Azraels Voice

--From Big Papa to her Little Mama!

I begin Starbucks tomorrow after my last day at Teavana this past Sunday. I really do not know what to expect, other than coffee and green aprons. So I am satisfied with that.
 

I'm just at that point where I am tired of faking it. Everything. I could be sitting in pure, festering anger and when my dad knocks on the door, I suppress my roaring, raging madness. I open the door and say, "Hey, what's up?" To some of you, this will make no since as to why it seems significant. However, to some of you, this one quick story tells you what I'm going through every day. I answer that door, hiding what it happening, and I engage in normal conversation. My dad doesn't know that just moments ago I was sitting on my bed, so angry and tired that my tears don't even come out of my eyes, I just dryly gasp small breaths and clench the sheets. "Oh god.." I whisper, "Oh god, make it stop. Stop hurting, I'm scared."
I admit to a god I do not trust that I am afraid. Of everything! Everything is a vast concept, but there it is, a category on my wall of fears. I'm afraid of thinking the wrong thing at the wrong time and having an anxiety attack. Where I am struggling to breathe, shaking so hard I feel like I have lost control of my limbs as they start to go numb, my throat closes up, my eyes sting because they can't tear up, I feel my chest start to thump. I feel all of this in three seconds. Then it continues. I sit in my room, if I am lucky enough to have this in my room, and I go through this. I go through this so many times a day. I also climb out of it every damn time. I know how to cope, I know how to get out of that one instant episode. I just don't know how to escape it completely or shut it down before it starts. So, that is why I lay there and cry dry, stinging tears and gasp for help. I am afraid of it. Every day.
 

The "Try" list emerges from most people after hearing some mention of having to go sit down.
Try medication.
Try being happy! Positive!
Try eating cleaner!
Try yoga!
Try distracting yourself!
Talk to a therapist.

I have tried all of this, I am currently medicated, going to a therapist, and doing everything I can to always make my surrounds protective, positive, and happy. It doesn't work like that. Those things are why I can climb out, however, they will never stop it.
 
Relation scene:
My uncle has depression.
My aunt is a drunk with anxiety.
My brother cuts...
My sister tried to OD before..
My friend has to see a therapist, too.
My dad has anger issues.
 
If you know what I mean, this suffices. If you don't, then think about it longer than reading and reacting.
 
Anyways. My point is, this makes me feel so isolated and alone. That I feel like I have no other choice than to cry out to a god who mercilessly rampaged his creation out of anger and hate. So loving and sweet! Aw! Thanks! No. I cry out to a god. Not God, Buddha, Ganesha, Hera, Freya, Diana, or Isis. Just something that might be bigger than this. Which never helps.
 
The reason I'm pouring this out to you, drawing it out, is because this is goodbye. I'm scared and prepared to say it, goodbye. No, I'm not going to kill myself. I've been dead for so many years, there is no point. That's just adding insult to injury. I'm just going to be leaving Polyvore behind. I really felt safe here, like my mind could explode and my tears could sink into my keyboard some nights, when I was lucky enough to actually cry like a human, and I was able to communicate my thoughts. It's time I go on from this domain. But before I go, I want to say thank you.
 

 
Thank you Jack. I love you more than you can fathom. You're my entire reason for survival. You kept me here. You kept my heart beating and my chest rising. You heard me when no one else knew what they were listening to. You held my hand through abandonment to awkward flower shop situations. You're my other half in the sense that you can keep me feeling as if someone out there can comprehend me, breathe life into me, and remind me why we keep fighting to live.
 

When I wake up, I face the terrible truth that I will get my fill of depression, anxiety, panic, post-traumatic stress, binge eating, anger, paranoia, abandonment, social anxiety, and faking a functioning, stable appearance. But thank you, because now it is just a truth, it is no longer a secret, not to you who know me. That's what will keep me going, I think, knowing that I'm not going to be going through it alone every day of my life, that eventually, you'll be there to hold my hand and start a new Sims life by my side. So goodbye, Polyvore. You hold some of the juiciest morsels of my past right in your grabbers. Keep it classy. Keep me hidden. You're so very good at that.

I am, indeed, in love with you.

I don't wanna be your hero.
 

I have had to double my dosage. I keep thinking, "This is it, accept it. This is who you are. You are depressed and anxious, you're better off that way." I fear death. My anxiety is so bad that I am constantly in the middle of dying. "Would you like to try our new pizza for FREE?!"
 
"No. Sorry. Dying. No room for pizza." I am like the entire Tumblr sphere. I am constantly DYING at all of the FEELS. I am constantly in the middle of dying, painfully, because of my anxiety. I see people dead. Like they are when it is about three months after the funeral. Decaying. Sometimes they continue to decay right in front of me. Then I remember, oh, that is gonna be me, Usually this thought would be shrugged off or even smiled at. Not anymore. No, this new DEPRESSION-FIGHTING Christian is consistently afraid of death. Not just death. No, it isn't the void. It is the action. I have NO control of my anxiety. People try to manage it, but never can they master it. Instead of just DYING and then moving on or thinking about this as just another step, my mind alters death to something I will keep feeling for the rest of my life. Death, to me, is no longer the act of leaving my body. Death is this entire fu ck-fest of a life that I have to muck through

Where have I been?
I have had so much to say, so much is going on. So why haven't I been making hundreds of sets..? Well, I do not actually have an answer for each and every one of those aborted sets. Pro-Choice, man.
The most recent thing I decided not to say on Facebook was this:
I think the most tenacious and beautiful part of love is that, even without equal rights and the sanction of the state and government, two humans can stand against the world and face the fears others have against them. They can stand against the tide of isms and misplaced personal convictions. They can love, pray, grow, nurture, and forgive. Most of all, they can live with the very honor the world may try to rip from them and the ease of mind from knowing they are being true to themselves will forever embody the spirit and nature of humanity. I am thankful for love."
 

The reason I did not post it was because my sister had "shared" a picture of a traditional marriage from the Bible's page. I did not want her to know how offended I was. Not because she doesn't support gay marriage.. But because she would rather impose her religion into politics than show support for her brother. She once traumatized me against my own sexuality and right state of mind when she entered my room as I was hanging out with my 10 month old nephew and gasped. I had been sitting with him and feeding him a peanut butter cookie, which he had successfully smeared all over my freshly changed sheets. So I, being an extremist in discipline, decided to raspberry his belly. So she comes in my room and gasps.
"are you okay?" I asked.
"Yeah, I just.." she paused, "I don't know."
"Okay. Look at this beautiful masterpiece Abe made my bed into! I LOVE it Abraham." I nudged his pudgy, sticky arm.
"I just don't know what I would do if he was ever touched.. inappropriately." She said this without caring if it insulted my very soul. Not just insulted, but revolted.
"I would be very upset if that ever happened to him. I'd kill whoever did that." I said this looking into her eyes and wishing she were dead. I wished so hard that I think she died in my heart. This hurts still. Someone forgot to come and clean that mess up.
Aside from that totally inappropriate comment, the message is clear. I am gay. SO therefore I must be perverted. I MUST without a doubt have pedophile tendencies.
 
How young I was when youth left my bones and drew open to my soul the blinds of hate.

I drop my tears for those my spirit has attached to in some way, for those whom I have given myself and left at the Time's beckon. The streams racing down my face are streets to times I cannot erase. Hours passed and past hours last in my mind as I play dull songs to ease my find. I am a whimsical wind in the tidy clean up of good ends. There is no wonder to my light, no breeze for my flight, no song to make it all alright.
The ones who held me and felt me lack what those who heard me and conversed with me received. Deceived, they leave with harsh throws and expect my love to be eternal, to them, only them, they should know where it grows. My spirit is empty of bearings to the memories of a droll soul. Free of flight, I fled into the shade of yet another empty night.
As my wings splay, I hear a distant song play. I feel it sway my very being. It is then that I find the meaning. The bringing of the Sun, rising as ever strong, it hits my covered eyes and all I could do was cry.
My hair tousled by the never ending wind. My senses lost to the familiarity of the song. My vision fixed on the overhanging Sun. It was then that my spirit whispered, "I have won, I am done."

So. I started this stuff that hits different receptors than all of the previous medications I have taken in my life. He said it will suppress my appetite, help me stop smoking, and give me just enough numbness to escape it. Here's to hoping.
 
Today was day one and I felt the effects hard. I can't help but picture that episode of Fairly Odd Parents where Timmy, or his dad, I can't remember, are talking about something hitting you. "it hit me like a bus!" *bus hits timmy* it hit me like a baseball!" *ball hits timmy* etc. This was good, though, unlike Timmy's experience. I felt nothing for six solid hours. Nothing. Beforehand I felt stable and now, at the end of the night (early morning), I can see that I didn't feel like I should die today. This is huge for me and I feel like I have become myself. Or oddly escaped myself. Either way, it's positive for now. The anxiety should creep up, and it did, worse than before. However, I won't have two choices to my day. Choice one: the cycle of waking up stable and fighting it until I break down and just sleep the pain away. Choice two: I wake up already held down and suffocated and I do not fight because I have already lost. Now I get choice THREE: I wake up depressed, or not, but there is some hope. I think this would please him to hear.
 
I'm not detaching. I'm here. I can cry out of happiness and sadness. I can feel when I should. The numbness I experience now is a side effect, it happens when I am fighting the depression back into its respective corner. This is a lot to handle, but I would not ask to be numb consistently again. I spent the past six years of my life trying to be numb so I could survive and handle everything, the only way I felt or let it out was on here. OR screaming it out to myself in my room. Now I feel like I can take this in strides, overcome and overwhelm my issues, that's step one. I just need to move past this.

Mind you, this is easier said than done. There are always going to be those days where I lay in bed and do not move, out of fear that I'll do something I will regret. There will still be nights of crying and feeling desolate. Now I have something I didn't before, I have this trust and hope in the people who are helping me and listening to me and trying so desperately to shake me down so that they can gather what I need. I need myself. Not my burdens, not my fears, not my anxiety, not my depression, not my panic, not my anorexia, not my abusive past, not my religion, not my insecurities: myself. I am more than the labels. I am more than the pathetic soul wearily treading on a path unmarked and unknown, I have discovered something. My own path.
 

I want you to know, this is not constant, I will break down, and I will be facing it all again. I also want you to know that right now, in this moment, I see the beauty and grandeur of life, my life, and I see the phenomenon that is this moment as clear as day when I wear my prescription sunglasses. I feel free. Not infinite, as I know there will be an end encroaching on my happiness and stability, but freedom for now.
 
Where there is freedom with mental illness for the patient for even a day, there is hope. That beacon will shine and be a limb to grasp onto when the rivers of suicide and depression ensue my very being. That is the miracle of climbing out of this. Knowing that when I fall back in, I can do it over again.
 

It's worth it.
 

"So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be."
 
Don't worry, I'll come to. And when I do, do not think I watched the movie and felt hope. No, I read years ago and felt acceptance. So do not worry, I know the route I am taking and the stops on the way. I know the ups and downs, I know the turns and the straight'n narrows, I know the ins and outs, I know. I see this, because I took the time to see it. I also know how you might see me, and you know what, f u c k you.
 
Sincerely,
Azrael, Christer, and Christian.

Sometimes I look back and read things that I wrote and think of them as if someone else typed it out during one of their own breakdowns. Then I wonder how many people feel the same way I do.
 

 
then it all crashes down and I feel nothing. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

The demons within crawl out from a place I have not yet reached for myself. They crawl out, grab the ones I protect, and then they leave almost phantoms in their skin. I watch and await the return of their chipper cheer. I want to rip it off their skin. I want to rip off their skin! ha! I want to watch it melt. I want to fry it and throw flour on it! I want to pour gravy on it! I want to consume it! I want to hold it within so it cannot escape! I never want to see their filth again! Their horrid, grimy filth. I want to hold it within and nurse it like a child not yet ready to open its eyes. Then I want to throw that child down a ditch. So that it may never see the light of day. I want this so bad, I can feel it. I can feel the bitterness burning my skin and the anger pulsating throughout my soul. I can feel this. I can feel this. I can feel this.

There are days, some long and weary, where I break down. I start to fall apart. I become open and sensitive to what I really feel, it is in these moments that I know what the truth is.
 

I, a strong minded and pretty guy, stand in front of a mirror and tell myself, over and over again, the truth. The truth tells me every day, at some point, what I want. There is no escaping this. I will always be this. I will always be swallowed up and tossed around in the current, but I will survive. There is no reason, there is no explanation, there is no guilt, there is no hope. The strength I have gained in surviving is a deep fallacy if put under the persona of hope. It is not hope. It is a power, something I can tap into and use, something stronger than death.
 

People ask me if I am okay, and all these images from Tumblr show up in my head, all these rants and suicide letters show up. But that isn't it. YOU did not do anything. YOU did not change me. This is me. I am static. I am me. My chip on my shoulder is that I can empathize. The troubled past, which makes me feel like a storm and my problems my aftermath, is only a reminder of my strength. Do not think I am high and mighty, I am low and lower. Always low. If I rise, I will rise by my own accord. If I fall, I will fall on my own terms. This is not up to you. This is not up to the orange bottles on my counter. This is not up to the society I live in. This is not up to the people who surround me. This is up to myself and I. If I choose to escape it, know that you had nothing to do with it.
 

 
It wasn't about me. But it was all about me. It wasn't about my past. But it was fueled by it. It is a contradiction, a race against reason. At some point, I may outrun reason, and if I do, do not chase after me. Do not try to speak that foreign language to me. I am lost. I am lost and I do not want to be anything more. I am not desperate. I am not asking for your help. I am asking for you to listen. If you choose to listen, then do not act or move a muscle. Stand still. Stand still and know that the peace you experience when you sit down after work or finish a long assignment, that unwavering peace which is always out of my grasp, know that I have attained it. Know that my heart, which is ever beating and moving, til I choose to end that song, is at this same peace.
 
I have never really known peace in the sense that you might know it. It is not something that happens to me, it is a phenomenon. Not natural or foreign, simply a phenomenon.
 
I don't expect you to understand. Just to listen.
To listen and shut up. To let me be heard and let me feel the victory that comes with that. I just want to feel that victory. I just want to want more and feel what is in my grasp. Evermore, I am detached.