WARNING: It’s rant time!
Everyone has had to deal with someone that seems to have absolutely no heart at all, whether directly, or indirectly. The jerks who laugh at things that are far from funny, things people can’t control, things that hinder every day life. You’ve either seen it, or you’ve had it happen to you. These bastards don’t understand how detrimental it is on us to be made fun of for our ailments, almost like they want to make it worse. Whether you’ve been a victim, or a witness to a victim, I’m sure most of you reading this will understand where I’m coming from, and that my frustration is justified. Here are my own personal experiences dealing with the literal shit of human society.
If you’ve been keeping up with me at all, you’ll know that I suffer from a mental illness known as Manic Depression, AKA Bipolar Disorder. If you don’t know what it is, it’s a depression disorder that greatly affects our moods, but it’s not just “mood swings.” You have your manic episodes, or “happy” episodes, and your depressed episodes. Manic episodes might not sound so bad. Large bursts of energy fill us with optimism, makes us determined and motivated, and life is full of puppies, flowers, rainbows, and candy.
It’s not all that fun. At all. In fact, it’s just as much of a road block as the depression episodes. While experiencing mania or hypermania, we may seem like the happiest person in the whole wide world, but our minds are both going a mile a minute, and remaining completely blank at the same time. Now, everyone is different, so symptoms may differ from person to person, but these are the things that I experience. I basically turn into a hyperactive child, bouncing around, not properly listening to people who are talking to me, I get easily distracted, and if someone is trying to be serious, it’s nothing but a joke to me. Obnoxious, loud, spontaneous… and reckless.
Having a manic episode is still dangerous. I have indeed participated in self mutilation while seemingly completely happy. The problem is, I’m not really aware that I’m doing it. It just… happens. The X on my hip was caused by one of these instances. During the episode, I don’t really seem to care, but other people definitely do. They ask, “why did you do this to yourself?” Do you know what I say? Something completely off topic, because I avoid the question. For me, my manic episodes last significantly shorter than my depression ones do, though they used to last longer when I was younger. When I was nineteen, I had one that lasted about three months. I had some long ones in my senior year of high school too.
Oh, it gets better. How does one come out of these episodes? Oh, well, IF ANY TINY LITTLE THING GOES WRONG, I’m brought spiraling down into an extremely deep depression. Doesn’t that sound fun? Oh yeah, it’s a fucking blast.
My depression episodes last a very long time, months on end. My brain takes anything bad, even the smallest thing, and reacts like it’s the end of the fucking world. I have no motivation, no determination, no appetite, and no energy. When I say no motivation, I mean not even enough motivation to watch a movie or play a video game. I lay in bed, staring at my wall, and listening to my thoughts. Oh, this is the greatest part; MY THOUGHTS. They run wild, literally nothing can silence them. I don’t hear voices, but I might as well, I can’t control what they say, I can’t stop them, and I can’t tell them they’re wrong. They say things like, “I’m worthless,” “I’m hopeless,” “no one cares about me,” “mommy didn’t love me,” “my life has no meaning,” and “I want to kill myself.” These are things I do not think while in my right state of mind. And you know what? I believe them.
You’d be lucky to get me to talk while in a “mild” depression episode, or even move for that matter. If I start to talk, you’ll know that things are gradually going downhill. If I start crying, I’m starting to have an attack. Oh, the attacks are the most fun, but I’ve only heard about them, because I don’t remember them. A few people have seen these attacks, but Sempai and Michael have seen them more than anyone, and they’ve provided me with the details that utterly horrified me. In fact, both have said, “you become a different person.”
Even when mildly depressed, I, again, turn into a child. If someone tries to gently grab me, I’ll yank away with a whiny grunt. I will pout, I will dead weight so no one can move me, I’ll refuse to look at anyone, and also refuse the much needed help. When the attacks happen, according to what my loved ones have told me, I’m like a child throwing a tantrum, except I’m dangerous. I have come very close to killing myself multiple times, but have succeeded in collecting a large amount of self inflicted scars on my body during my life. Also remember that I was not medicated until I was twenty, so when I was a teenager, my hormones made my depression even more unbearable.
I’m not just a danger to myself, though. I get violent both toward me, and the people around me. I’ve never tried to kill anyone, but I’ve left huge scratch marks on people that took quite some time to fade, and even bit Michael a few times. Luckily, he is much stronger than me, so he is able to hold me down. This doesn’t stop the screaming, however. Like I said, I am throwing a tantrum. I scream as if I were being murdered, my sobbing doesn’t stop, I fight every single fucking step of the way, and if I get a hold of something sharp, it needs to be taken away immediately.
After the violent part of the attack ends, it’s just hysterical crying. I am no longer a danger to anyone, and Michael and Sempai know to hold me tight like a fucking baby. They have to comfort me, saying “shhh,” and “it’s alright…” I’ve been told I’ve said things like, “why didn’t mommy love me?” “Where’s mommy?” and “I want my mommy.” Since most of my trauma stems from Erin’s abuse, that’s usually what my brain likes to focus on. An attack like this can last from one to three hours non-stop, and I’m not exaggerating. Once I go quiet again, it’s unlikely I will have an attack for another few days.
When in the mild stages of my depression, I will cry for literally no reason. You know when you get upset and you have a good cry for about ten, maybe twenty minutes? Yeah, mine last for a few hours, the waterworks turning on for long periods of time, shutting off shortly, and then turning on again. No fucking reason. And unlike a manic episode, it’s much harder to come out of the depression. Sometimes it’ll change out of nowhere for absolutely no reason at all, but simply trying to “cheer me up” does nothing. Doesn’t that sound fun?
You can imagine the hell this has put me through. I wasn’t diagnosed until I was twelve or thirteen, but I was showing symptoms much earlier, around six or seven. Naturally, no one paid attention to the quiet little blonde girl, not even her family. Erin herself would joke, “she’ll start crying for no reason, lock herself in her room, and come out an hour later completely happy.” Oh yes, you stupid bitch, so funny. Why did it take you until I was in middle school to get me checked out? A six year old should not be talking about wanting to die, or wanting to kill people. When I was diagnosed, they put me on medication that made it worse, so I refused to take it. When I was twenty, I decided on my own to get properly treated.
I had to endure this disorder on top of abuse and neglect from Erin, and constant bullying at school. This wasn’t “neener neener neener” bullying either, kids have tried to kill me. Not only that, but my entire life, I’ve had social phobia, which I didn’t know until recently is the same thing as Social Anxiety Disorder. Now, I’ve exhibited text book symptoms of this disorder to the T, but I have not been professionally diagnosed yet. I’m going to get psychoanalyzed in a few weeks. I’m preparing for the introduction of a second Other…
Oh yeah, Others. For those of you who don’t know, they are fictional creatures that represent real mental disorders. I created Annatier as a form of self therapy, because regular therapy doesn’t work on me. She has helped me understand my Manic Depression much better, to the point where I have found ways to cope, and have accepted the things I can’t control. Doing this has inspired many of my fans to create Others based on their disorders as well, and it has helped them cope too. I’m thrilled to hear this, because I feel that my purpose in life is to help others find ways to arm themselves against the unkindness life brings. I’ve endured a lot of pain, and I want to keep others from feeling it so severely, I want to help them find the strength to meet these issues head on. I have been told by countless people that my advice is impeccable, and I’ve saved tons of people from suicide, including my own brother.
Anyway, thanks to medical science, I can keep my moods stable so I can lead as normal a life as I can. What does this mean? I have to take medication for the rest of my life. Every. Single. Day. It’s not fun, I don’t like it, I wish I didn’t have to, but it’s the only thing that keeps me emotionally normal and shuts my brain up. On top of depression, I’ve also had to struggle with insomnia since I was nine. “Oh, how annoying can it possibly be to take a couple pills every day?” A couple? Not including my vitamin B and vitamin D pills, I have to take nine pills each day. In the morning: one Lamotrigine, one Bupropion, and one Venlafaxine. In the evening, around 5:30 or so: one Lamotrigine, one Bupropion, and one Venlafaxine. At night, before bed: three Trazodone pills. Those are to get me to sleep. I have to take pills just to fucking sleep. What keeps me awake? Well, the earlier meds have worn off, sooooo…. my thoughts.
That means, each day, I’m taking three anti-depressants and one anti-psychotic. FUN, RIGHT? FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. It’s so COOL to have this disorder, and I’m so FUCKING HARDCORE. And god forbid, if I forget to take my medication, I may not have an attack, but I will certainly fall. I don’t have many manic episodes anymore, they seem to be rare as you get older. Speaking of, Manic Depressive Disorder gets worse as you age. I’m twenty-five. I’ve got a long way to go, and a hell that will never leave. THERE IS NO CURE FOR MENTAL ILLNESS.
I also suffer from two disorders that affect my appearance negatively, which doesn’t help make me feel better. I am very self conscious about my appearance, so dealing with these two things are a nightmare. People that have one usually have the other as well, and there is no cure. These things are…
Dermatillomania: “An impulse control disorder characterized by the repeated urge to pick at one’s own skin, often to the extent that damage is caused.”
Trichotillomania: “An impulse control disorder characterized by the compulsive urge to pull out one’s hair, leading to hair loss and balding, distress, and social or functional impairment.”
These two disorders are NOT, I repeat, NOT a joke. Since I was nine or ten, I’ve pulled out my eyebrows and eyelashes, and obsessively picked at my skin. In fifth grade, both arms were covered in scabs. When I was sixteen, I started pulling hair from my head. Since I hit puberty, I’ve picked at every single goddamn imperfection on my face, to the point where I have embarrassing scabs and scars. Here is a recent picture:
It took a lot of courage to even post this on DA, let alone here. Of course, you can’t see the bald spots on my scalp, but you can see my eyelashes, eyebrows, and skin. Oh, by the way? My eyebrows will never properly grow back. The only hair that grows is vellus hair, and maybe a few terminal hairs here and there, but not enough to form a shape. I have to draw them on. Every. Day.
As for my face? These were not huge pimples. These were things that other people could not see unless they looked as close as I did. And do you know what I do? I pick off the scab to reveal little white bulbs that I try to pull out with tweezers. What are these white bulbs? MY HAIR FOLICLES. I cannot control this, no matter how hard I try. Hell, you should see my back and shoulders! And don’t even get me started on my pubic area. ISN’T. THIS. FUN??? I’ve tried many things to get myself to stop, but it NEVER FUCKING WORKS.
Why have I brought all of this shit up? To make you pity me? To try and get sympathy? To show how horrible my life has been? No. To make people understand. In fact, I think pity is one of the most disgusting things a person can give to the disabled. But chances are, many of you do understand! A lot of you may struggle with the same obstacles! Hell, I bet some of you have it worse than me! I’m just one out of seven billion people on the planet, of course there are people like me, or have worse situations! The point is…
I have been ridiculed for these things. These disorders I can’t control, these painful and degrading things that I didn’t choose to have. Some of you can relate to what I’m about to say. I’ve been accused of, get this…. I’ve been accused of CRYING OUT FOR ATTENTION. Because I’m honest about what goes on in my head? Because I’m a human being who is done hiding like I’ve done for nearly two decades? Because I want to help people understand what could possibly being going on in their heads?
Oh! OH! It gets better! I’ve been called “emo” because I have depression. I HAVE A SERIOUS MEDICAL DISORDER THAT I CANNOT CONTROL IN ANY WAY, and I’m apparently “emo.” Um, I am twenty-five years old, there is no such thing as stupid little teenage fashion cliques! Hell, “emo” isn’t even a thing! People use it to describe EVERYTHING!!! I FUCKING HATE IT!! Oh! And then there’s this one… “edgy.” I’m “edgy” because I HAVE A FUCKING MENTAL DISORDER. It’s so COOL and HARDCORE to have to take NINE PILLS EVERY FUCKING DAY FOR THE REST OF MY FUCKING LIFE!! Do you understand how much I HATE this? I would give both of my legs to be cured of this. I’d never be able to walk again, but that’s way better than dealing with my illness!
Same with the DTM and TTM. I posted that picture on Deviant Art, not to get fucking sympathy or pity, but to make people understand why I don’t think I’m pretty. I’m SICK and TIRED of hearing, “oh, you’re pretty no matter what!” NO! FUCKING NO! DO YOU SEE THAT? THAT IS UGLY AS FUCKING SIN!! I wanted people to tell me how bad it was, to basically punch me in the face to possibly get my mind to understand that it needs to STOP. It was basically a voluntary intervention. You know what? I got a lot of people who didn’t read the description telling me what I didn’t want to hear: That I’m pretty on the inside! That the outside doesn’t matter! IT MATTERS TO ME! The other people told me exactly what I needed to hear, they were honest, and though the words may look unkind, I needed to hear them from somebody other than myself. The truth isn’t always pleasant, but it is always necessary.
Oho, but there was one user who was butt hurt that I blocked him for being a douchebag, who claimed I posted it to get attention. Are you fucking serious? That’s the reason I want to STOP! Because these scars and bald spots bring me unwanted attention! People stare at me like I’m some fucking druggie! I’m already afraid of people, so WHY the FUCK would I WANT them staring at me you STUPID asshole?!? I hate sympathy, I hate pity, and the only attention I want is the kind I’m rewarded with when I work hard at what I do. When I create something, draw, write, make a video, whatever, that’s what I like. I don’t require it, except, of course, on YouTube because that’s my job, and I am certainly not going to try and get attention through dishonest ways, or by exploiting my flaws! I need people to understand why I say the things I say, why I do the things I do, and so I can help others, as well as receive help for myself! Asking for help is not the same as crying out for attention! I’M FUCKING SUICIDAL, so I must be “emo” and “edgy,” right? FUCK OFF.
I don’t even understand why some people go through such lengths to get attention, the people who seem to “need” it. I don’t understand that. I’m an adult, adults aren’t “edgy” (whatever the fuck that means, because edgy only has three definitions, and these stupid freaks are using it in a way that doesn’t fit any of them), adults are not “emo” (that’s just something stupid teenagers came up with so that they could take multiple fashions, throw them together, and call it a new thing), and adults don’t “cry out for attention.” God… I hope not… then again, there was that lady that lied about being a 9/11 survivor… okay, some sad excuses for human beings do that, but responsible adults with common sense like me DO NOT. I rarely even leave the house, and that’s so people don’t see me, and I don’t see them! Making videos is the only time I feel comfortable being myself somewhat publicly because I’m not face to face with a real person!
I’m not the only fucking person with Manic Depression, I’m not the only fucking person with DTM and TTM, and I’m not the only fucking person who is comfortable enough to talk to people about it. So many people don’t understand mental illness, and I used to be afraid of admitting that my brain wasn’t wired right. But it’s shameful to feel ashamed, and I’m sick of hiding like a sniveling coward. I have completely accepted what I have. I don’t like it. I never will. I hate it. But I’m not hiding. I am a human being, so I will act like a human being. YOU, who attack people like me, are SNIVELING FUCKING COWARDS.
I wish… oho, do I wish… that I could give these bastards a mental illness. Let’s see how “edgy” they think it is. Remember that “point-of-view” gun from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Yeah, I want that, but super powered. Let’s see how they like crying for no reason, let’s see how they like wanting to die, let’s see how they like taking medication, pulling out their hair until they’re bald, and digging holes into their faces! ISN’T IT SO SUPER DUPER COOL?? OH MY GOD, I’M SO FUCKING EDGY!!
You bastards think you’re all big, bad wolves hiding behind a computer, but you’re nothing but sheep. I guarantee that, if you met me face to face, you wouldn’t be able to show those big balls you pretend to have. No, you’d cower. There’s a reason people have told me I’m scary, there’s a reason people have learned not to mess with me. I can’t do SHIT through the internet, but let me tell you, when I’m face to face with someone who has enraged me, my social anxiety is GONE. You’re sheep. Cowardly, pathetic sheep being led by a shepherd, not knowing that your shepherd is taking you to a slaughter house. I’m not afraid like you are, and that’s why I’m honest about what I feel, and how I live. That’s why I don’t keep secrets. What’s the point? I have nothing to gain by hiding, but everything to gain by showing my true self.
Even though I only get one out of every hundred people who decide it’s funny to make fun of the disabled, it still infuriates me to no end. I mean, what if I didn’t have medication and killed myself? Would they say, “oops?” Would they feel ashamed? HA! No, that’s not how it works, apparently. They’d laugh and feel PROUD at what they accomplished. I hate these people who get joy out of seeing other people suffer for no reason. I did not choose to have these disorders, I don’t want them, and I sure as hell don’t need them. Please! Take them away if me talking about them bugs you so much! I would shake your hand and kiss your ass for the rest of my life if you took them away! Why would anyone lie about having an illness? Why does anyone lie in the first place? Lying gets you nowhere! Just deeper into the hole you’ve dug yourself! THAT’S WHY I DON’T DO IT! My code of honor, once again, is honesty, and I cherish it like it’s my own beating heart. I choose not to lie to anyone. Why? Because the consequences for lying are way worse than the consequences for telling the truth. I am literally the most honest person you will ever speak to.
If these fucking shit holes are over the age of twenty, I would be disturbed beyond measure. These are things that snotty nosed preteens and teenagers do to each other. Where the fuck are the parents? Hope you’re proud of your fucking kid! But if they are an adult, I laugh at how ludicrous their behavior is! I mean, you’ve got to be pretty insecure to act like a dull witted teenage bully when you’re a fucking adult that is supposed to be paying bills and taxes! Maybe they have a small dick, I don’t know. Maybe the girls are uglier than I am, I don’t know! But even if this enrages me to no end, at least I know that their warped perception of me is not true.
And what they don’t know is, I am the kindest and most loyal person to people who also show kindness, and I am a wonderful friend. I can love just as much as I can hate, and I can hate like fire can burn. If these trash talking lowlifes had just been kind, and spoken to me as a fellow human, we probably could’ve been great friends! No, they have to make themselves feel better by making other people feel bad. Whatever issues they have to deal with in their life, I could’ve given them the advice to cope. You know what, shit heads? You chose to be miserable, and you chose to be just another zit on the face of society just waiting to be popped. I’d love to take my disorders and shove them into your head, that way, I’d be free of them, and you’d get a taste of hell. Ha! Maybe someone would call you “emo!”
To the people who are kind, to the people who have witnessed behavior like this, and to the people who have experienced this, speak up. None of us should be hiding. The pecking order is fucked up, and we need to do the pecking here. If you have a mental illness, don’t hide from it, fight for it. You know what? Many people have been able to find ways to make their illnesses help them in life. Admittedly, a lot of my best creations have come from my fucked up mind, but I’d still rather be rid of it. All the same, we need to learn to stand up, because we are way stronger than these hip-gangster wannabes. Why? Because we have to deal with literal hell, and yet, we’re still here! They wouldn’t last a week in our shoes! I don’t have the power to start a movement, that’s a very unrealistic fantasy, but maybe my words could reach someone who does. People like this need to be put in their place.
Just stop the silence.