The quickest way to cure my depression would be to kill myself. At least, that’s what I keep saying. On my bed, next to me, “The Depression Cure: The 6-Step Program to Beat Depression Without Drugs” sits untouched. The orange bottle of pills on my desk are neglected the same. I lay on this pillow until a mosquito gets too close to my ear and its buzz reminds me that I hate mosquitoes more than I hate being sick and I jolt up.
In a single month, I have lost three loved ones under different, yet altogether unexpected circumstances. During this same month, I lost a contract. In attempt to gain a different one, I was rejected by a modeling agency and exited the building feeling like a fat piece of dog shit, sweaty, and broken down. Speaking of dog shit, my dog can’t control his bowels anymore and he, too, will die soon.
In my hometown, my entire family is being attacked. This is something I don’t want to go into.
I’ve faced more bullying in the past week than I have in my entire life (and I had a full set of adult teeth by the time I was 9). I feel like my feet are sinking into inlet silt and all I want is for the tide to come take me away.
My hometown, Anchorage, has never felt like home. Or maybe at some point it did and now it feels like a lump in my throat. My eyes cloud with liquid and I can’t eat or speak or sleep. I lay here. I question why I am here. And here sometimes means Anchorage. And here sometimes means alive.
Its gotten bad again.
And I keep trying to convince myself that lies mean nothing, but if that were true, we wouldn’t discourage lying. Lies hurt. Lies break trust. And I can’t trust the people around me because they hurt me and they hurt me because they lied. And I can’t trust my brain right now because its hurting me and its hurting me because its lying.
I’m tired. I feel like I’ve been up since the day I was walking up my carpeted staircase, reaching the fourth step when my phone rang, toes digging into Berber as my brother told me that a friend had died in a plane crash. My eyes have burned the midnight oil of whatever saline may be left.
And Kate Spade committed suicide. And Anthony Bourdain committed suicide. And while I aspired to be like both, I don’t want it to be in this way.
I’m sick. Even more sick that those who vehemently oppose bullying – those who mourned the deaths of both Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, are the same people who seek to ruin souls.
I don’t know what else to write anymore. My agent wanted me to turn this into a travel blog. I don’t travel anymore. I can barely get out of bed.