The Ugly Truth of Me

Editor's Note: Might be graphic, about my depression. No sex here, so skip it if you're just looking to get off...

This is a really hard post for me to write. And I could just as easily not write it and skip over it like it doesn't exist. Except for the fact that it's consuming my thoughts lately and starting to take over too much of my life.

I "ran away" Thursday afternoon, though no where far as I just couldn't justify hotel expenses, even if it was for my sanity.

I hate the fall because I always get depressed in the fall. Some years aren't as bad, but this year is the hardest since high school. High school was the worst. And I really do hate feeling like I'm 15 again.

But it's the kind of depression where I wake up at noon, eat breakfast and go back to bed an hour or two later to sleep some more. Where dragging myself to class takes every ounce of energy I have. And then I have to find more just to be around my roommates. And the kind of depression where I cry for hours at a time about nothing and everything. The kind where after 2 years of not doing it, I've again taken a blade to my skin to try and release the tension in my body.

And it's really hard to be depressed when you live with 4 energetic girls.

So I left. I skipped class, my favorite one even, art history, and quickly packed my vodka, my Hawthorne, and art supplies and vibrator. (Hey I might as well masturbate when I have some alone time!)

I stopped at the art store and picked up some supplies I needed and headed to where I knew I could be alone.

First thing I did when I arrived, was nap. And it was a good nap. In a nice big comfy bed. Not like in my hard, bunk bed in the dorm.

And then I mastrubated. And not the quick, get it done before people come back like in my dorm.

I then stopped at the library to check my e-mail to make sure no one was looking for me and get some art books.

After I had my dinner, I sat down to create.

Except, I realized, hey, I have never studied drawing or painting and thus have absolutely no skill. And even though I checked out 100 books, I just couldn't teach myself.

And with my lower level of frustration, I promptly teared up. And I fell to the floor and cried. I sobbed. My body shook as the tears rolled down my cheeks onto the floor. After what felt like forever, I picked myself up, wiped my face and blew my nose and proceeded to paint. Abstract forms. A little bit easier.

But the sadness was still eating away at me. As I sat on the couch, listening to my iPod, I knew I needed to do it again. Cut. And I cried because no matter how much I did, it wasn't enough. It wasn't deep enough.

I didn't think there were more tears left in me, but there were. And as I cried for another hour, I prayed to God for help. Asking Him to make it stop hurting. I went to get tissues from the bathroom but found myself rummaging through the medicine cabinet. I pulled every pill bottle off the shelf and examined them, what they were, how many pills were in the bottles. I calculated in my head if it'd be enough. Because I knew from past experience it takes a good amount.

And I freaked. I fell to the floor, against the bathtub, and cried even harder. I wished I wasn't alone because I was so scared. I wanted Jefferson or Mitzi or just anyone at that moment. I grabbed my phone, and texted Mitzi, but it was late and I didn't get a response. She was already in bed, I knew that. But I had reached bottom and didn't know who else to turn to.

I eventually calmed myself down, and laid in bed, careful to not lay on my fresh wounds. And I contemplated running away. Really running away. What it would take to make a new life. Change my name, my past, my future. But I know I still be haunted by everything I left behind. No matter how far I ran. And of course we can't know for sure what happens to us on the other side.

So I came back early. Besides being bored with no TV or computer, I couldn't stand to be alone with my thoughts for another night.

So, this is me. This is a very real part of me. Not so pretty, is it...