Stupidity.

I am currently on a scholarship at my college.

Said scholarship requires I keep a GPA above 2.5, and until recently this has been a breeze. In fact, I maintained an overall average GPA of 3.6 throughout the six semesters I’d been there. That is, until I happened upon a bout of depression last semester.

That really made me apathetic toward two classes I never had any interest in to begin with. So what happened? I failed them both. Since I was only taking three classes, this really tugged my GPA down.

But I resolved to do better this semester. I even went the extra mile in the subject I’m the least interested in: math. I went to class every day, and I even recorded each class with my iPad so I could refer back to the instructor’s words when I studied for the tests.

It’s all dependent upon math as to whether or not I can continue receiving my scholarship. For the level of math I’m at, I was actually doing very well. I’ve never excelled at math, and my grade before the final was a C.

I’ll take that.

And in my other three classes? An A in each one. But this morning I received a an email from my math instructor informing me that I’d missed the final exam.

This was due to my general lack of organization. I had switched the math final with another class’s final (which didn’t end up having a final).

I had perfect attendance, turned in every assignment, and although my test scores weren’t those of a genius, I still managed to pull an average grade out of statistics.

But for all the math I’ve learned, I’m still having trouble calculating if a 2.61 GPA will fall below 2.5 if I receive three A’s and one F. I pray my math instructor will allow me some leniency due to my attendance. Otherwise, I don’t know what I’ll do.

Repulsion.

I am appalled at a new study I just read about in The Salt Lake Tribune. 

FIrst of all, it’s no secret that Utah has one of the highest suicide rates in the country. If you’ve ever lived here, visited here, read about this place, seen it on TV, heard about it, or even thought about it, then it’ll be no surprise to you.

Believe it or not, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints actually does not take up the majority of the population (members in Utah right now range at around 40 percent), but it is the dominant religion. It’s true that nobody holds a gun to your head and demands you follow the rules of the LDS faith. However, it’s also true that if you don’t abide by the rules, then you’re more likely than not to be bullied and made to feel less than, or even worse, you’ll be cut out of the lives of the people you love the most.

I myself have attempted suicide on four separate occasions. Three of those attempts had to do with my being gay. The epidemic of suicides in Utah, which are a direct result of people who feel their lives aren’t worth living because their community makes them feel that way, is on an alarming rise. But do you know what the article stated?

It blamed the high suicide rate on elevation. Yeah, that’s right. Elevation. It also said more than half of those who committed suicide were already diagnosed with a mental illness.

Does this repulse me? Absolutely. It almost makes me sick. I’m diagnosed with depression. But if I committed suicide tomorrow, it most certainly wouldn’t be because I’m mentally ill. There would be a catalyst. There would be a trigger. I wouldn’t just wake up tomorrow and kill myself simply because my brain wasn’t necessarily working the way some doctor thinks it should be working. No. If I killed myself tomorrow it would be because of school. It would be because the standards set for me are almost impossible to reach. It would be because I get more punishment for the times I fail than praise for the times I succeed. It would be because, despite the overwhelming number of times I succeed, it’s the minuscule amounts of failure that are brought to light and subsequently reiterated for time and all eternity.

It most certainly would not be because of the elevation. That’s for damn sure.

In the meantime, I’m constantly punishing myself. No, it’s not because I spend a lot of time at 6,800 feet above sea level. That’s FUCKING STUPID. I punish myself because I don’t feel like I can live up to what Utah expects me to be. I can’t have children. I can’t get married. My talents are basically dead ends. Well, I’ve hashed this out before.

Yes, I’m repulsed by this information. But the worst part of this article was this line:

“495 Utahns took their own lives in 2011, compared with 455 in 2010.

‘It’s a problem we’ve had for a long time, and it’s not going anywhere,’ said Jenny Johnson, education coordinator at the Utah Department of Health.

Because Utah’s population rose during the same time period, state officials do not consider the increase statistically significant.

If you aren’t offended by the fact that officials are downplaying an increase in suicide just because of an increase in population, then there’s something wrong with you. I wonder how many people don’t commit suicide in Utah, and just do this instead:

Yes, those are all pictures of me. No amount of Mederma can rid my body of those. They’re a reminder to me of years past, and how my life has become better. Anytime I start to go down the drain, all I need do is look at myself in the mirror to remember I’ve had some pretty bad times. But today, after I read that article, for some reason I’ve never felt closer to doing this again.

Why? Your guess is as good as mine. The article was so infuriating to me. It never once mentioned bullying or the LDS lifestyle. It never mentioned homosexuality. It blamed half of the cases on mental illness, and the other half on spats with a spouse. Oh yeah, and the reason we Utahns all seem to jump right to suicide is because of the elevation.

The fucking elevation.

Confusion.

I’ve been working very hard to get where I am today. Yes, where I am is just a student position at a college entity, but I’ve been working almost since day one to achieve that goal.

It looked as though that goal was achievable just the day before yesterday. But then it came to my attention that the position I was seeking, which was all but guaranteed to me by the person who holds that position now, is being sought after by a person who I believe is unqualified but will get the position anyway.

It doesn’t help that the person who originally said the job would be mine actually recommended this other person apply for it as well.

What’s worse is this other person has a rapport with our college adviser. It’s so hard for me to describe the circumstances without naming names. But let’s just say this other person has a similar job that I have now, but I’ve seen this person’s work and it is subpar, especially compared to mine. I’m not trying to build myself up to be something I’m not, but I know my talents and I recognize my strengths. In comparison, I would be far better at the job the two of us are seeking.

Am I afraid this person will get the job? If I didn’t have a biased adviser, then I’d say, “no.” But this person is a teacher’s pet of sorts, and I fear that this is what’s going to catapult this person to the position that rightly belongs to me.

I am angry about this. I have literally put all my time and effort into this collegiate entity. I have failed classes because I’ve tried to do well in this one area. Yet despite my perfect attendance record, my stellar skills, my reliability and countless other aspects, the fact still remains that the person I thought was my friend and who saw me for my talents actually went to my now rival and asked that person to apply for the position.

So what’s so wrong with me? That’s a question I’ve been trying to answer all week.

Redundancy.

I guess it’s finally time to admit one of the biggest reasons for my depression. Yes, I’ve always been depressed, and in the past i’ve found solace in my appearance.

I was a chubby and awkward kid once upon a time. But when I discovered crystal meth, I suddenly shed all my pounds and became a tall and slender person. Out of nowhere people started noticing me. People became attracted to me. This boosted my self esteem beyond words. But I was not smart when it came to the attention people gave me.

It was only a matter of time before my sexual misadventures got me into trouble. I was always happy when someone expressed a desire to have sex with me. It meant I was hot. But there was a punishment for it all: HIV.

Now I’m dependent upon pills, costly pills, I might add, to live. In order for me to have these pills I need to qualify each year as having no income. This means if I find a good-paying job, I can no longer get the medication I need to continue living. Since I’m already diseased, then I’m uninsurable. It’s a catch-22 of life-or-death proportions. I have to take these pills twice a day, and the side effects are wholly undesirable, but I guess they outweigh the effects of the disease if I didn’t take the pills at all.

The white, orange, blue and peach pills are what keep my HIV from getting worse. The big white pill in the center is to stop infections; it’s a low-dose of chemotherapy. The two small yellow pills are for my depression, and the three white pills are to counteract the side effects of the HIV medication, which cause me to throw up either from my mouth or that other orifice.

Resignation.

It’s very interesting how a society that doesn’t understand how depression works tags a person who is clinically depressed as “always depressed.” This is not so. Today, for example, I’ve resigned myself from sadness. It’s a good thing.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve also resigned myself from good grades. Of course it still weighs on me, but since I’ve convinced myself there’s really nothing I can do at this point, I’m feeling a little better.

But would people call me a liar because I’m happy today? Would people say I was falsifying my depression because today I’m not sad? Would people disclaim my future bouts of sadness because I have days when sadness never comes? Yes. Yes, they would.

The proof is in the pudding, or rather, in the YouTube. Just go there now and find a video by Jonah Mowry where he puts himself out to the world and unveils his issues with bullying and self mutilation. Then find the video called “Jonah Mowry Lied.”

Mowry posted a second video roughly four months after the first where he is obviously happier with the direction of his life. Because of his happiness, people who don’t understand bullying or depression think he’s a liar. Obviously, a person who was sad four months ago can’t ever be happy again, right?

But I’m resigning myself from the stigma. If people want to call me a liar, then fine. But so far, the only negative response I’ve garnered from my days of depression is annoyance. I can tell I’m grating upon some people. But those people are also strong and they love me. Thank God for that.

Anxiety.

In a way, I wanted people to read my post yesterday. It probably would have answered a lot of questions for the people around me. But in that same mode of thinking, I don’t want people to question whether or not I should allowed to watch after myself.

Which, consequently, I shouldn’t.

My intention was to write a post so vague that nobody could really pin it on me. But I made so many references to things that, once put together, are obviously me. But I won’t delete it. If you have a moment, maybe you could read it. It’s long. It’s emotional. It’s even bitchy at times. But it’s also honest. I think it’s the most honest I’ve been in a while.

The reason is because I’m not trying to explain my feelings to anyone else. I already know my feelings. I know exactly how I feel because, well, I am me.

I was writing for multiple reasons, but I had hoped to get the word out on why I, and maybe why others, do what I do which is cut.

Consequentially, I haven’t cut in more than a year. And besides your run-of-the-mill, totally legal prescription drugs, I am completely narcotic free. And I think writing yesterday’s post is what stopped me from jumping back to either or both of those.

Sadness.

I don’t think anyone really reads this blog anymore, so this is sort of a safe place to write this. However, I do know this is public. Hopefully, if you do read this entire tirade, you’ll glean something from it. I guess, in a backwards way, I could actually help somebody with this letter. If you know who I am, please don’t leave any comments with my name in them. And I would also appreciate not saying anything about this to me on Facebook, Twitter, email, etc. Thank you.

Dear world,

Here’s just a few things I need to get off my chest. I feel so stifled. The things I love and the things I need to do in order to survive are so different they’re almost contradictory. In this day and age, especially when I have mounting debts and a spouse I will eventually need to support, I fear I am being imprisoned in a life I do not want.

I love the theater.

Ever since I was a little boy I loved acting. I loved to get up in front of people and sing and dance and make up stories. I was always taking sheets and dishtowels and turning them into costumes. I had the most fun performing in front of an audience. That passion still burns within me. I feel like it’s a fire the world is trying to put out. I want to be in shows. I want to sing. I can sing. I am totally capable. But where’s the future in it? It’s almost a guarantee that, even if I were to graduate with honors in a theater program, I would not be able to find work. This is reinforced by multiple people every day.

I love art.

I was drawing for as long as I can remember. My earliest memories are of drawing. I’ve taken multiple art classes not because I needed them, but because it gave me an excuse to do more art. I love to paint. I love the human form and I love to transfer it onto a canvas. I’m so proud of my work. From the moment my pencil first sketches a form on the blank canvas to the very last stroke of the brush, I am happy. I feel such accomplishment when I see a beautiful portrait hung on my wall. But like the theater, there is no future in pop art. Perhaps if I lived in the ’60s this wouldn’t be an issue. It was, after all, the age of Andy Warhol. Pop art was the thing, and everyone loved it. Now, when I paint an image of Lady Gaga or Catwoman, it seems the only person who appreciates it is me. In a way that’s a good thing because my best work comes from my painting for myself. But all that really gives me is a surplus of paintings.

I love writing.

Words are some of my best friends. I love to string them together to form sentences. I love to use the sentences to paint beautiful pictures seen only in the mind of the reader. I love to write creatively, but I also love to write journalistically. I am, after all, the opinion editor at a college newspaper. But again, cashing in as a writer is a gamble. The time and effort I put into my writing might as well be spent in the form of cash on a lottery ticket. I think my odds of fiscal stability are actually greater with the lottery ticket. I have so many ideas and so much to say. I could sit and write all day, but in the end it means nothing to anybody but me.

I hate school.

When I was in high school, I always assumed a collegiate career would be a focus on whatever my life direction would be. I thought college meant honing your career and improving upon the talents you already have. I couldn’t have been more wrong. College does have its advantages, and I have improved my writing skills since I have returned. However, in order for me to complete any type of degree, I also have to prove I know how to do calculus, what the difference is between a lithosphere and an atmosphere, what the ethics of Habermas have to do with a woman on an island, and various other aspects of life I hardly see myself ever using. But when I fail at something I never had the intention of succeeding at, then suddenly I become a bad student. Suddenly I become lazy, or I don’t know how to allocate my time. I’m looked down upon by so-called professors who were my age so many years ago that there’s no way their class content can be relevant.

I hate the world’s perception of school.

In this day and age, if you don’t have a degree, then you don’t have a job. It doesn’t matter that I can sing. It doesn’t matter that I can act. It doesn’t matter that I can paint. It doesn’t matter that I can write. It especially doesn’t matter that I can do all those things and more. The fact that I can’t do math and I simply don’t care about geology will mean I can’t have a degree. And without a degree, then I don’t have a job. Establishments that have nothing to do with math or geology and would have everything to do with my writing, acting, singing or artistic skills wouldn’t give me a second look unless I produced some sort of B.A., B.C., or, as I’ve deemed the most appropriately named, a B.S. The world thinks that a person isn’t capable of doing anything unless that person has gone through the motions and paid his dues. What good is paying your dues when the payment itself is unobtainable?

I hate myself.

I was so ambitious when I was in high school. I went to a private school where I was elected student body vice president. I loved my classmates, my teachers and my administrators. But when I graduated at 17, I fell into a state of stagnation. I was working as a grocery bagger at a store that wouldn’t allow males to do anything but that. All my high school friends had moved on to bigger and better things. I was left at home with my parents and without theater, music or art. I was just a bagger. Then I found a group of people who seemed to be having fun all the time. The reason was because they had drugs. The next ten years of my life were spent dedicated to having fun in all the wrong ways. I bounced from job to job and home to home. I even found myself homeless at times. I was a mess. Then I got sick. Terminally sick. I had to have chemotherapy. This was when I was 27. In a way the chemotherapy was a good thing, because it stopped my life partying, but it put me back in a place of stagnation once more. I just sat around. Finally, I came back to college where I was determined to succeed. And succeed I did. Up until this semester I’ve received nothing less than a B–even in the most difficult of classes. But now I’m failing. I’m failing miserably because I’m either too smart to know the content of these courses have nothing to do with my life interests, or I’m too stupid to get the classes and I’ve blamed it on the former excuse.

I hate my options.

First of all, I hate it when a person tries to give me alternatives to doing the things I do to relieve my stress. I always seem to get unsolicited advice from people who have careers and who seem perfectly fine. It’s true that I don’t understand what everyone else is going through, but at the same time, everyone else could never understand what’s going on with me. I am clinically depressed, but I can’t afford health insurance–especially since my illness pretty much prohibits any insurance company from taking me. I can’t afford psychological help, and the only drug I can afford to take is a generic version of Zoloft, which doesn’t really help at all. In the past i’ve found solace in drug use. Sometimes I think of how blissful it was to not have a care in the world–even when things were grim. I could be high enough to not give a damn about being homeless. I could be high enough to not care about having relationships in my life. I could be high enough to not  care about having a job or being a respected member of the community. My body is also covered with scars. Not little ones, but huge ones. My scars are obvious to anyone who sees me in a t-shirt or shorts. My body is webbed with them. I even remember one time passing out because of the loss of blood from a session of cutting. I told no one when I regained consciousness. Another time I cut myself so deeply in multiple places that I should have gotten stitches. Again, I told no one. One time, a cut made by a straight razor to my calf got infected. Again, I told no one. I remember taking my pants off one afternoon and I could smell the infection. I scrubbed the gash out and covered it in alcohol, but the smell got worse as the days went by. I think I was lucky that I didn’t loose my leg. Luckily I was smart enough to keep changing the bandages every day. That scar remains the worst. So far, these are the only two ways I’ve ever been able to stop myself from crying or killing myself. Cutting and drugs. Drugs and cutting. Sometimes they go hand-in-hand.

And yes, I know this is nobody’s fault but my own. So please stop telling me that. But that is why I cut. That is why I spend money on construction-grade razor blades–the kind you use in box cutters. That is why I punish myself. Physical pain is the only pain that is worse than the pain I feel on the inside. Drugs are the only things that dull the pain. It’s one or the other. Or both.

 

I love and I hate.

 

Here is why I’m still alive: I have a partner. We are not allowed to get married because someone else has defined what love is, and that definition means that, in the area I live, I cannot marry the person I love. I also know the person I love loves me back. I don’t want to hurt him. Taking my own life would hurt him. I am a snarky person, it’s true. On the outside I’m even ridiculous. I’m campy and outgoing, but there’s turmoil inside. I think if I killed myself nobody would see it coming. I can’t do that to the person I love. If I were outwardly open with the torture I feel within my soul, then perhaps death would be a welcomed alternative; people would know that finally my pain was over. It’s because of my love that I refuse to die. I hate that because I want to die sometimes. If I can’t live in a world where I am allowed to do only the things I love, then I find living in that world a futile attempt at living.

 

It’s not really about art, you know.

 

Yes, I’ve just written a novel on why I’m depressed that I can’t make a living off painting and singing and writing. But, if you haven’t figured it out already, that’s just my justification. I can’t really explain why I am the way I am to anyone. I have so many blessings in my life. It’s not that I take them for granted; I know I am lucky to be living where I am with the people I live with and around. Perhaps there is something chemically wrong with me. Perhaps there is something psychologically wrong with me. Perhaps it’s a perfect storm of both. I am probably, as a textbook might put it, insane. What normal person likes to cut himself? What normal person needs to be detached from reality the way I need to be? What normal person feels an infinite depression at even the most miniscule of setbacks? I wish, I wish, I wish I could be like the strong people I see around me every day. But I’m not. I’m weak. I’m unsuccessful. I’m physically ruined, both outside and in. I have no future. The only thing that actually surprises me at this point in my life is the amount of love I receive from my, dare I say it? Husband. Well, to me, anyway. To America, he’s just my roommate.

 

If you’ve made it through my entire post, then thank you. It’s been very therapeutic to write this. Again, let me reiterate, if you know me, please don’t tell people who I am. And don’t confront me. I know how screwed up I am and I don’t need advice because trust me, I get it whether or not I ask for it anyway. Besides, 99 percent of the so-called “solutions” require lots of money and lots of insurance, neither of which I have. If you feel for me, then maybe you could take some time and say a prayer for me, or focus some positive energy in my direction.