Decrying Gravity

It is fairly obvious than I am not a healthy individual. I am jealous, insecure, self-loathing, depressed, suicidal, apathetic, distant, [I want to say pudgy], incompetent, and acerbic. That I recognize these things does not necessarily make them easier to cope with. I can recognize, for instance, that I feel immensely hurt when you pay attention to others before me because I 1) am insecure and fear you don't truly want to pay attention to me and 2) irrationally believe that you could do things differently despite no evidence to the contrary. It is so vital to you that I trust you, and yet I often find myself asking "What if it is all a lie?"

But it still hurts to see you in pictures with your arms around others, with them writing you messages of adoration, with so.many.people.loving you. I *know* I need to believe *you* first in lieu of my own demons, but it's really not about you. It's me.

It's me seeing rolls of fat on my stomach because I've gained 5 lbs.
It's me tearing down every picture of myself because I can't stand to see my face [or have it be seen].
It's me fantasizing about digging my nails into my face until blood runs down it in thin rivers.
It's being incompetent at even simple tasks.
It's not caring enough to get better.
It's feeling dead until I feel someone else's hurt, and I can feel alive again.

It's so much more, of course. And even now, it's better than it has been before. But my need for you is desperation. You make me feel real. You draw out more smiles, more laughter, more tears, more desire, more pain, more pleasure, more joy, more sorrow than anyone ever has. That I have been thrown into such melancholic thrashing is insomuch as your absence killing me. Or returning me to the dead.

I relive you like trauma. Again and again, I see your famished and fearful eyes devouring me, lips trembling before mine, inch by inch closer, as you melted and your boiling remains washed over me. And as our scabs were torn open, our pain flowed anew and in it we were inseparable in a joy so foreign as to be miraculous.

But we do separate. Again and again, I look down again and kiss you, one last time, in the dark rain. And you leave.

I started dying, then. I inhaled your eyes, your lips, but a small part of your unknowable intensity and doing so I breathed in life. But now, my tanks are low. These petty jealousies and fickle thoughts are gasps for air, searching for you amidst the vacuum your lips last left.

I'm dying. And as I claw and atrophy, I want to stop this infinite decline and trade one asphyxiation for another. I want to die, not dying. I want to breathe so deep that I will gasp no more.

I don't, of course. For though dying, I will not die. The undead need not air; they feast upon those who are alive. Never tasting with their own tongues, never feeling with their own skin, never loving with their own hearts. They feed and stumble along, recalling life in memories and fantasies.


I have held my breath for so long, surviving on the lives others. And in these moments, when I gasp again, I wonder if it will be the last. If I will have lungs to fill, if you're ever back to fill them.

{I made this comment on a board I frequent. Reposted so I'll remember it.}

[TW: abuse, violence, sexual assault]

Something seems hollow and inauthentic about my experiences as a male. I guess because I never really believed or embraced the gender; I was just pushed into it and barely went along to avoid the consequences of nonconformance. I hated being male and generally disliked other males for reasons far beyond the various manifestations of gendered violence. So when I speak poorly of the experience, there's a hefty grain of salt that needs to go along with it. But, nevertheless:

I hated being male so much. You can't be pretty or desired. You can't break down. You can't be emotional, unless you're angry. You hide all your pain, you joke all the time, and you present or you get swallowed.

Men are disgustingly violent towards women. But they're also profoundly violent against each other. I had "friends" my entire life hit me, constrain me, pinch me, jab me, pin me, take such pleasure in my pain. Whether it's inane competitions in video games, whether it's physically dominating me, whether it's "anything you can do, I can do better." Because they're always proving themselves. They're always clawing, always jockeying.

And when they're embarrassed, when they're defeated, when they're laughed out, when they're humiliated it's stored. And just like my father and so many others do, they let it out upon those who can't or won't fight back [so so often women]. They dominate you, show they're in control, let out every negativity upon you until it's clear that at least they're better than shit like you.

Such violence is gendered, but I know women and girls act it out, too. I was always surprised at the stark contrast between my slumber parties and my sister's: In hers, her disparate friend groups would divide into camps, literally demarcating sections of the house. Some who were acceptable to other camps could cross lines, could flit around, but the politicking was as passive-aggressive as it was still violent. In my slumber parties, guys just hit each other and let out all their aggressions in plain view. There were no politics. Just assertions.

All of this is to say that masculinity needs the deconstruction and liberation significant portions of femininity gained via feminism. Because when girls can cry and boys can't, the boys find other ways to express their pain. So much of their violence was the result of other violence; cultural violence saying they needed to prove themselves, modeled violence showing no other way to be, personal violence with every hurt every person inflicts upon another.

Hurt begets hurt, violence begets violence. My father was molested and never spoke about it, perhaps the biggest hurt in a life of them. He hated himself. He found himself in a point in life where everything was misery, where he fervently believed he was unlovable, where there was simply no hope. So he dominated his family, casting a blanket of fear over us with his very presence. My sister was the one whose hurt was so angry, who hit and screamed and clawed at me, my mother. And I internalized and used the violence to hurt myself. But it all trickles down.

That's why feminism, why social justice can't just be about one group. It's all or nothing. One person's hurt becomes everyone's hurt, one way or another. And masculinity is just one place where there's so, so much work left to be done.

[TW: Suicide]

When I was a sophomore in college, I would spend hours just researching ways to kill myself. It's trickier than you might think, if you want to do it in the way that is least traumatizing to others and most likely to kill you instead of dropping you in a painful and, more importantly, expensive limbo.

-Overdosing is notoriously ineffective. Whether it's bleach or pills, they can wreck havoc on your internal organs while still not killing you.
-Gun shots are particularly grizzly for the person who finds you and obtaining them can be problematic with the confrontation involved in a background check/purchase process, a particular obstacle for the average depressive. [fun fact: on average, women attempt suicide more often, but men actually commit it more often because men use lethal methods like gun wounds and women tend to overdose].
-It's difficult to gauge how effective falls can be, even if you can access a high enough point.
-Jumping from bridges into water is likely to make your body difficult/expensive to find [not to mention the pain of being paralyzed and then sinking into water to be drowned over the course of a fear minutes].
- Hanging has to be done right and can often be rather painful. Attempting to break one's neck is ideal instead of simply relying on asphyxiation, but if the cord snaps or something goes awry you can be injured enough to be significantly inconveniencing without actually succeeding.