Maybe Change Is Not So Bad After All

A lot has changed since the last time I wrote. It is hard for me to believe that the last time I wrote anything was over a year ago, and prior to that, an additional year. I had once loved the idea of writing as an outlet for the depression that always lingered beneath the surface. The pain followed me, and at times engulfed me, like a shadow that was just there every second, of every minute, of every day, of every week, of every month, of every year. Even when it felt like I was at my highest highs, my conscience always found a way to drift towards the lowest lows. Quite frankly, it was draining. At times, my depression almost got the better of me, but I eventually learned to live with it, which I believe is a skill within itself. However, contrary to my previous posts, today’s touches upon the way that this past year and 3 months has transitioned my perspective on life to that of a place filled with love and happiness.

I used to wake up thinking everything would be easier if I was dead. After all, contrary to my facade, it always felt as if I already was.. or drowning, rather. Each passing day symbolized the pressure of growing up, and I dreaded it. I could be having the time of my life and without warning, my mind will wander to thoughts along the lines of, “I just want to go home,” “I just want to be alone,” and “None of this even matters.” It was as if my mind was punishing itself for having a shred of hope, and it was mentally draining to say the least. Rather than confiding in others about it, I chose to harbor it all, which ultimately caused more harm than improvement. At times, I found myself contemplating why I felt like this. To me, it seemed so simple, but to third parties, it seemed as if the idea was unfathomable. I was labeled as a “mental case” who needed help, even though to them, I looked “normal.” I gave up. I was tired of being labeled as someone who needed help when in actuality, I was able to comprehend how I felt just fine. I continued surrounding myself with just about anything and/or anyone in order to fill this inexplainable void. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that maybe I found solace in being alone, but never actually alone—if that makes sense. Years have gone by, and believe it or not, although I am the happiest I think I have ever been in my life, my mind still tends to drift to that all-too-familiar territory. I know now that I have too much to live for, too many people to live for, and most importantly, myself to live for.

I recently stumbled upon a video that touched upon yami kawaii—a growing Japanese subculture that focuses on imagery that correlates with darkness, pain, suicide, and depression overall. When one of the individuals in the video was asked why she was depressed and attempted to commit suicide, she answered, “the only cause I can think of is being born in the first place.” This one line resonated with me more than I could have imagined—it all made sense. The feeling of mutual understanding was uncannily refreshing. Truthfully speaking, I did not have a hard childhood whatsoever; however, somewhere along the path of adulthood, my mind drifted toward the idea(s) that yami kawaii embodies. To me, darkness represents unfamiliarity and uncertainty, and this eventually became a norm. However, I digress. The aforementioned path(s) that I followed led me to where and who I am today. 

We all have a goal that we one day hope to achieve. During an interview, I was asked what my goals were. I answered, “To be happy. We all have different goals and aspirations, and we are all driven by different things that motivate us to become a better person. Some people focus on finding their dream job, while others may focus on finding the love of their life. Ultimately, it all leads to being happy.” Personally, I have always found myself to be the latter. I always believed that finding someone that I could spend the rest of my life with took priority. It is one thing to be broke, but it is another to be broke and utterly.. alone. As Gabrielle Solis once said in Desperate Housewives, “I have been broke a lot of times in my life, but I have never been poor, because poor is just a state of mind.” As someone who has found themselves in debt more often than not, this line shattered me.. It made me realize that who you surround yourself with genuinely makes an impact. I had previously surrounded myself with individuals who were spoiled, materialistic, and downright snooty. At that point in time, I felt lost. It shifted my own mindset toward that of someone of their caliber, and it ultimately made things worse because it always made me feel like I was not good enough, nor would I ever be.

Looking back, there were countless times when I left myself exposed and vulnerable. I was put in scenarios that allowed me to be used and abused; however, at the end of the day, I justified this by telling myself it was all for love.. or the potential of, rather. Eventually, I learned to accept who I am because as someone who lived most of his life searching for love, I realized that the potential has been there all along. As cheesy as this may sound, love is a two-way street, and in order for me to find love, I had to learn to not only live for the idea of love, but love myself as well. How could I expect to find love when the thought of suicide was stronger than the thought of love? Being loved and nurtured is a fundamental part of growing up, and an important life lesson that I have lived by, from Moulin Rouge, is that “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return.” There has never been a point in my life where this related to the very core of my existence as it does at this very moment. Looking back, to a mere year and 3 months ago, I never would have expected, or even fathomed, myself to be so.. happy? Occasionally, my mind still tends to wander to that “all-too-familiar territory.” Yet, the ideas that I correlated with yami kawaii (darkness, pain, suicide, and depression) now offer a completely different meaning than before—in the sense that the pain of hurting the people I love outweighs the pain that I had previously endured. Many view yami kawaii as a twisted and grotesque subculture in Japanese fashion due to its illustrations (i.e. blood and needles), but this “sick” form of expression spreads awareness toward an issue that is often at times stigmatized and frowned upon. 

Looking back, things have changed. As previously stated, I had surrounded myself with individuals that were more or less toxic. It was upon that realization that I changed not them, but myself. My first post on this blog was 5 years ago, and since then, I have experienced my highest highs, and my lowest lows. I had tried to find my own identity through chasing after potential lovers, to the point where I let relationships ultimately define my happiness. Looking back—and yes, I know I have repeated “looking back,” and “love” multiple times—I realize that finding a guy like Kenny would have been close to impossible, considering I surrounded myself with individuals that made me feel less than what I am. I needed to find someone who made me feel invincible, flaws and all, rather than feeling broke, ugly, fat, etc. I am 26-years-old, in debt, and I may not have a job that utilizes my degree (yet), but I have the love of a lifetime that makes me feel like the only job I will ever need.. “is to love and be loved in return.” It took 5 years, but it got better, and it will continue to. 3 years ago, I posted that “it won’t get better—it never has been and it never will be. When it does manage to ‘get better’, I won’t be there.” When I was 19-years-old, I got a nautical star tattoo on the right side of my Adonis/Apollo’s belt (V line). Aside from its “skanky” aesthetics, the underlying meaning behind a nautical star is to ensure safe passage into the unfamiliar. California was the biggest step towards unfamiliarity and uncertainty, and I can honestly say that regardless of some of the hardships, I made it.. safely. I used to dread change because change meant progress, and progress meant continuing, but maybe change is not so bad after all.

Mental Illness, Depression, and Suicide: The World As I See It.

Disclaimer: I apologize in advance, for this post may be depressing af; however, if you have not yet noticed this similar/recurring pattern, that seems to be the theme of this blog. Firstly, I need people to understand that this post is NOT a cry for help. If anything, it is an outlet for me to express my ideas/thoughts on often-stigmatized issues, which are mental illness, depression, and suicide. As most may or may not have known, I am an individual who identifies as depressed; however, that does not mean that I am currently sad and/or unhappy. I am doing okay, everything is alright, life is good, but most importantly, I am NOT going to kill myself. This post aims to dispel the belief that just because someone is depressed, they are going to commit suicide; just because someone is suicidal, that does NOT necessarily mean they are automatically going to killing themselves; however, if they do, they should be remembered in a non-negative way (i.e. no finger-pointing, shaming, etc.). Read on to further understand my thoughts/personal experience with the topic presented.

Have you ever found yourself in a state of not being okay, but okay enough? Yeah? Well welcome to the club. It is a feeling that is almost indescribable, especially to those who are unable to comprehend the complexity of the feeling at hand. In addition, stigma often surrounds the ideologies that society deems as “negative.” It does not help anyone when society collectively classifies issues such as mental illness, depression, and suicide as things to be frowned upon and silenced. I recently stumbled upon a video on Facebook that spoke about suicide as a feeling rather than an action, and it spoke to me on so many levels. Just because someone is suicidal, that does not necessarily mean they are going to kill themselves; just because we think in a suicidal manner, that does not mean we are not normal. Your idea of “normal” could be completely different or opposite to another’s definition. Some people believe that individuals are born gay, while others believe that individuals encounter experiences that ultimately lead to the realization of their sexuality; this logic can apply to mental illness, depression, and suicide—in the sense that there really is no right or wrong because we all view things differently. And there is nothing wrong with that.

“It is okay to not be okay.” “It gets better.” These are two (clichéd) lines that, as an individual who identifies as LGBTQ, I have heard one too many times, and quite frankly, it is tiring and a complete load of bull. Personally speaking, when one dares to even mention feelings of suicide, they are usually bombarded with questions that seem more like prying, concerns that seem more like pity, and acknowledgement that seems more like judgment. We are viewed differently, when in actuality, this is normal to us. It is okay to not be okay, yet when mental illness, depression, and/or suicide is mentioned, we become individuals who need professional help. Just because one lives life on the opposite side of spectrum, that does not make the other individual any less normal—their mindset is just different, not wrong. To me, being “sad” and being “depressed” are two similar, yet completely different, things—one is a mood, while the other is a lifestyle. For as long as I can remember, I have identified as one who views the glass as half empty rather than half full. While sadness is capable of being overcame, depression cannot. One’s depression is something that cannot be understood, but rather, “relatable” through comparisons. And even then, it is inaccurate. There are many reasons as to why I feel saddened; however, I find myself stumbling when it comes to explaining why I am depressed. I just am.

Getting back to the issue at hand, “normal” individuals live life “happily”, experiencing occasional moments of sadness; whereas the “others”, such as myself, live life in a constant state of depression and experience occasional moments of happiness. I could be having a blast and suicidal simultaneously; displaying an optimistic demeanor when you are feeling at your best is easy enough, but doing so when you are having what feels like the worst day of your life is a skill within itself. Let it be known that this does not mean I am sad right now, nor am I expecting the typical, “Are you alright?” Yes, I am alright; as previously stated, I am okay enough. In the video I previously mentioned, it stated that it is years of torment, and I completely agree. For me, it has been a lifelong commitment, and to me, these feelings are normal. Different to me is when I actually find myself happy because more often than not, I find myself trying to recall the last time I was “happy”—I wanted to further clarify that to me, there is a difference between being happy and experiencing a fleeting moment of happiness. As aforementioned, my perspective and the way I think may be difficult to comprehend and interpret because we all think differently. Like Atticus explained to Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… until you climb in his skin and walk around in it.” Rather than being told that an individual is selfish for having suicidal thoughts, it would be nice if others took the time to sympathize and save their pity, discomfort, and close-mindedness to themselves. While suicidal often refers to the act of individuals killing themselves, not every individual who is depressed/suicidal kills themselves; rather, it can alternatively refer to individuals who subconsciously have the idea of it lingering. Though appealing, it is not definite.

It is important to keep in mind that not everyone is as openly vocal about mental illness, depression, and suicide. Even if an individual is, their idea(s) towards the topic at hand may differ compared to the next person’s. When shit hits the fan, you often hear things like, “I had no idea he was suicidal”, “He seemed so normal to me”, etc. Just because someone is suffering from a mental illness, depressed, and/or suicidal, that does not mean it will be visible to the world; there is no sign that reads, “I am going to kill myself!”, nor will there be any symptoms and/or clues. The sad truth is, life is not all rainbows, sunshines, and butterflies; but rather, it is dark clouds, nightfalls, and shattered illusions trapped in a cocoon of differences and unfamiliarity. The worst feeling in the world resembles that of vulnerability and helplessness—the inability of being able to control the metaphorical blueprint of scenarios that we once believed was “all figured out.” But that is life, and as clichéd as this may sound, you live and you learn.

In Need of Constant Ecstasy: “My”self

I’m in need of constant ecstasy—not literally, of course. I’m just lonely is all, but what’s new? Isn’t it normal for us to feel out of the loop some days more than others? Truthfully speaking, I spend almost every night, of every day, thinking about things that are better left unthought about; dreaming about remnants of a past time that is now a mere fantasy. There are nights when I get so lost in the hurt. I’m taken back to my youth—an 8-year-old Stephen glaring resentfully at the present day me. “I really let myself go, huh?” I don’t mean physically, I mean emotionally. I find myself reaching out, placing my tainted right hand—my dominant hand—upon the dirt-stained mirror. I wonder how it feels to be on the opposite side of reality. What if I was happy? What if I cared? “How do you expect me to care about you when I don’t even care about myself?” Maybe it’s the weather transitioning towards a gloomier state, but I’m really starting to feel the fall. That’s just it. I’m falling. My goals, my aspirations, my dreams, my joy; all that shit down the drain, burned, ashes remain. I remember being asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Who the fuck cares? It’s sad, really, when all I want to be is happy. I used to think that it will get better. Hell, I even had a blog post titled, “It Gets Better.” Bullshit. It won’t get better—it never has been and it never will be. When it does manage to “get better,” I won’t be there <- This isn’t a cry for help, nor is this a declaration to kill myself, it’s merely a soon-to-be mid-twenties gentleman venting about an often-stigmatized topic. Someone recently told me I need help; that I need to talk to someone. Does this count? After all, I am technically sharing my most vulnerable moments with those who actually bother reading about how/what I feel—and for that, I thank you. It’s been a little bit over two years since I started this blog. Not much has changed. I’m still romantically alone; I’m still sheltered; I’m still sad; I’m still me. These are growing pains that I’ve much come to recognize, accept, and embrace about “my”self. *sigh* I’m in need of constant ecstasy—not literally, of course. Happy two years.

The Cycle of Growth and Evolution: “It Gets Better”

Back when I was in high school, I came to the conclusion that I would not live long enough to grasp the meaning, the definition, of life and why it is I’m breathing. Honestly speaking, I never envisioned myself living this long, or in other words, I’m a survivor of suicidal thoughts and self-infliction. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t one of those kids who cut themselves and presented visible scars/open wounds of their actions to the world afterwards. After all, I was too much of a wuss and afraid of the pain that would’ve followed. I still cringe just imagining the pain they must have endured while showering; the sting they felt once the warm water came into contact with that said open wound. However, getting back on track, I’ll admit that I did engage in some risky, stupid, and hazardous activities, which could have been severely damaging to my physical and mental health.

Quoting one of my previous posts, “I was young and dumb.” I think it’s safe to assume that we’ve all had spurts of depression where we feel like it’s never going to get better. What starts off as depression branches off into so much more, affecting not only our behavior, but the root of the individual that we identify as today. For the most part, I believe that I have successfully mastered the art of concealing when it is I’m feeling depressed; however, every once in awhile, those close to me manage to see a crack in my façade. I remember going to my primary care physician and filling out a questionnaire, in regards to the mental health of adolescents. It consisted of questions such as: “Do you do drugs?” “How many hours of sleep do you receive on a daily basis?” “Are you happy?” “Do you wake up feeling happy?” Questions that I felt like were too vague to really acquire accurate results, but resonated with me to the very core of that void present within. I was diagnosed with depression, but never actually took the necessary requirements in order to get it treated.

I made my way through high school, known as one of the only openly gay students. I had to endure the ignorance of straight boys who believed that all gay guys wanted to fuck them, and girls who viewed me as their personal therapist because of my orientation. I had problems of my own, you know! It was suffocating, and at times, I found myself regretting the fact that I even came out in the first place. I had a few conflicts: some verbal disputes, and boys constantly making a mockery of my homosexuality by calling me faggot.

I was over it. One of the questions that constantly annoyed me was: “How do you know if you’re gay if you’ve never fucked a girl?” I remember in class when this upperclassman told me, “You need to feel the warmth of a woman,” in which I responded, “You need to feel the warmth of a man.” His response was the usual homophobic response. “Fuck you, faggot.” Don’t try to place your ideas on me and get offended when I do the same. But getting back to the point of this story, although I had a lot of friends during my high school year, I constantly found myself feeling lonely. Just because I utilized this “company” that was conveniently available to me, it didn’t actually matter if they were not capable of comprehending the internal turmoil that went through my head at the end of every day.

When I think back to high school, I am reminded of a conversation that I had with a counselor regarding these suicidal thoughts that I once carried, in which she told me that there was so much to live for, although it may not seem like it at the moment. I am reminded of a time when one of my ex-best friends and I made a pact that we would commit suicide together – messed up kids, huh? She attempted, survived, and I lost all interest after seeing her in the hospital. I was a pretty fucked up kid back in high school. Maybe it was the environment I was raised in, the societal pressures/expectations, that almost made me succumb to such measures, or maybe my weak sense of will is to blame. Either way, as aforementioned, I’m over it. I’m “kind of” happy now, at least, happier compared to the me back then. I’ve encountered breathtaking experiences and met multiple guys that I jokingly call the “love of my life.” I still find myself resenting my homosexuality at times, and wishing I was straight, but I’ve learned to be comfortable with the skin I’m in. I never did manage to grasp the meaning, the definition, of life and why it is I’m breathing, but at least I know that I will live long enough to figure it out. The cycle of growing and evolving into the person you’re meant to be is a step-by-step process, and as corny and clichéd as this may sound, “It gets better.”