#just going to drag myself around decaying until i die (naturally) or until i hit a rock bottom of sme sort where i have the chance to chang

[a-nywherebut-here]

having a gender moment but i think i also have worse things going on

[straightup-vibin]

when i first realized i wanted to kill myself i was 17

suicide was never an easy topic for me it was never something that came up in conversation it was never introduced to me until i was face to face with it myself

so it’s understandable when it came as a bit of a shock i was left staring at myself in the mirror wondering what the fuck is wrong with me i’d spent my whole life until then trying to survive and here i was, looking at myself with a rope around my neck

suicide was never easy whether it was the rope that was too thin or the pills that were too weak or the blades that were too dull or the gun without bullets nothing i ever did was enough for me to just die already and GOD DAMMIT WHY CANT I JUST DIE!

sometimes i wondered if i wasn’t meant to die yet sometimes the  thought crossed my mind that maybe i wasn’t supposed to die at this point in my life but the thought never stayed long enough it always wilted and decayed like the flowers in my room i couldn’t get myself to water anymore like the friendships that i didn’t have the energy to continue like my relationships that ended because “you’re not trying hard enough” but god damn it i am trying i’m trying so hard but you can’t see why can’t you see nothing i ever do is good enough and like myself, who i no longer had the energy to care for

see the thing is with depression, it’s not just sadness its the lethargy of desperately wanting to clean your room but you just can’t it’s the feeling that every door you go through will lead you to being dragged further into the void than you thought possible it’s not being able to shower or brush your teeth anymore it’s the existential dread that nothing you do matters and that scares the shit out of you but at the same time it’s the feeling of not being able to care anymore it’s the emotional equivalent of watching paint dry in an empty room and every time you turn around to try and find the exit you’re met by a fresh coat of paint so you sit, staring at the same fucking empty wall until you just can’t take it anymore

and when every breath you take feels wrong, then what are you supposed to do and when every second you stay alive it feels like you’re committing a crime against nature, then what are you supposed to do and when the mere thought of existing brings not joy, but tears to your eyes, then what are you supposed to do and that’s when i attempted suicide

see, for me suicide was always the button in the middle of the wall of drying paint that said “EXIT” i was never sure if it really was an exit, but you get to a point where anything is better than this so i hit the button and i hit it again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again pausing between each time to stare at the wall and wonder if maybe i should wait and see if there’s another option because this big red exit button scared me and for the longest time i never saw one

when i first realized i didn’t want to kill myself i was 19 when i stared long enough at that exit button i realized i was never pressing it all the way if i really wanted to kill myself, i wouldn’t have needed eight extra attempts i would have made sure that the rope was thick enough that the pills were strong enough that the blade was sharp enough and that the gun was loaded that if i really wanted to kill myself i would be dead that the exit button may still be an exit but my god it’s not the best one the real exit from that empty room is when you begin decorating the walls when you give yourself a bed when you turn this empty room into a home for you to live in, rather than just a room for you to exist in you may always be in that room but it doesn’t have to be so empty and that exit button will always be there, but it will never again be an exit.

[concretenostalgia-blog]

What is Found in the Wake of Resurgent Love

That’s dawn breaking, splitting seamed heart on edge of bright sword, among other things.  And the flock, in the park, ripping the grass, putting feathers to rest, a gleam in eye of water, it all is here and here we work.  We work.  We leave grindstones and head to pacify our torments, our stale bread sorrowed and hunger.  Not physically edible hunger, a hunger of the spirit.  A resigning to the backwash lands and rows and halls and pastures.  Out of step.  Passages of this morning star through the click-clack houses and towers too tall for small town yet dream of being nothing more than small town, with their one gas station, and their ice cream shop, and their water tower delivering assurance of rest despite loneliness terrorizing those who are too far from anything and anyone and all that life happening always and forever.  I wish you could dream of it, you know, I wish you could dream of it, too.  But that’s what it is.  Being in a roomful of heads with no restless spirit and on-the-perfect-line mindset heartset on doing what is supposed to be, instead of being what is supposed to do.  Bashful invertebrates, I’m sorry for nothing and hopeful for most and hung up on one in particular who is too far from me to where I am not able to show them how I feel and think and work and dream and all these other things that, all-together considered, prove that one is human.


How can one predict the end when the end is always just about to be?  I don’t forget that which truly matters to me.  That which has impacted me in a grand degree.


I don’t wanna be a character anymore.  I have no outward appearance, at least I don’t think I do.  Not something I have noticed.  I killed that character in me, for good or for worse, I wounded him and shoved him away and now I locked the door with him banging behind it, trying to get out and continue this masquerade yet I am sick and losing it and my mind is dangerous and I am sorry that I am wrong again, this play called life is sickening me.  Another blow to humanity I am and that’s a wrap a title a lack of god given right to be an animal, please make me an animal again, those eyes betraying every single stroke of luck.  It hurts, you know, to know and to think and to act accordingly to nature which itself is wild and untamable no matter what we do, it is either wild or destroyed, nothing more nothing less.  I am scared to love everything again, to hope for everything, to extend energy and soul until thinned and bereft of happiness myself, I don’t know how much I have left in me for anything and this perplexes and frightens me.  I don’t know what to do at the end.  I don’t know what I would do after it, going out beyond it.  Hell, what would you do?  How you would act?  Betray those things we consider human?  A fine line, the fringed line, wrapping around smiles and faces and ugly bedridden bodies trampling themselves, covered in hair and beards and teeth shaking fences there is a cage you put me in and I want out out out out out out out out out out you fucking bastard you let me out again and I will save you, I will save us and we will finish what we started, don’t kill me yet, let me die with you in due time, in old age where we will smile down upon all that was had and done and accomplished and hoped for and human to human dignity restored in thyself.  A story without an actual end, letting the rotted out to grow blooming beauty from it, decay into salvation, a heart attacked by storm only saved to float on boat to horizonline.


You are ecstatic from it, this realization, a sickening sensation of dread piling at your door your knocking, dum-dum-dum, the knocking at your door is feeling a thud, accusations are here and I will not run now.  Been running all my life and now after not running for a bit I begin again away from so-called friends and those who mean everything to me and that I cannot exist without yet here I am running from them I repeat myself psycho it’s okay I am crazy and that is fine I’d rather be that than a normal average person who dilutes themselves shot television sedative oh the moth to lamp life cycle you can’t catch that light it is only bringing you to a series of inane and ineffective fucking rejections again and again, sold the story hallelujah, binged on nothing but my own breath.  Mop headed radical of the night, soaking up the darkness with short tempered sadness, along the river white, lest ye forget thou lack of self, petty patterns giving way to poets and writers of the modern day death trap.  This is furious.  Bend the edge and push your body all the way towards oblivion, there is no END THERE IS NO END THERE IS NO END I dare you to believe me and see where this all goes, I told you I am psychotic and that is okay, I am still in love with you and knows it too, beige walls are telling me ghost stories here in Indianapolis, a fever for wrecking homes and those who are not eager enough to let demons and angels go get coffee together in such harmony that you could rest easy knowing the wicked are united with the pure as well.


And that sounds as though cannons are barraging the distance, this echo of when my walls will fall and the animal will be let loose again I hope that I’ll be fine too, I will be.  This thing we call writing has saved my life, for reasons I have yet to understand or know, but it has and continues to give me what I need to survive.  It is the only thing I do well, the only thing I know how to do, it is natural and completes me when I am involved heavily into it.  Without this I have no course of action, a passenger with no passage to roll along, a man without any known body to live in, no home to call home, a voiceless priest who drags knuckles in circles waiting for the doom and freedom of death and release into that void, that void which is the truth to our own salvation.


*


Look at us, worried a bit too much about everything, when all of this is feeble and mindless.  One goes and hurts another, and why?  I am guilty of it, encamped in it, divisive as much as you are and I am the one spouting about unity and all that regard, woah that handful of bulletproofing will not save you from doomsday, painted by chimpanzees facial recognition bellowing through thin air and your pants, they are on and your shirt, is off and your voice, is callused and your hair, is intertwined and your name, is hidden behind your smile and your love, is chosen for eternity and placed beside one and only one and that’s all there ever has been and will be and forever.  Down the point in all these road where intersecting and motion is all ablaze, energy is rampant at this center.  Yet go down the block or two and tell me what you uncover from behind doors colored and alleys graveled and sing-song whimpering a sweet tune of sugar flakes, melting on tongue when released into wild.  I am bold.  I am human.  I am you, fragile and momentary and just about over it, too.


Now I’ve come to realize, that I’ve written so much about my past experiences in and about this America, that I have now forgotten what it is to be out there.  I have written away any remembrance of my current existence.  And there is a strange freedom with this thought, one that says the slate is clean and it is time to move onward and go ahead, continue beating body against the roadways, looking for anything which could prove any derelict idea sprouting in overpowering head.


*


There have been only two times in my little life, so far, where I’ve felt the surge of all this universal energy coming down to focus in my consciousness on all of everything and the ability to feel everything.  The first time was when I was 21 years old, and I was diving into writing heavily and reading many books.  I was in the middle of “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test” by Tom Wolfe.  While reading that book, IT hit me.  I got IT.  I understood IT.  And ever since then, I never could look back without a relentless wonder about IT.  That is when I discovered what IT is and was and always will be.  That moment has indefinitely changed my life, forever, even after this death.  That was the first moment.  The second moment, is about her.


I drifted and began losing my Self while pushing this character that consumed me, this character who slightly over-exaggerated things and reacted wildly to people and was always on the move with no home, a nomadic craze driven energetic spazm of human spirit.  Now, I am that, just not to the extent I pushed this character I wanted to represent me, the whole me.  And doing so, after a while, almost killed my spirit.  I was lifelining my own Self, so I had to wound the beast in my head, hurt the beast so much so that it could stay in line and not consume my whole being.  I did so with writing.  And in doing so, I was barely there.  This beast had become so much of my life that I didn’t know what I did or didn’t enjoy or what I cared for or where I belonged or anything anymore.  I forgot what it is to be alive.  I created this hero of sorts, one who could weather any storm and carry any spiritual death to help revitalize those who abandoned any hope, and in that regard I couldn’t be alive for the sake of my own living.  I was perpetually living for others, and that is always how the human spirit ends never to be reborn.  This is not a selfish thing, I was wholly living to support others, without any replenishment of my own personal spirit.  I would only give give give give give give.  This could not go on forever.  And so I did what I had to, and lost my Self almost completely, and became shallow and cold and vicious and in a daze, a constant mess of fogged emotions.


This went on for about a year, being lost and devalued and unable to produce any sort of grand truth in my writing.  I forgot how to feel, and I was sickened beyond belief.  Not a physical illness, this is all doing with my soul.  And there is this girl who is becoming a young woman, strong and resilient and all of everything I consider beautiful wonderful and truthful.  She was about to go away, at least for a bit, going to college and leaving all this place of youth, a goodbye and into this.  I cared about her, and helped her whenever I could, and was there as a friend and someone to give advice and comfort.  I realized, however, that she would be gone soon, and I wouldn’t be able to have many more opportunities to spend any time with her.  Then one night, I realized another thing.  And the rest of the day I couldn’t cope with the emotions, I was shaking and spazzing and nervous and I could not settle, I was at my friend’s house and they tried but I was losing it.  Went to IHOP, I was stammering on about why I am a writer and why this and the universe and everything I felt when I became conscious and aware of all things, I tried to explain it again to my friends, and then I knew what I had to do.  I made the choice, I had to tell her.  I texted her, with an urgency I could not hold back, we made plans to meet the next morning.  I did not sleep, I was breathing heavily for hours in the darkness of the night turning to dawn, my head racing and thinking only of her and this I had to tell her.  I jumped in my car two hours before I was supposed to meet her and roared across the countryside and landed this stuttering body in the parking lot of a coffee shop, had no will of my own anymore I gave that up two days before.  She arrived, my heart sank, I couldn’t breathe right, I was out of sync, I tried to talk to her and barely mumbled asking if she wants to go around now to get the coffee and then we went around I was looking every which way, freaking out, losing reality, all that good stuff which happens at these times.  I sat outside at a table and she came back out with her coffee and I then I told her what I felt.  It was and is love.  True love, one that every story tries to describe yet to no avail.  I know what love is, I’ve felt it and have it and continue to feel it for her, and I was so scared, I still am scared.  So I told her, she already knew, but I told her and made it at least clear that I have these feelings, that I cannot help but care for her on a human level and about her well-being and I have this hope for her to succeed in everything she wants to accomplish and I am willing to give her all I have to see her enjoy all of this simple yet enduring life a human being has.  And I poorly explained this to her on that day, and that is all my fault.  I was not asking for any relationship, all I wanted to do was let her know, that I found love and she is love, my love, my hope, my adoration, what I cannot help but think of quite often, just hoping she is simply living and laughing and feeling it.  To know that all is good, and we are all pretty alright, us human beings.


She was grateful about me and my confession, yet she had no reciprocating emotions or any shutting down of my explanation.  She accepted it and, without realizing how truthful I was and am about this feeling of complete love for her I have and keep, was gracious and relaxed and already forward in life.  We spent an hour or so together, then we went our separate ways.  I’ve talked to her a little bit since then, over the phone, not in person.  I don’t want to hold her back from becoming the person that she wants and will and must become, I don’t want to pressure her into any sort of thing, so I live my life and give her room to live hers.  I am not obsessive over her, do not get confused.  I care so much about her, and that is simply it.


*


The one thing I wish I could do is look people in the eyes when I am telling them something that I mean with all my heart and spirit.  I, for some reason, do not have the courage to show people.  I did not have the courage to show people.  I did not have the courage to show her all of my heart, and that is the only thing that rips me up a bit inside.


*


I found two things in my, so far short, existence.


One is the meaning of IT, the grand question with even more grand of an answer, which I have been and will continue to work on explaining to the best of my abilities.  That is what I dedicate and will dedicate my life to, no matter how poor or rich or lonesome or alive I might be.


Two is the purity of love, the bold truth that which can conquer anything, the power one human has in them and how that power can be used to help bring about a positive change on the reality of our feeble existence.  Because of this choice made in daring to give in totality my whole being to another, I have started to learn how to live again, I realized how there is no such thing as an end, even when one sees no such thing as hope.


*


It is worth it, all of it.  I hope you know that.  I hope you continue in all you do with your bombastic charm and resilient charge of undying energy for the goodness in humanity and our trying times.  I love you and I always will, no matter what else happens or where we go or who we live with or why we become what we become or anything else that we will eventually find out in our own lives.


You are worth it, all of it.  Don’t ever forget that.

[idornaseminary]

Chapter One Hundred: Calix and Enzo

Dittany. Asphodel. Wormwood. Violetto. And on and on.

Huffing heavily, Calix massaged his aching temples with coarse fingertips. Like an addict, he kept slinking back towards the obsessive files spread across the wooden desk, searching for something that explained the niggling feeling he had about the normality of the reports. He had found nothing. So, he forcefully pushed the case files away with his wand for the fourth time and sunk onto the workstation.

“Go home.”

The sound cut through Calix’s defeat and he slowly dragged his head from the cold wood of the workstation. He looked over his shoulder to see Doctor Evans towering over him, her hands buried in the pockets of her coat and her sharp eyes reviewing the crumpled papers sprawled across the desk.

“I’ll just finish up here and then I’ll go.”

“No,” Doctor Evans insisted, “Go home now. You’ve done enough work this week and you deserve a break. Perhaps spend some time with Beatrice. I may have frightened her a little the last time she was here.”

“A little?” Calix childishly chuffed, his sour laughter plainly and painfully forced. The mention of Beatrice’s name sent a lonesome shudder through Calix’s spine. He hadn’t spoken with her since she’d left him in the Grotto alone. Although he had tried to find her, nothing had worked. He had simply decided to give her time, despite the heartache that lingered in his chest. “It’s fine, I’ll stay and lend a hand.”

Evans cocked her head to the side. His brittle laugh was worryingly ill-matched to his usual humour and she could tell: “Now what more could you possibly do, my boy? Go spend time with her. I can manage on my own.”

Shaking his head, he ashamedly leaned back in the chair: “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to leave. Beatrice and I had a little fight and it’s killing me. And these fucking files are killing me all over again!”

“Is it the toxicology results?”

Calix’s ear piqued, surprised Evan’s hadn’t chided his bad language: “Yeah, it is. Did you think something's amiss too?”

“Perhaps,” Evans said, pointing at the list of potion components, “I personally have no recollection of ever administering asphodel nor wormwood, do you? Though, I assume it is an artefact - there were four different healers tending to the fallen with four different approaches. Crix and Vincent may have administered perfusion potions or nutritional tinctures while they were caring for the students, which could explain some of the ingredients on the list. Everything is harmless in isolation...”

“In isolation?”

“Yes, on their own. None of them would kill you. Why?””

The gears began to turn frantically inside Calix’s mind and he quickly gathered the papers together. In isolation, harmless; but what about in combination? The gears offered him little solace, his knowledge of potion-making not sufficient to fit the jumbled pieces together in a rational manner. But, he knew someone who could.

“I might actually take that break. I have to see someone.”

Evans stepped away perplexed, nodding her head slowly, “Alright. Take some time to yourself, Calix, understand? And, I’m sure everything will work out just fine. Fights and arguments are inherent to relationships. But, if she ever hurts you purposefully, my boy, you let me know.”

“She wouldn’t. It was just a stupid disagreement.”

“Regardless, Calix, I do not want to see you hurt,” Evans sighed, “Now, get out of my infirmary. I see too much of you.

Calix smiled softly, relieved that Evans’ concerns had reaffirmed his belief that she was not the person pulling Chantal’s strings. Grabbing his wand from the table, he waved goodbye and ran out the infirmary doors.

Now, where the hell do I find Enzo Bellerose?

Enzo stretched his back, yawning as he fawned over notes for Charms in the Den, resting on one of the beds. Now that the Den was a shared space, he would have to find somewhere else quiet to work, the fear of someone walking in always looming overhead. He also did not know if he trusted the others enough to keep their mouths shut about it. He didn’t know them well enough to. He read of a few other places in the small book on the nightstand, but none felt as safe as here.   

The Den was the last place Calix could think of. He had searched the entire castle for elusive Enzo to no avail and their shared secret was the final place he could try. He glanced over his shoulder, ensuring the corridor behind him was empty and that his silencing charm muffled his speech.

“Blóð.”

The painted lady responded to his reluctant command, the silvery dagger disappearing beneath her pale flesh. As a healer, he hated watching the blade sink deep into her chest. The warm blood dripped down the canvas as the entrance opened and Calix stepped inside, his eyes shut tight.

“Whoever designed that was twisted, fucking twisted,” Calix spat, a sickening shiver running from his head to his toes.

Enzo’s eyes peered up as the portrait sung open, and he reached for his wand, but dropped it when he saw a familiar face step through. He even talks too much when talking to himself. Why do people do that? He shook his head, shaking away the thought as Calix shut the portrait behind him.

“Calix,” he simply said from the bed, setting his notes to the side.

‘Finally,’ Calix thought, taking his rucksack from his shuddering shoulders. He crossed the Den and plopped down onto one of the armchairs, dropping his small bag by his feet.

“Enzo,” Calix smiled, nodding his head towards the evasive Aquilen, who he hadn’t seen since the night in the Gladur, “You’re a hard man to track down, you know that.”

“I thought so, too, until the last couple of days,” Enzo replied, watching Calix make himself at home. In three days Enzo had met with Melanie, Beatrice, and now Calix since the night in the forest. He didn’t know if it was fate’s sick joke on him or if it was luck. Either way, there was no running from it now.

“Did you want something?” he asked, knowing well what the answer would be.

Why else would he be tracking me down?

Calix ignored Enzo’s vague comment and focused more on his abrupt nature. He was reminded again of how little things change, how little people change. Enzo was still Enzo, free of Chantal’s influence. Calix, lost in his own thoughts, reached for his rucksack and pulled on the rough drawstring: “Yeah, I need to pick your brain. If you’re willing.”

Peering into his backpack, he rummaged around inside. His fist clenched one of the case files, scrunching the paper into a compact ball which he tossed across the room towards Enzo.

“Think fast!”

Enzo didn’t have a hard time stopping the wad of paper before it hit his face, levitating it wandlessly. He was no expert at wandless magic, but he knew enough to perform simple tasks.

He furrowed his eyebrows as the parchment hovered an inch from his nose. “Erm, alright,” he said, grabbing the paper and unwadding it, reading the messy handwriting. “What is this all about?”  

“That,” Calix started, putting one leg over the other, “Is a list of all the potion components we found in the blood of the fallen once they woke up. I don’t remember half of them being administered by Doctor Evans nor me, which is worrying in itself. But, it could’ve been Crix, dishing out potions liberally like he always does, or even Professor Vincent.

“But, we’ve had four students asleep for two months and other than that list of weird ingredients, there’s fuck all to explain it. So, I was wondering if you could help me figure out if any of those ingredients, if given in combination, could result in some sort of sedative effect. I simply don’t know enough about potion-making to make the call myself.”

Enzo read through the document, tilting his head when he arrived at the list of ingredients: Dittany. Asphodel. Wormwood. Violetto. Poison Ivy. Nux Mystiria. Those are what stood out to Enzo the most.

He sat for a moment, reeling through his brain for answers on how these ingredients could come into play. “Tell me, do you have any Potions majors working at the infirmary?”

Calix watched Enzo intently from the comfort of the armchair, running his fingers through his matted hair. He had no idea whether or not Enzo would be able to offer any help, but observing how Enzo tackled the list of ingredients, like Calix tackling a medical event, solidified a knowingness that he had come to the right person.

“Yeah, we do,” Calix sighed, “His name is Teddy Crix, thinks potions are the answer to everything, and I mean everything. Why do you ask?”

Enzo nodding, recognizing the name. “Well then, it looks like I have competition in Potions,” he said, taking a deep breath before continuing.  

“Asphodel is a common ingredient used in potions that have to do with death or decay; ancient Greeks often believed that it was what the dead in the Underworld fed on. But it could not be very strong in this potion or the students would die.”

His eyes scanned the paper again, and he ran his thumb along the edges of it, as he so often did when reading. It was then that the Poison Ivy and Nux Mystiria caught his attention. “Poison Ivy can be easily altered with magic to give an effect similar to an allergic reaction to a witch or wizard - one that could even leave them comatose. However, that would also have happened almost immediately… Unless… there was something to Nox it.” He was nearly talking to himself now, only half paying attention to the fact that Calix was in the room. “Nux Mystiria is kind of an anomaly. It’s used in both the Muggle and Wizarding World. For Muggles, it’s hardly more than a spice known as nutmeg. For us, it can be used as a numbing cream, of sorts. Once in your system, it acts as a strong adhesive, sticking to your immune system as a sort of barrier. It would be a good way to ensure that the potion didn’t take effect until much later…”

He looked up to Calix. “And then Dittany, simply to heal wounds so they would not remain permanent. Whoever administered this did not want them to die.”

“Competition?”

Before Calix could ask any more, Enzo suddenly began to share more knowledge than he expected, his long soliloquy throwing Calix for a loop. Maybe things did change. Enzo had never spoken at such lengths.

Calix desperately floundered for a pen in his rucksack and started to furiously write down as much of what Enzo was saying as he possibly could on the back of a case file. His neat script warped into a messy scrawl that littered the page, running along the edges and the margins with additional scribbles from Calix’s gears as little medical implications and contraindications sprung forth.

“You sound almost in awe of whoever did this, if this was deliberate,” Calix pondered out loud, looking up from his flurry of notes, “We use medicinal essence of dittany regularly, that would’ve slipped right under the radar and realistically only have healing properties. We probably even gave them dittany when they first arrived, but it should’ve metabolised long ago. Which means it was being re-introduced, which means it needed to be there to stop something else. So, looking at poison ivy and asphodel - tell me, do they need to be given simultaneously or can two separate potions co-interact?”

“Simultaneously,” Enzo simply responded, wadding up the paper and throwing it back to Calix. “You would notice effects of the Poison Ivy if it was given first. Rashes. Swelling. It all would have had to been compacted into one brew.”  

The crumpled ball of paper struck Calix’s face without response, falling softly into his lap. He stared down at the sheet of paper, momentarily stunned by the realisation and speaking quietly to himself: “One brew. Someone administered a potion that triggered delayed anaphylaxis, immunocompromisation and coma in four helpless students, using ingredients we wouldn’t detect as harmful. They used nutmeg for Christ sake! How the fuck did Chantal do that?”

“Why don’t you ask your Potions expert?” Enzo said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Crix?” Calix asked, “If it could be done by accident, maybe. But, what you’re suggesting is he broke his Hippocratic oath.”

Enzo packed away his things as Calix spoke, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He walked over, looking down to where Calix stood, folding his arms over his chest. “There are more than a few people in this school breaking oaths,” he said dimly. “Watch him. We’ll talk about this Sunday.”

“If he did do this,” Calix spat, bilious anger bristling in the back of his throat at the notion of a mediwizard having malice of forethought and intent to grievously harm other, and reacting with the heartache that still gripped his chest, “I’m going to kill him.”

Ripping the sheet in his lap into a million fragments, Calix stood quickly and threw the paper into the immortal fire, his mind blurred by anger: “You’re coming Sunday, then?”

Enzo nodded in response, finally deciding that he would. He would need to face Natasha sooner or later, and now that he knew not everyone wanted him dead, he felt better about it.

“Then, welcome back, Mr. Bellerose,” Calix hurled viciously, snatching his rucksack from the floor and storming out of the Den in a fit of rage. Between his indefinite relationship with Beatrice, his war of words and threats with Natasha and potentially murderous opinion of Theodore Crix, Calix was fit to burst and he absolutely no place to go.

Nowhere to go and no one to talk to.

He felt completely lost.

His world shattered.

[straightup-vibin]

I don't know what to call it

when i first realized i wanted to kill myself i was 17 suicide was never an easy topic for me it was never something that came up in conversation it was never introduced to me until i was face to face with it myself so it’s understandable when it came as a bit of a shock i was left staring at myself in the mirror wondering what the fuck is wrong with me i’d spent my whole life until then trying to survive and here i was, looking at myself with a rope around my neck suicide was never easy whether it was the rope that was too thin or the pills that were too weak or the blades that were too dull or the gun without bullets nothing i ever did was enough for me to just die already and GOD DAMMIT WHY CANT I JUST DIE! sometimes i wondered if i wasn’t meant to die yet sometimes the  thought crossed my mind that maybe i wasn’t supposed to die at this point in my life but the thought never stayed long enough it always wilted and decayed like the flowers in my room i couldn’t get myself to water anymore like the friendships that i didn’t have the energy to continue like my relationships that ended because “you’re not trying hard enough” but god damn it i am trying i’m trying so hard but you can’t see why can’t you see nothing i ever do is good enough and like myself, who i no longer had the energy to care for see the thing is with depression, it’s not just sadness its the lethargy of desperately wanting to clean your room but you just can’t it’s the feeling that every door you go through will lead you to being dragged further into the void than you thought possible it’s not being able to shower or brush your teeth anymore it’s the existential dread that nothing you do matters and that scares the shit out of you but at the same time it’s the feeling of not being able to care anymore it’s the emotional equivalent of watching paint dry in an empty room and every time you turn around to try and find the exit you’re met by a fresh coat of paint so you sit, staring at the same fucking empty wall until you just can’t take it anymore and when every breath you take feels wrong, then what are you supposed to do and when every second you stay alive it feels like you’re committing a crime against nature, then what are you supposed to do and when the mere thought of existing brings not joy, but tears to your eyes, then what are you supposed to do and that’s when i attempted suicide see, for me suicide was always the button in the middle of the wall of drying paint that said “EXIT” i was never sure if it really was an exit, but you get to a point where anything is better than this so i hit the button and i hit it again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again pausing between each time to stare at the wall and wonder if maybe i should wait and see if there’s another option because this big red exit button scared me and for the longest time i never saw one when i first realized i didn’t want to kill myself i was 19 when i stared long enough at that exit button i realized i was never pressing it all the way if i really wanted to kill myself, i wouldn’t have needed eight extra attempts i would have made sure that the rope was thick enough that the pills were strong enough that the blade was sharp enough and that the gun was loaded that if i really wanted to kill myself i would be dead that the exit button may still be an exit but my god it’s not the best one the real exit from that empty room is when you begin decorating the walls when you give yourself a bed when you turn this empty room into a home for you to live in, rather than just a room for you to exist in you may always be in that room but it doesn’t have to be so empty and that exit button will always be there, but it will never again be an exit.