Life does not come with a guide book. Basically, everything we think, do, or say, are all educated guesses derived from more educated guesses. Doug Stanhope said it best: “To be human is to be wrong,” or some shit like that.

We’re all born onto a giant rock so large that it hurtled through space until it found something larger than itself to revolve around. From there, living shit popped up and began to fuck-badda bing, badda boom- now you’re here reading some dumb shit written by a dumb shit with a computer and an infant’s knowledge on how to use the internet(turns out it is more than just porn and memes).

What was I on about?(read in a British accent it’ll make more sense) Ah yes: Life. What are we doing? Where are we going? Why do you play that game? Oooh, can I join? Oh, well I didn’t wanna play anyway. Ya see, all I have are questions, and very rarely do I have or get answers. In fact I sit around with my friends and ask: “Do you have a plan? What is going on?”

They reply: “I thought you had a plan, I don’t have a plan”

It then goes: “I don’t have a plan. So if you don’t have a plan, and I don’t have a plan. Who has a plan?

“Well, that’s the question isn’t it?”

I also forgot to mention that whenever I encounter anybody that “seems” to have the “answers” I think they are full of shit!(heavy emphasis on the air quotes, and read the underlines passage as if Lewis Black was yelling it).

This rejection of any objective truth or lack thereof leads me to think that maybe I’m the cause for the never ending revolving door of existential angst that I posses(or maybe it is a hamster wheel?).

In conclusion, I apologize if I misled you with the opening paragraph-I don’t apologize for the title. Maybe you started to reading this hoping to get some insider info on the meaning of life, only to be severely disappointed by the internal monologue of a 20 year old up late cause he can’t seem to sleep, for that I am sorry.

Cheers,

Titch

P.S. I’m full of shit too, don’t let me fool you.

 

After a long week of traveling and gallivanting across southern France and northern Italy, it was time to head back home to Lille. Waking up, bleary eyed and dog tired from a night of drinking and merriment with my friend Eric, I gather my things and headed out the door of our hostel to the bus stop that would take me to the airport. The time was seven o’clock in the morning, and my flight left at nine. I had awoken early because I did not want to have a frantic run through the airport in an attempt to make my flight-an escapade that kicked off the holiday and almost caused me a heart attack.

Getting on the bus and making sure to validate the ticket that I bought, to ensure that the Nice Transportation authority didn’t pull a sting operation on me like they did the night before-a mistake that cost me and my friend 69 euro en totale.

I arrived at the airport around 7:30 A.M., stopping to get a pain au chocolat and a coffee to keep my hunger at bay, I began bounding up the steps to the airport terminal. With Time by Pink Floyd playing in my ear(not realizing the irony of the song) I pulled out my passport to scan at the self-check in. Fully expecting my face, I was instead greeted by my friend’s mean mug. I paused, and closed the passport. Opened it again, and once again was greeted by the expressionless gaze of my friend. The time was eight o’clock, I had one hour to get to my passport back. Mass hysteria and panic ensued: holy shit we must have switched passports when we got stopped by the transport authority. Ah damn, how am I gonna reach him.

I begin to run the gambit of contacting him: Facetime, iMessage, Facebook Messenger, even the archaic “phone call.” All the while, frantically trying to contact my friend, I remember something he had told me the night before. My brain-on the verge of short circuiting under the stress that I have imposed on it-remembers him saying something to the effect of shutting his phone off every night so as not to be disturbed by external forces. Which is respectable, but not when you’ve switched passports and the plane I need to get on leaves in an hour!

So, while my internal monologue is that of me screaming, I walk up to a desk and explain to them the predicament that I am in. With sorrowful looks and a consoling tone they tell me to try and hail a cab to retrieve my passport telling me that it is the only way for me to get on my plane in time. Taking a deep breath I walk outside to try and get a cab, only to find that every single cab that is in the airport terminal to be vacant, no driver in sight. Now, I’m pacing around the terminal like a madman, messaging in vain, and sweating like a pig(after all it is the South of France and I chose to wear a zip up sweatshirt).

I finally got a reply from my friend, and we make a plan to meet at terminal 1. Me: still panicking begins to run to Terminal 1-the logical move would’ve been to take the free shuttle between the two terminals, but logic at this point has been thrown out the window and run over by a truck. Running, with jeans, a backpack, and my aforementioned sweatshirt, I get to my destination, and am looking even more like a madman now. I am mumbling to myself, continuing to pace, and the sweat is dripping down like a leaky faucet(at this point people passing by must think I am crazy).

I waited and watched as countless busses passed by, and witnessed the minutes tick away on my watch. Finally the panic began to subside and acceptance took over: I am not in control of any of this right now, so there is no reason to keep worrying, I told myself. It was at this point that I felt one with myself and the world around me, I felt solid and whole(who would have thought that losing my passport would bring me so much Zen).

While I was being a counterculture Zen master, the infamous 52 bus showed up(the same bus that we had gotten busted on the night before). My friend stepped off and I was snapped back into the reality of making my flight. Handing me my passport all he had to say as I ran off was: “You’re an idiot,” meanwhile all I was thinking was: it’s showtime baby! Let’s make this plane!(in my head Mission Impossible music was playing). Stepping onto the free shuttle to Terminal 2-logic having been reinstated- I made it to the terminal with ample time to spare. The same people that I plead with earlier at the desk, with a surprised look on their face, gave me my boarding pass. I walked through security and boarded the plane feeling like I just pulled off the greatest stunt the world had ever seen. When in reality the whole escapade could have been avoided by just simply checking to make sure I had my passport before I left the hostel.

The sky is black and grey

I haven’t seen the sun in ninety nine and one half days

What is this sick trick that life plays?

Living in a foggy haze

All I do is gaze at the ceiling

Hoping that it will provide some healing

But all it is, is stealing

 

Days turn to weeks, into months

And I am still reeling

 

When will these dark clouds start receding?

 

But they never do

That is not the point, that is not the truth

The truth is: dark clouds come and go

They go as the cold wind blows

But what you need to know: there is always hope

That it is no trope

Because above those clouds is a new hope

A bright burning hope

Where in the middle of the darkness there is a light

And it shines so beautiful and bright

Even if the dark clouds cover it at night

Take solace in knowing that it never goes out

It never lets the darkness win without a fight

 

**TRIGGER WARNING: this post includes topics such as self-harm and suicide.

This isn’t a sappy love story. It starts with a suicide attempt.

I found myself on the floor contemplating death, blood running down my body. I am bipolar, and this was a particularly bad depressive episode. For days at a time, I lay in fetal position, crying for hours and wishing the pain would go away.

He had done all he could to make me happy. My serious boyfriend of a year had brought me frozen yogurt, held me as I cried, and taken me on a hike. Nothing worked. He loved me so much, and hated to see me hurt like this. The only thing he could actually do to help was to take away all the sharp objects and hold me back as I tried to jump out of the window.

Months later, he crushed under pressure. I had solely counted on him for support. Yeah, I had great friends. I had a therapist and a psychiatrist, and my family helped as well. But he was the one I trusted with everything. And it was too much. No one should have to save someone from suicide. We broke things off. I was heavyhearted and broken. It was time for me to learn to live on my own.

Let me tell you, I am not stagnant. After my boyfriend and I broke up, I healed. I learned from what went wrong and the hurt that was caused. I discovered methods of self-care and medications that would help with my bipolar disorder. I stopped self-harming. I created a crisis plan with the help of my amazing best friends. These were all good things. I learned how to feel safe and sound and cared for by myself. I learned how to love myself.

But I never really felt ready to try again. Sure, I hooked up with people. I would find a cute guy, spend some time with him, and then leave. Or he would leave. And that was fine.

It’s better if I can’t trust him, I thought. Then I don’t have to share this part of me. I can just keep pretending that everything is okay. I don’t have to cause him pain or anxiety. I won’t depend on him. Everything is better this way.

You see, it’s impossible for me to be in a relationship again.

I care very deeply for the people closest to me. My favorite thing to do is listen to someone I love. Listen to the things they care most about—listen to their joys, their hurt, their anxieties, and hopes and dreams—and share mine. These are moments I thrive in. I love to hug and kiss and cry and cuddle and laugh and talk for hours.

I care too much about the people around me to involve them in this shit.

I’m okay, but it’s still shitty. I have no authority over my body. I spin out of control upon a moments notice. I won’t sleep for weeks at a time. I lose my short-term memory capacity. I am impulsive and have a tendency of thinking about walking in front of trains. I lose sight of what is important. Most of the time I feel like the world is ending. I feel violent or hopeless or infinite or all three at once.

And I don’t want to put that on anyone else. So I will continue to meet men, sleep with them, break my own heart and drift away.

But the desire is still there. It’s not abnormal to want someone to hold you close and really care about you. It’s not wrong to want a deeper relationship than just sex. I’d like someone I could trust. But it’s complicated. Love stories always are.

Signed,

-xxxx