Missy Scales Pulls A Phoenix Job Pt I
There was once a girl, who fell off the edge of the world. She fell through the black and the sharp, parts of her tearing off like old wallpaper.
She tumbled and tore, the noise whistling through her like a sandpaper wind.
Sometimes she stopped, some hard earth found and used for brakes.
But it never lasted long, before the ground broke and being hurled into the Lord-know-what once more.
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The last two months have been rather taxing.
*deep breath* Gastrointestinal bleeding, kidney infection (nearly hospitalised... again), sang Carmina Burana at the Melbourne Town Hall with MUCS and the Royal Melbourne Philharmonic (nearly fainted while on stage: NOT GOOD), randomly shagged a bartender boy on my birthday (was expecting to go home and work on my job application for Fabulous New Job! Funny what happens when a 'why not' philosophy applies), quit Shite Old Job in blaze of righteous fury (such a fucking Libra, me, the Judgement hammer falls like some guillotine outta nowhere, but the fuckers shoulda seen it coming), bloody Boy Issues (someone just put a machete through my skull already), crying at Dr Rawet's because it was all too much (I love my doc, he's the best and tells despairing anecdotes about his gargantuan children).
And so, naturally, came The Very Bad Day.
Illness, unemployment and an extremely unwieldy personal life brought on a frightening bout of depression.
It's difficult to describe such episodes... it's not a just case of the blues. Your mind is actually trying to hurt you, all the demons and doubts trying to push you off the edge. There is the integral belief that you are wasted time, unworthy of your friends and nothing can save you from your cretinous, soul-ugly self. Because you don't deserve to be saved. It is for reasons such as this that depressives don't tend to gravitate towards support groups.
And the tiny, true part of you is saying 'Holy shit, call the CAT team, pray to ANY deity, write like you're purging poison because Your Brain is Trying To Kill You.'
The only thing I can compare it to is a bad drug-induced trip, where you're holding on knowing that the bad stuff is eventually manageable and if you can ride this one out you'll be okay.
This is what happens when you napalm your life.
Again.
She tumbled and tore, the noise whistling through her like a sandpaper wind.
Sometimes she stopped, some hard earth found and used for brakes.
But it never lasted long, before the ground broke and being hurled into the Lord-know-what once more.
------------------------
The last two months have been rather taxing.
*deep breath* Gastrointestinal bleeding, kidney infection (nearly hospitalised... again), sang Carmina Burana at the Melbourne Town Hall with MUCS and the Royal Melbourne Philharmonic (nearly fainted while on stage: NOT GOOD), randomly shagged a bartender boy on my birthday (was expecting to go home and work on my job application for Fabulous New Job! Funny what happens when a 'why not' philosophy applies), quit Shite Old Job in blaze of righteous fury (such a fucking Libra, me, the Judgement hammer falls like some guillotine outta nowhere, but the fuckers shoulda seen it coming), bloody Boy Issues (someone just put a machete through my skull already), crying at Dr Rawet's because it was all too much (I love my doc, he's the best and tells despairing anecdotes about his gargantuan children).
And so, naturally, came The Very Bad Day.
Illness, unemployment and an extremely unwieldy personal life brought on a frightening bout of depression.
It's difficult to describe such episodes... it's not a just case of the blues. Your mind is actually trying to hurt you, all the demons and doubts trying to push you off the edge. There is the integral belief that you are wasted time, unworthy of your friends and nothing can save you from your cretinous, soul-ugly self. Because you don't deserve to be saved. It is for reasons such as this that depressives don't tend to gravitate towards support groups.
And the tiny, true part of you is saying 'Holy shit, call the CAT team, pray to ANY deity, write like you're purging poison because Your Brain is Trying To Kill You.'
The only thing I can compare it to is a bad drug-induced trip, where you're holding on knowing that the bad stuff is eventually manageable and if you can ride this one out you'll be okay.
This is what happens when you napalm your life.
Again.