When things fall apart: end

This series was not meant to be a terrifying roller coaster for my family. It was not meant to be harmful, or anxiety inducing.

I failed in what I was trying to achieve. An archive. A roadmap. A before, to view during the after.

I suppose in all of this all I’ve managed to do is prove that I am a narcissist, and that even if I do get help, I probably don’t deserve to live.

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When Things Fall Apart: 13

Gate 84 at San Francisco International Airport is labelled Gate 84ABCD. None of the other gates are labelled as such. My cat has not left her carrier, though I’ve opened the top and given her leash room to explore.

Today my feelings are strange and muted. I’m not happy that I’m coming home. I wouldn’t have been happy staying in Taipei. I’m just angry. But apparently not allowed to express anger.

Honestly, I feel sometimes like I’m a teenager who never learned how to grow up. My emotional expression comes from years of watching television and reading books. I am not an aggressive person.

This whole being called a ‘brat’ by my aunt has really gotten to me. It makes me want to run away. It reminds me of all the times my family has let me down.

One reason I came home was to be with family. And if I can’t have their support, what’s the point? Is it manipulative to write this blog post? How sick am I, really? And can I get better?

Before I start to cry sitting at gate 84ABCD, I will leave it here. The bureaucracy of entering a mental health facility still seems miles away, though paranoia wracks my dreams.

I guess I’ll leave it there

When things fall apart, 12

You might be wondering where part 11 is.

It’s private. Maybe some day I’ll make it public again. For now, all those posts are my for my eyes only.

Here’s what I know now:

I try and I fail. I fail at everything. This series of blog posts is supposed to be a recollection of the journey making it to a mental health hospital and getting help and hopefully being better.

But the truth is, my family thinks I’m manipulative. Maybe I am manipulative. The aunt I looked up to the most has blocked me on facebook. I’ve been called a brat. There’s been a misunderstanding of…everything.

My mom was supposed to get surgery. I didn’t want her to cancel it because of me. But she did. I asked her not to come to Taipei, and she’s respected that. But finally she just told me, she was going to come to Taipei.

And things fall apart.

I guess I’ve heard somewhere that before you can get better vis a vis AA, you have to hit your rock bottom. I don’t know what holding a knife to my throat in Brendan’s apartment was, but if it wasn’t rock bottom it was sure close. I’ve lost two good friends because of it. My family’s gone back to thinking I’m a monster.

So what’s the point? I write here, so I don’t have to keep it all inside, and I’m told I’m being manipulative because I’m telling “my mom one thing, and writing another”. I failed. Even the people who are supposed to love me don’t. Even my friend who came to take care of me has checked into a hotel room.

I have no energy. I’ll make it on the plane. I’ll make it to New Mexico, but after that? Every never in my body is screaming to just go far away.

Is it better to be alive and just a shell? To hold it all in? I feel like I can’t win. Maybe a blog wasn’t the best idea, but it is what is.

Everyone hates me. My Dad was right. My mom was right. My family when I was young was right. It’s all about me. I’m a selfish, stupid psychotic manipulative whore. One day at a time. One second at a time.

I’m an ant. I wish I were an ant. Sometimes I just wish I could have a lobotomy. IfI could just not be,,,here.

Everyone hates me.