I guess I need to vent a little.

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I haven’t been updating this blog as frequently as I would like to largely because I feel like I have run out of things to say.  That’s obviously not true, there are always infinite things to say, but it was an excuse to hole up and hide away because that is just what I do sometimes.

I don’t really know what it is that has been eating at me these past couple of months.  I miss IDA, I guess, and I wish I had stayed longer.  I have been working as a freelance writer, which is good for a little money here and there, but it is not very fulfilling.  I haven’t gotten out much and, despite fall being my favorite time of year and Halloween being my absolute favorite day of the year, I can’t seem to even get excited about that.  I have not been as consistent as I should be with my hormone regimen and that shit isn’t even hard – I just haven’t been doing it and I don’t know why.  I started my period yesterday, which makes me hella dysphoric and I’m sure that my inability to keep a consistent hormone regimen doesn’t help my mood swings and anger issues.  I have been snapping at Lucky over everything and nothing and I had a bit of an anxiety fit over all the clutter in our room today.  Whenever I have money, I’m tempted to immediately spend it on alcohol so I can start drinking first thing when I wake up in the afternoon and get through the day with a nice buzz and a comfortable numbness.  These things are not big problems.  I am not an alcoholic or an addict of any kind and most of the things that make me anxious or upset really shouldn’t – what I am is an escapist with a huge family history of substance abuse and addiction.

In short – I don’t really think there is anything wrong with me, but I feel like there is and I don’t know why.  I am constantly upset about something, or everything and I can’t express it to others either because I can’t articulate it or I know I am being unreasonable.  I’ve been driving myself crazy inside my head for the past few weeks.

This really started a while ago – I had started feeling a little stir-crazy because I work at home and live at home and really don’t get much social interaction.  Lucky and I decided to trip shrooms together one night and wander around the neighborhood and it made me happy for a while because I pushed all the scary bad thoughts back (as I am wont to do regardless of drug use).  But as we went to bed, I was still tripping and I lied there for about an hour just thinking about life and death and all that deep shit you think about on entheogens.  Before I actually got to sleep, I came to the conclusion that one day I would kill myself.  That’s not a threat, I’m not even sure if it’s true, but I thought it just as casually as you might think about your favorite fruit.  The thought doesn’t frighten me or disturb me, really – I just don’t know where it came from or why.

That night wasn’t very long after I heard about Josh’s death.  I remember because I cried for him finally.  But I also cried for somebody new, somebody I hardly knew if ever at all.  A good friend of my family – my older cousins new him best, really, but I’ve known his mother all my life and I know I’d met him a number of times before.  His name was Matt and I had learned that he killed himself the week before.  I had also learned that he was in the closet – another Queer suicide, another Queer murder.  I didn’t know him very well at all.  I know he had a baby and, with the exception of his mother, a very conservative, unwelcoming family, and I know he used to fool around with one of his male friends.  I know he had tried to come out once, but was not accepted and was pushed right back into the closet.  He died because he couldn’t express himself and he couldn’t live with that.  Who could?  This has been on my mind for a long time…I didn’t even know Matt, really.  He was a person who lived somewhere on the outskirts of my ever-expanding world and until he died, I never knew much about him at all except that he existed.

It is an interesting habit I have – when people die, I take shrooms and trip on it.  I did it while my grandmother was dying from cancer and after she was gone.  I tripped for Josh and for Matt.  I tripped for my second cousin, even, when she died.  Someone I know somewhere I’ve been always dies and I commemorate them with a ritual shroom trip.  I don’t really know what it means and, quite honestly, I don’t know why I do most things and I don’t know what has been going on with me lately.  Perhaps I should trip on it.  Or perhaps I should be sober for a while.

I think I just don’t want to be where I am.  I’m not comfortable here – I’m anxious and angsty and tired, tired all the time.  My surrounding environment is just clutter and complacency and it makes me feel lazy and distracted.  I can’t think straight here and I hate it.  I want to go back to IDA and stay there as long as I’m welcome.  I want to make IDA happen where I am.  I wanna live in the woods and bathe in waterfalls and grow food and be a fairy with all of my beautiful Queer fairy friends who want the same.  I’m tired of television and this shitty town in this shitty state, I’m tired of concrete, cars, drama and the fucking fascist fucks who exist everywhere around here.

I have been fighting the impulse to just break shit everywhere I go (though, honestly, I don’t know why).  I think it’s time to start doing things again.  I think I have been holed up for a little too long.

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