Babys First Blog Post
I have been journaling for a few years now because I stopped believing an audience was going to read what I was writing. I also stopped putting pressure on myself to detail my day, because I don’t care about that since I just lived it. I journal about my hopes and dreams and what I think about things. I kind of started doing this 1. to talk to God and let him know whats up and 2. to stop texting my friends as if they are God because they don’t usually know the answers to my insane questions.
To begin journaling regularly I also stopped thinking about the word diary or my handwriting or the notebook I was writing in. I am a tangential thinker and speaker, and I write that way too. It’s easier and I write more when I just let myself do that. Similarly, when I read books now, I let my mind wander to elsewhere while I’m still reading. I used to jerk myself back to the page, but I realized I can actually just reread the page. It’s a pretty nice feeling to have your mind wander like that, because your brain is stimulated by something you just read. Maybe not the point of reading, but a pleasant side effect.
When I journal I jump between a previously-unused spiral notebook I got in college (red), a leather bound journal I took from my last job (black), and a legal pad I took from my current job (stained, crumpled). This obviously makes the story-telling very nonlinear, but its all there. I have some kind of idea which eras pick up and drop off in which journals. There’s a few years’ worth of entries. I also throw in some doodles because I’m playful and I enjoy picture books and I watch adult cartoons on television cos I’m just into that kind of shit.
I did reread my journals recently and was delighted to find out I had been a reliable narrator in my storytelling. More on this in a second.
In an act of self-exploration and in needing a creative outlet, I finally tapped into my brown paper bag of psych ward Artifacts this winter. Left untouched in the back of my closet since creation (circa 2020-21), the bag had piles of paper scraps, grippy socks, drawings, pages ripped out of books, playing cards, etc. Artifacts. I chose to sift through the bag in an effort to lift myself from the far end of the bipolar spectrum (depressed) utilizing the other (manic). I called the contents of the bag Artifacts while I was still in the process of making them, which is pretty cocky and pretentious and completely true to my line of thinking in The Ward. I looked at them recently, not manic, and thought: God Babe, you’re Soooo Smart. But unfortunately you are Sooo Crazy.
This shit was genuinely crazy. When I dug through and organized things (by plans/ideas, by artwork/drawings, by musings) it made more sense. It was difficult to organize in these categories, because everything was spaghetti. No blank spots anywhere. Riddles and drawings all over everything, even the playing cards I stole. It was all very tangential. I used markers and spilled water on the markers to make water color. I talked about my day, my thoughts and feelings. Of course none of it was linear. Of course not, it’s not even linear on my best day outside of the Ward. It made me sad because - not to do this and get flamed on my very first blog but - there are people I see on the streets compiling and scrawling the way I was doing in the ward.
Side note: I didn’t know the shitty ward I was in costed a fck ton of money until recently, and I made a Tiktok a few months back saying some shit about recognizing myself in the homeless/unhoused population - which I knew could not be said without a proper explanation. This is what I was referring to. I often say things that I believe to be true, and can back up, but probably shouldn’t say off the cuff. I’ve always done this, and it has always pissed people off.
But I did mean that I’ve been there, mentally, not physically. I’ve been there meaning, been soooo fucking offit crazy. My circumstances (parents’ insurance) prevented me from having the same ill-fate. And I’m sitting on the spotless-white freshly vacuumed shag carpet in my childhood bedroom, looking at my very colorful Artifacts and thinking, wow, there is some Real Genius at work here! I post that shit on my socials and people say the same thing, but I am just Cute White Girl making absolutely insane shit seem so cute and raw and genius. And it looks exactly the same as street guys shit. Drawing parallels here, feeling illegal for saying that, but that’s how I saw it and is still how I see it.
Anyways, the point being, and I’ll get to this on a deeper level at some point, but I do think that there is serious untapped genius in mental illness. I really was onto about 50 things at once, and because it was my same brain then and now, I knew what the Fck I was talking about. And there was alot of ripped paper and writing over writing and disjointed thinking...but I was fascinated because it did make sense. My mom thought that was a bag of trash, but I did not see it that way because I am always just Simply Fascinated by myself. So after I sifted through and did some semblance of organization (as much as you can do with this sort of thing) I put all that shit in a longchamp bag I used in college and brought it to my apartment in New York, where it lives wedged next to my dresser.
I’m like, definitely gonna Do Something with all my psych ward artifacts…when I get around to it!!! I write that facetiously but I actually mean it. I am Big on The Idea of mental health advocacy, if this isn’t obvious! I haven’t, like, done anything about that? But its a performance based exercise in advocacy (what I tell myself).
I did discuss with (hate to admit) Chat GPT. We figured out a 5-10-25-50 yr plan for me to do some real boots-on-the-ground advocacy. I have educated myself about 13% on the sociopolitical landscape of mental health. But of course it is my purpose to advocate for mental illness. Despite the fact I dedicate very little to educating myself on the landscape. And of course you are not supposed to reveal your plans in case the OPPs tune in and sabotage. I do have God on my side and my OPPs could never beat God, so I’ll say my one true hope and dream: I wanna make a beautiful psych facility that looks like a castle / Miss Pedigrews Home For Peculiar Children or whatever the book is / the Skins UK Psych Ward type aesthetic, and the idea is that people can come and go as they wish (whatever) and patent their ideas and revisit them when they’re not Crazy as Fuck and offit. So the promise of recognized genius, money, or the love of their mental-illness fueled ideas can be a lure for them to come back. It’s not a money-maker, its out of the goodness of my heart once I have 1 Billion dollars. So these people rehabilitate and work on their projects in an increasingly more civilized way until BOOM, they’re rich offit too. If they’re generous maybe they’ll toss some money back in, or come speak, or give the place some shares in their Very Successful company or whatever. Somehow it’ll sustain itself. And it’s cushy and nice at this place because all the cash flow, and everybody is making new friends and being geniuses and feeling the aesthetic creative vibes and getting rehabilitated too, so why not? I should patent that idea so Zuck or Musk or Someone Important and Potentially Evil doesn’t find this very blog post and steal my idea and make it twisted.
Anyways, back to journaling, and how I discovered what a reliable narrator I am of my own life (to my best ability):
Unfortunately, this anecdote is about a guy. Usually I harp on a guy until I find a new one, and I have been very femcel lately. I’ve been swearing up and down that I didn’t really like ThislastGuy all that much. BUT I bring him up on a regular (almost daily) basis. I literally think of him, like, all day. There has been no one to replace him yet, so I’m valid for that! Like, why think of my hopes and dreams when I can sit around and think about Guys. Especially think about Guys that I apparently didn’t even like! So anyways, I’ve been telling my friends that in retrospect, I don’t believe I even liked ThislastGuy at all. I’m admitting that I think of him every day, but it’s because my ego was wounded, not because I have emotions. Sure, we spent a lot of time together. Condensed in a few month span, naturally making it illegitimate (in the olden days people didn’t live that long, so I’m P-sure their romances were also a few months long, before they died of plague). BUT! Back to me. I remembered I wasn’t all that pressed to journal the day-in day-out details of time-spent with ThislastGuy. Usually thats like, all I wanna fckng talk about. Maybe I am growing up and maturing? Maybe I am more grounded because sober? Maybe I am just saying I didn’t like him because my feelings were hurt and my ego was bruised by the way things went down in the end? So I was also kinda asking them, like, do you think I liked ThislastGuy? Like, could you tell? Like, can you please tell me if I ever even like him? Please tell me I didn’t so I don’t feel bad about the way things went down? And they were like: Kelley, I don’t know what YOU were feeling. Kelley, you are so back and forth with those things anyways. Like, you change your mind every five minutes, Kelley. Which, true. But I’d prefer if my friends would just know everything about me always, more than I know about myself. I’d appreciate if they could read my mind and see into my soul and tell me exactly what I’m thinking and feeling, because I can’t figure it out for myself. Like, get real dirty with it, and my hands are clean from ever having to know myself, cos I’m mucky. Also, because I don’t like making a decision that big (a decision about feelings) (because if I make a decision that gets my feelings hurt, then I am not trustworthy). So the great news did come, that I didn’t have to make a decision about what I felt about ThislastGuy after all. I decided to re-read the black leatherbound journal, which I knew would feature stories from That time (because I’m very smart and keep track of which journals I write in when, and That time feels like forever ago, but it was only 6 months ago). Lo and behold, the ultimate truth was revealed. In my journal, I stated: I was not too sure about whether I liked ThisGuy all that much. Yes, I wrote this while I was seeing him. It was in writing! The proof that I was not lying to myself and my friends because I am an egomaniac. I am, in fact, a reliable narrator! God, I’m so glad I stopped thinking about journaling as a diary. It is a great resource to me in times like these! Of course, I gave ThislastGuy credit where credit was due (so reliable and trustworthy of me to do this, in writing). The facts are: I liked that he complimented me and was extremely available with his time, and that he was particularly kind to me. I liked that he gave me silly little candies and gifts and I didn’t ever touch my CC. Except for that last dinner, when I was pist AF and bought myself candy to eat, on the way to dinner, knowing I would not be ordering at the restaurant. This happened because 1. I wanted to be petty and immature 2. I love candy and the BonBon shop was on the walk to restaurant 3. I was sick to my stomach at The Situation, candy would soothe 4. I don’t like eating with my invisalign situation anyways, because I’m shy and it’s embarrassing manhandling my retainers. The reason I ate candy was because of my retainers, and definitely not because my feelings were hurt, but rather because I would do the feeling-hurting, by being petty. So, I was really smug when I didn’t order, and snacked on my candy and was not a good conversationalist. I would not be breaking bread with ThislastGuy, knowing he was about to become ThislastGuy, and I found it really weird that we even went to dinner that night anyways, after Certain Things had transpired. Eating candy at a restaurant is very childish and is an example of very bad manners, but I was blinded by my disdain. I was happy to offend ThislastGuy, but I’m actually not quite sure he noticed my protest, and I may have only embarrassed myself in front of the waiter, and did not inflict Damage as I had planned. Anyways, my conclusion in my journal (the black leatherbound one) was that I can’t date super alt guys anymore. I did not mention the candy situation, but I remember it very clearly. I conflated the things I didn’t really like about ThislastGuy with his being “alt”, and I did not dwell on situations with him, because deep down I knew he was not the One for other reasons. And honestly? Whatever helps me sleep at night. But truthfully, truthfully, I am just not that Alt. And I’m not saying this as an excuse because my parents point-blank asked me to stop bring home Weird Guys (kinda alt guys, not full alt) to my house in New Jersey. My parents meet these guys, tell me things like: you shouldn’t be dating Weird Guys. They do not mean alt. Only thing is, I happen to be kind of weird Girl, so….
For the record, I bring home guys relatively quickly, because when you’re lovebombing, there’s literally no time. This is definitely similar to olden-day romances, where they have to wed very quickly before they die. In my case, I am rushing for no reason (death unfort is harder to come by these days) and I usually haven’t found out just-what-type of weird these Guys are before they come on back to New Jersey. Its very omg blink and its over come meet my parents so we can talk about this strange era for me at the dinner table. Literally, come to my house, please, this whole thing will come up for years, and it will make me look really odd in front of my family. Please come home with me.
I think it’s good practice to give my family reasonable evidence of the guys I choose to casually date, so when they tell me to “stop dating beta males” and to “PLEASE just bring home someone we can hangout with” I know that they are being truthful and reliable narrators. I like not having the responsibility of detailing a person, and deciding whether they are likable, or weird. (Apparently you cannot be both, at least not to date) Weird relative to me, which is a tough one to figure out. Liking someone is also a tough one to figure out.
As much as I want my family to think I am a Perfect girl who is Desired by Hot Guys, they are not the deciding factor in phase 2 of my dating history (yet to be history because it is yet to come). The phase 2 logic is that it doesn’t matter if a guy is alt, it does matter if he is a different kind of weird than me. It does matter that he treats me in a good way that is worth journaling about. I don’t need to date hot guys either. I haven’t, but I don’t need to. I have much to say about why, but, I don’t really want my first ever blog post to be entirely about boys because I’m trying to decenter men or whatever (femcel).
The more important topic is: while I don’t believe people are reading my journal, per-se, I do believe an audience is watching me IRL all day every day, Truman show style. Before I ever watched the Truman Show movie, I thought this could be true. I think the simulation theory we dabble with is actually this: there is an OtherSide, spectating life on earth, watching perhaps the best movie of all time - and I am the star.
That is probably the only logical explanation for why my life has been such a shit show so far: emphasis on show because I’ve made it very entertaining with my relentless sense of humor about everything. And my colorful vocabulary. And because I can be so cute sometimes! But bad things have to happen for character development/plot etc. Obviously. The viewer remains very engaged with my story because shit just keeps going very wrong all the time. I personally don’t watch TV or movies much because I don’t like watching things go wrong. Not enjoyable for me.
My mom is a big fan of “just be happy” and “think good thoughts” and if only it were that easy. There’s alot to be happy about but I think I will list all the shitty things that happened in my life so far first, and then you can assume everything else is absolutely fckng perfect with me and I’m obsessed with life and all things that pertain to living. Like happiest girl ever (which explains why I giggle so much, giggling that was recently pointed out, and I can’t stop ruminating on whether this is a good or bad thing).
Bad things:
Not keeping my british accent because I was 4 when we moved back to the US. Sigh. No one would’ve ever talked shit to me if I talked back all posh.
Getting yelled at as a kid and freaking the fck out. Like actually not-ok, unreasonable, and disproportionate reactions *but only in my Head, reasonable outward response because I want to be Perfect*
Likely the start of my extreme self loathing and negative self talk but like, totally unnecessary. I just think bottling it up was a weird move because now it rots in my brain.
Like, imagine you’re 4 and thinking you’re the worst girl in the world because you got a little hot sauce on your tongue, and you’re literally having a meltdown in your brain, but you actually have The Best Table Manners for a 4-year-old, as mentioned to this day
Getting ganged up on by my friends and hated on by my friends older siblings. To my understanding: I was cool enough to be a solid member of my middle school friend group but not cool enough to be respected by the older kids/older siblings. I don’t even know. This one hurt tho
I did create a catfish Facebook and successfully catfished some of these idiots. I did it for fun, not for revenge, which maybe is the weird part. I got found out because I logged in on my friend’s family desktop and her older brother (whos friends I was catfishing) connected the dots. At the time I was embarassed, but deep down proud. As an adult, I am 0% embarassed about this and 100% proud. it was a very fun endeavor.
They did steal my bike for a whole summer. They did give it back when I would steal their skateboards and skitch on my friends bike seats (look it up, i’m really cool and chill like that)
I also know how to Double on the handlebars, so fcking keep my bike, I’m deffo a really cool chill laid back kid and I’m not hurt that you took my fckng teal electric blue bike I hate that color anyways.
Eventually getting bullied by my friends
to be fair, I just made new friends from a different school. Because I’m a gemini or something idk but I cried alot and my mom cried because like, how awkward. And sad or whatever. There were like 28 kids in my middle school class. IDEK where they are now, but not here XD
My cool ass babysitters who thought I was kinda weird I think. Becoming kinda obsessed with how cool they were. Thinking I will literally never ever be that cool. Discovering they were all addicted to Heroin? Idk. Sad arc. They were still body and fashion tea though. I think they still are? to all the above? Idk idk.
Only having one sibling :( and being the older one :( ugh
Being an alcoholic from my first sip of liquor. I don’t even get the chicken or the egg question. Like blatantly obvious blackout drinker from day 1. Booooo
All the stupid shit I did drunk and all the scars I have from drinking (story time in a later blog bc why not)
gnarly one on elbow. literally disgusts people. SAd! Two on one knee one on the other. One on chin. Crown and root canal front tooth, which counts as scar. Back of head (that one highkey dumb af)
Sexual assault from 5th year senior when I was a wee 2 week old freshman (Still sad for her). Such vulnerable prey. Obviously this is layered and theres a timeline but no need to get into details until I can dox him on a stage one day, but for now he just has a receding hairline and hopefully some guilt and maybe some fear, if he knows i’m trying to Put Myself On. (I journaled that I’d do the onstage doxing in lieu of reporting him to authorities, before I ever thought about how I’d eventually Put Myself On. This was a selfish choice on my end, but I deserve to be selfish under the circumstances, and ultimately I was able to have a normal college experience yatta yatta. And I found God thanks to this experience so its not all bad. No joke, like, read the bible that I only owned for 2 weeks at that point, because I had to buy it for a Freshman Religion class that semester. So I read a Ye Olde English ass bible and wept in my Freshman Dorm bed that was 50 feet off the ground, and was like, This is Soooo Real. After that I was lowkey bout Jesus, so I went and got those Daily prayer excerpt books from Costco, which I really seemed to enjoy when I was manic, based on the scrawlings and highlights in them now)
Getting Diagnosed Bipolar!!! Definitely like silver linings to this (things we tell ourselves, genius and such, aforementioned)
but worse, the extremely public Manic episode that led up to Bipolar diagnosis (sophomore year, first semester)
The psych ward stint and not realizing that it would be the nicest of the psych wards I’d visit :/ you never really know til you try I guess…
Subsequent manic episodes and psych ward visits & btches talking sht about my crazy ass. Like I’m So Sorry that me acting batsht and being completely offit in public/online gives me Depth and Complexity. I am so sorry that I’m naturally Very Interesting and You are Very Boring and always will be.
I genuinely feel this way ^ not even being silly. The bitches who I know talk about me, are boring. I was always bored around them.
Fights with family and friends. Obviously everyone has these and I’ve had less and less as I’ve gotten more and more selective with my circle, and more seasoned at living, so this one doesn’t even count I guess!!!
Which turns me to a lighter note.
It’s impolite to trauma dump for a long time I think, you have to do it in waves. And if you couldn’t tell, I do try to brainwash myself into having a positive attitude/silver lining outlook on these things. I think brainwashing and gaslighting obviously work great, so I do it to myself. I do think deep down I want to be a happy person but many factors make me very nihilistic and cynical. I also think it can be funny to just admit how bad everything sucks, laugh it off because what can you really do about it, and then resume living Shitty Life but LOLing about it. It seems tiresome when you zoom out, but in the moment…you’re laughing. I giggle a lot (aforementioned).
I have stories about getting scolded by my friends for laughing at things that were traumatic (for me). It is ridiculous for people to scold you for #coping but whatever. I will tell those stories, but not now.
I don’t really know what I’m on about at this point.
In summation: I stopped asking my friends and my parents about the hypothetical that they’re paid actors because if they were, they wouldn’t tell me. If deep down I believe they are (I do) at least I am the star of the movie. And if I don’t know for sure if my life is a movie (my lifes a fucking movieeee) then I am a really, really great method actress and winning awards in the world where people are watching. In this world I am not winning any awards, I am hyper-focusing on Bad Things and Guys, and the reason people watch me on social media is because I shitpost 4X a day and the algorithm seems to take a liking to that kind of manic ass behavior. The algorithm is like: lets give this girl a shot. She’s a performer. She’s method acting, right? Otherwise the shimmy would be creepy, and she might be offit….
OR the writer of movie plot on the otherside got bored with my plot, and is like, this girl needs to level up. The writer edited the script, widened the audience a bit, in order to show the gravity of my eventual crashout. Then as always, despite all the accumulating bad things, I have a comeback. It’s all very heartwarming stuff, if you don’t focus on how exhausting it all is.
This is the kind of thinking that is really dangerous for someone who is mentally unwell ^ so I try not to think about it too much actually. But sometimes, I indulge. Similar to letting my mind wander when I’m reading a book, or eating candy in a bitchy way at a restaurant.
It may not have seemed it, but I tried really hard not to be tangential, and I don’t think I will try that hard in the future. If you read this far thankxxxxx I hope you like this Xxxxx
