaded Josh 