Free writing exercise from a previous class which I dropped out of after the first two weeks. Thus, it was never submitted. September 2022.

Note before getting into it— I was at a really low point in my life, and it clearly shows through my writing. It might’ve even been one of the lowest points. Read at your own discretion. (TW Suicide, ed)

Stream of Consciousness #1

What on Earth am I even writing? I haven’t decided yet. I believe I struggle with that, making choices that is. I’ve had a lot of proof that that is the case as of late. I couldn’t make up my mind about what I wanted to do with my life until I had already started down a path to a completely different life. There was a time when I believed I was going to be a doctor, hell, maybe I still will be. There’s a deep desire of mine to be useful; that desire has shown up continuously in my relationships with others. If I am sitting idle, not somehow serving them, I feel restless. Perhaps serving them is how I serve myself. Maybe that’s the reason why, even though I changed fields completely, I went into art. It is, what I believe to be, important and helpful to others. Not just towards the artist themself, though there is an aspect of self indulgence and release in the practice of making art. Have too many emotions? Paint something expressive. Can’t help but repeat the same scenarios in your head? Write about them. Just as I am doing now. I didn’t even realize these words were floating around in my head before I started writing them. We all need release. I am extremely hungover as I am writing this; both literally (in the physical sense) and emotionally. Discussing what was on my mind after weeks of letting it fester with the individual my mind was focused on was frightening, yet it was also a necessary release. I want him to like me even though I don’t know if that’s even possible when I already hate myself. Therapy has only just started and the prospect of being normal terrifies me. If I am constantly having these thoughts, plagued by these feelings and she considers me normal, then what’s the point of suffering?

Stream of Consciousness #2

Today was a rather mixed bag; I almost died, but I should get to that later as it merely capped off my day. When I awoke this morning at six thirty in the morning, I could already tell I was not ready for the day. The day, however, was awaiting me with its gloved fists, taunting me. Or maybe it was waiting in an alley way, perfectly content in waiting until I walked by its dark and shadowy residence. 

The night previous I had barely any sleep, as is common for me these days- according to my brand new therapist, you can’t sleep if you don’t eat. But I don’t have an appetite either, so that problem isn’t going to be righting itself anytime soon. Needless to say, the drive was quite… demanding. The highway, you know how it is.

Upon arriving at school, I beelined for a Tim Hortons- this was on Sheridan campus, just for reference— and prayed that the line would move quickly. It moved just fast enough for me to arrive at the photography room to a few rows of full seats and expectant eyes. I’m aware that those eyes were not judging, but were merely looking to the source of the noise. Which was obviously me.

Class ends, I see my friend and we chat about how she’s depressed. And I love her so dearly that I was prepared to fight the world just for her to feel better. But that’s not for me to tell. 

Another class, but that was more relieving than anything— possibly my win for the day? I’m actually not as shit at something as I was so distressed believing I was. Which… was relieving, as I already mentioned. 

But then, I could tell something was wrong with my body. Something has always been wrong with my body but no one seems to be able to figure out what it is. Every time I have a concern I have to go through a myriad of doctors just for them to figure out what is actually wrong with me— following numerous misdiagnoses of course. Celiac disease, for example, was my last issue. Or perhaps it was my longest issue— my always issue. And even though my blood work showed that I clearly had it, my doctor denied and denied. Though, I don’t think I can trust him after he nearly killed my mother. I don’t know if I can trust any doctors, or any tests because they can always be false negatives or positives. Either way, it’s frightening. 

I was stuck in my car, waiting in a queue that never actually indicated how long I was waiting; one minute I was behind five people, the next I was behind seven. It continued like that for at least an hour, though the hour could’ve been more frustratingly boring— I managed to sneak in a quick Timmies break (more tea, my jet fuel) and a home depot run I needed for that relieving class I had earlier in the day— so instead, it was just boring. I believe I bawled my eyes out in my car just out of sheer annoyance and frustration at one point. It’s always embarrassing to feel emotion as you’re convinced that you’re just a privileged fuck who lives in a world where things could be worse for you. Then you try the things you were taught and therapy and remind yourself that you’re not exactly neurotypical, and then you cry again. I’m reminded of Sylvia Plath’s the Bell Jar in moments like that and I don’t know if that’s self awareness or quite the opposite. I only tried to kill myself a few times, and they were barely attempts so who am I to compare.

Oddly enough, the doctor very quickly gave me requisitions, and I’m planning on going to get the tests done tomorrow. Small victories?

When I was driving home, slightly less stressed than I was when I was heading out that morning, somewhere between nine and ten hours earlier that day, I called my sibling. Why not ask the film person if they’d like to assist in my photography practice. They suggested we go downtown, and I think I’m okay with being dragged places in my newest way of being. I was dragged everywhere for a month in spain but I believe that is a story for another time as I have something far more urgent to write.

We took some photos, though I was quickly reminded of why most people avoid taking photos at night, especially beginners. How dull my photos were! How boring, and how little colour and contrast they showed! 

Feeling a bit defeated, we went to Sweaty Betty’s and had a drink. My camera was zipped into its cloth coffin for the night, and would remain there for the rest of the day- I am technically writing this entry a day late, but only because it has become so late that it is the next morning.

On the way home, we were almost crushed by a garbage truck. There was oncoming traffic, and we could’ve easily died- so I say, but my sibling disagrees— and I screamed like a banshee. No, not a banshee, as that indicates sadness. I was something screaming with wrath— but I can’t remember what would do that. An Ork? The driver didn’t check their blind spot before moving over, and it is only thanks to my sibling’s evasive driving that the car, and us, remain unscathed. Definitely didn’t love the heart check. 

Life is fickle. It is so fickle that it is frightening. Yet so easy. I don’t think I want to kill myself, as I’ve tried that and it does nothing but inconvenience everything, and life is pretty nice. Don’t worry— there’s nothing to worry about. I need to eat. I need to sleep. Possibly the latter more urgently.

Stream of Consciousness #3

I will undoubtedly be writing slower today as I just got my nails done for the first time in a while; they are beautiful talons that make my hands appear even more slender and skeletal, however they come with the unfortunate side effect of being impractical. I’m only twenty for one year though, so, I will wear them as I please.

There’s something strange about taking blood from an anemic. I know that they need to do that to do tests and whatnot, but, my body is already struggling to produce enough red blood cells as it stands without my blood being harvested. I need the tests done though, which is frustrating.

I wish I remained lonely, if that makes any sense. Last year, for just about the whole year, I was alone. I would go to school in the morning— though that was only in the last few months of the year anyways, it was online before that for the most part— and then I would go to the grocery store or hardware store, what have you. And when I would get home, I was ignorant to how lonely I was because that’s just how it had been for many many days. Many weeks, and then many months. But now that I know what’s it like to be surrounded by people thanks to that trip to Spain, I find myself so dreadfully lonely if I’m not surrounded by people all the time. The funny thing about that is that I’m an introvert; I like people most of the time, and I’m pretty outgoing when I meet people I like, but I get so tired (unless that’s from the anemia). There’s nothing I want more than to just sit on a couch with a hot drink and show the people I love the things I like as I want them to experience as much joy as I do from them. 

The other issue with that is that the man I like doesn’t wish for us to last. It hurts so much but I know if I say that, things will end even sooner. What am I, a highschooler? It’s stupid and I know that it is, but I can’t help it. 

I have wondered how much of my feelings like that are due to my dopamine deficit. If I find something that can fill the holes in my head with the dopamine I lack, I latch on. It has also lead to me being the worst person to people sometimes. Once I’m “over” them, I become avoidant and run away. Or maybe I just show less enthusiasm than I did before, which is to say I show a “normal” amount of enthusiasm as I was practically glowing prior. They notice this, always. And I can’t tell them that literally nothing is wrong with our relationship, it’s just me. 

Maybe I’m attracted to pain like that. Attracted to the wrong people because deep down I want excitement? I have no way to know if that’s the case though; there’s always the chance that I’m overthinking it. 

Spain, right. 

When I went to Spain, I went for the purpose of gaining one full credit from one heavy course with the benefit of being in another country. What I was not expecting was to go clubbing, nearly get heatstroke every other day, and to meet interesting people who have certainly done some influence on me. Upon arrival in Spain, I hadn’t eaten anything for almost two days straight other than some disgusting frosted protein bar that likely shortened my life by a few years. There was nothing gluten free in any of the airports— the only gluten free options in the Pearson airport were closed for some inexplicable reason, and the restaurants in Munich were German, aka a lot of bread. My hands and lips trembled, my body was riddled and seized by cramps and I thought I was going to turn into a pile of mush. A high sugar can of Fanta was all that I had consumed, and luckily, it stopped the cold sweat of a sugar low— as I had seen my diabetic father experience every day of my known life with him.

When I got to my hotel, all I could see were the bugs that were waltzing around my room. The floor was a highspeed ant highway, and the curtains were some flying creatures nest. Hastily, I re-entered the forty degree desert world and bought myself a bottle of water the size of a toddler and a bag of carrots. Later that night, those two ingredients would be wretched from my system as I experienced a bout of possible food poisoning. That morning, against better judgement, I ate an egg from the buffet table. Now I say that as a celiac, buffet tables are horribly contaminated with gluten. Again, I wretched. But I didn’t have time to be sick; I had to go to the university dorms. 

The walk was hot, sticky, and the mask I was wearing only emphasized that and how ill I was. When I spoke to the onsite coordinator, I was antsy. Excited for the experience, but more so excited to collapse in bed and recover from whatever the hell plagued me. 

Unfortunately, the air conditioning was broken. And I’m sure baking like a potato was the last thing I needed for the illness. Heat stroke on top of food poisoning would’ve surely buried me.

Stream of Consciousness #4

I am absolutely overcome; I cannot cry, but when I look at the blue sky, or at my hands, or the stupid pavement with stupid ants trolling about, I want to. I just want to be able to break down into endless crying because I feel that empty inside. There are no tears. My life always feels like it is on the verge of being over. 

Sleep with the wrong people, befriend the wrong people, be made to feel worthless by them all. The worst part is that that’s how it’s been since I was a child. I made my first horrible friends in grade 3, because up until that point I had been bullied. Truth be told, I was still being relentlessly targeted, but at least someone was nice to me. But they weren’t nice to me, they were just too nice to not be polite. Then there was another person who I would be friends with until I was sixteen or seventeen who did everything in her power to make my life miserable. The worst thing is that I don’t think she meant to half the time, she just did. Another friend like that, and then another friend group. Obviously I’ve considered that I’m the problem, but I don’t know why or how. Is it because I connect with people differently than them? Because I get so worried they’ll bully me that I pretend to be someone else so that when they find out how broken and different I am that they isolate me completely? I don’t think I experience the world in the same way as others, and I don’t think I ever have. Still working on it.

Then came Martin— he goes, or hopefully went to (past tense) the same University as me— and I believed he was the only person who would ever love me. I was fifteen, he was eighteen; not too bad, I’d told myself. Though it’s very apparent now that he was an adult while I was barely matured at all. He would tell me he’d marry me, and I believed him. For a good while, I had wanted to marry him as well. But isn’t that what happens to every naive child when they finally date someone? 

We broke up, or rather, I broke up with him and he said “okay.” 

Then, a year later, I had found out through his most recent ex that he was bragging about cheating on me the entire time. Call that… painful? Life is a bitch? I can’t really describe how I felt in that moment.

And even since then, any person I talk to, I know they’re like him. I’m a delusional hopeless romantic who believes that the right person will come around, and we’ll commit to each other for the rest of our lives. Plenty of people have that, some of them even younger than me, so why do I keep getting used? Maybe I am just the problem— too hopeful, too delusional.

The writing today isn’t as quick as it was yesterday, or even the day before that; I think I’m just emotionally drained. Typing hurts, and my head and my body hurt. 

Even the monthly infections I would get never seemed to concern anyone; they would just be annoyed. 

I don’t think I’ve ever felt loved, and maybe that’s why I’m so disillusioned with it all. I can’t even imagine what love would feel like, not real love. I write stories about it, and I imagine it would be a sort of devotion, or maybe knowing that person better than you know yourself since that’s what I think about the people I love, but I really don’t know. It hurts. It really hurts. 

This is all so embarrassing to type out; this pity party on paper that I’ve created. If anyone reads this, please don’t think less of me for it. I’m really trying my best.

Why is it that everywhere I go and everything I do, I’m hated? What did I do? Am I just that different? Hideous to everyone around me? It hurts.

It really fucking hurts.

And I still haven’t really cried.

Stream of Consciousness #5

Today’s writing will most certainly be clunky, and it will most certainly be short. Upon starting this, I have just finished my first set of readings, and a reply, for my Critical Approaches to Literature course and I can already say with passion, and with confidence; I do not like literary theory. Sure, I’ve read the Allegory of the Cave and have dabbled in other philosophy, but often those ideas stem from witnessing acts in life, or the human condition. The papers that I’ve had to read today were specifically literary theories on other literary theories which stemmed from others’ writings. Personally, I’ve always preferred the more creative and less analytical approach to writing, and have often found myself wanting to scream when I’m locked up in my room with a twenty page essay that can’t seem to get over one specific sentence that someone else wrote in their own analytical essay. It is just too much for my brain to comprehend.

I’m pretty sure I’ve picked the right majors for myself— those being Art, Art history and English— but sometimes, when I have to do readings for an Art History course, an English course, or even write an artist statement on why I chose the colours that I did in one of my artworks, I want to slam my head against a table. I believe I just wasn’t meant to do work— which is a stupid notion that I regretted typing as I typed it. But, to be fair, were any of us really meant for work? It’s what makes society great or whatever, but do any of us really want to get up at six in the morning everyday for the rest of our lives, just to mash a keyboard for forty hours a week? I can’t say for certain, given I know there are some people out there who would rather be doing nothing else.

I love to write, and I know that that requires a lot of time and patience, often at a keyboard.

My phone just lit up with a text message, and it didn’t say what the message was or who sent it, so forgive me if my writing becomes even less interesting as that nags my mind. I hope it’s from the person I want it to be from, but it could be a service provider telling me a bill is due for all I know. I hate surprises— well, I actually hate bad surprises. If I was surprised with a new house, or a meal I would probably burst into happy tears. But I find so much of my life is dictated by bad surprises; wake up one day unable to move? Bad surprise. Find out your ex cheated on you? Bad surprise. There’s not a shred of doubt in my mind that I will wake up someday and be diagnosed with a terminal illness, just given my and my family’s medical history, and I’m frightened. Maybe just in the same way we’re all frightened to die, though. We know it’s coming, we just don’t know when. 

Another two text messages. I really wish I could look at my phone right now. Cursed homework.

Last night, I went to a club, and was reminded of how not straight I am. I know it’s wrong to generalize, but I find that a lot of straight people dress and act in certain ways; perhaps it stems from the privilege, or maybe they’ve just never had to look in the mirror and wonder why they experience the world differently from the majority of their peers.

I still haven’t told my parents that I’m bisexual, so deep down, I hope they already know it so that coming out won’t be as painful as telling them I had anorexia. It’s not that either of those things are secrets; being anorexic should’ve been more obvious to them than being bisexual, though I’m sure there’s occasional physical manifestations of my sexuality as well.

Had... the past tense was probably the wrong verb tense for anorexia. I’m nearly positive that it’s come back. There’s a possibility, no, a likelihood that it had been there the whole time, festering in my mind but suppressed by therapy and pressure to stop weighing people down with my mental health issues. Losing as much weight as I have in the past year has been good and bad; bad in the sense that I think I’m more worthy of love the thinner I get, good that sometimes the fact that I’m on my way to being grotesquely skinny means I feel closer to being loved. It will never be enough, of course, and I know that better than most. But it has gotten to the point where I have to force myself to eat, or I’m only reminded to consume something light when I can barely stand.

I mentioned how those who don’t eat, can’t sleep— as according to my therapist. Well, what does the human body do for energy when it can’t get any from rest, and it can’t get any from food? It sits still, it can’t even use the energy to shiver for heat as it begins to turn blue in the cold. And I always wonder why I feel ill.

But much like my sexuality, I am simply too busy to actually try to address it. That’s a lie. I’m going to therapy again.

I’m just worried that they’ll tell me to meditate or something as I cannot sit still and alone long enough with my thoughts to not implode.

Stream of Consciousness #6

The wind blows in the evening of the humid day, cooling the world down to a brisk grey. The cold asphalt at the train platform, bespeckled with stones of various shades, greets me like an old friend. Old, for there are plants that have taken over any crack to be found, they thrive in the cold and grey earth. 

The train can’t be seen through the dark fog that has fallen as the warm day turns to chilled night, but the sound of its wheels scraping against steel sounds out into the night. 

It’s the wrong train.

She stops and looks at the ground again, her time spent with her old friend continuing on longer than she had hoped. But wasn’t that any interaction with someone from your past? Maybe you barely spoke to that person, maybe you loved everything about them— it didn’t matter. They were a part of a different you. You hope, at least, that there’s no similarities, no seeds of sameness, between the you now and the you who was. 

The you who was was injured and small, weak and immature. Naive. 

Perhaps I’m thinking the present you is mature, you’re still naive. You were always told that you were too mature for your age— too mature. 

They were used as an insult for you while they were a compliment of intelligence and wisdom to others; you were boring, too anxious, too depressing. 

You remember the first time your depression ruined your relationships. You were sad, and shivered as you couldn’t find any warmth in the world, and they thought you were strange for it. They stopped talking to you, stopped inviting you to parties or hangouts. Worst of all was when you noticed this. 

You asked them why they did that, and they blamed everything about you. You were too negative, or they just didn’t understand why you couldn’t articulate your feelings. And you didn’t understand why you couldn’t either. 

The first therapist you went to didn’t actually think about your mind, they only seemed to care about your lungs. They told you to watch a triangle, and watch as a blue dot danced to each corner, greeting them with a hug and a “tick!” 

The train has arrived now, and the air smells like struck matchsticks. A horrid screech sounds through the air but you try to keep a straight face as your ears scream. 

When you take your whole life into consideration, you’re surprised you didn’t realize it sooner. And you’re angry that no one else realized it either. How were you supposed to know? You were a child who only heard people call each other the r slur from time to time as a joke. Who would’ve known it was about them. 

What was the first time you were called a spazz to your face? It was the first time since your depression diagnosis that you let loose. In grade seven, you went to a teammates house for a sleepover, and everyone was as gleeful as only children could be. And you wanted to be a child too, god forbid it. 

You smiled, laughed, and sipped up every ounce of joy that you could get your hands on. But just as you grasped it, white knuckled with determination, someone snatched it away. 

“Wow! You’re such a spazz!”

“Why are you such a spazz?”

From that moment on, you told yourself not to have fun. 

It would still come out with your family, of course, that uncontrollable joy. Anything that made you laugh made you so inconsolably happy that you forgot the task at hand. You were kicking a bag of beads around, and when someone cursed you couldn’t stop yourself, even as the bag dropped right beside you. It was fun for everyone, but not in the same way. They would be glad to see you happy, but they would also find some joy in watching the strange way you acted. How odd. 

You were told you were gifted, because you were, but that time has long passed. You used to obsess over projects, even though you’d only start them the day before they were due, to the point you’d neglect sleep and play. It was play to you. 

What happened to you when you received your first poor grade in math? It was second grade and you were doing a practice exam, and you just couldn’t figure out how to subtract two hundred and thirty five from three hundred and twenty two, and you ran out of the room crying. That’s what happens; they build you up, and watch as you decompose. 

The next time you did poorly in math you were in highschool, and your days of being gifted were already long gone. You just couldn’t grasp it. Why couldn’t you? 

Things slipped from your mind all the time, unless they were stupidly interesting. But nothing important ever seemed to stay. Why wouldn’t it. Why couldn’t it. No matter what you did, no matter how important. It was gone and you didn’t know why. 

What happened to you? 

What happened to us…