I'm Keith. I'm 27. I'm Australian. I've never really been the kind of person who fits in, anywhere.
I tend to stand out, for better or worse. I tend not to care what most people think of me, except the people who encourage me to keep being me.
I'm the kind of guy who will quite happily walk down the street in a trenchcoat, top hat, vest, and tie, and not care about the weird looks I get.
I've got three piercings, and one tattoo. I'm looking to get more tattoos, but I'm not sure about more piercings.
I vent my frustrations, anxiety, and depression by writing what could be described as rock music inspired poetry, and frequently by just simply writing about them on this very blog.
I believe the world would be a better place, if we could each make an effort, at least once per day, to make someone else smile.
Feel free to add me on: Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/KeithLearmonth
Windows Live: Keith_Learmonth@hotmail.com
I’ve had some ideas, but nothing solid.
If I knew where to get a really good quality black that wouldn’t be permanent, I’d consider pink and black.
I’ve also thought about trying something new, like an aqua, or something, or perhaps just going back to a bright red again.
Do you have any suggestions?
Before reading, I must warn you, this post contains mentions of suicide.
Because you think that religious observance outweighs them… You’re part of the problem in the world right now.
Your religion should be a personal choice, and if you must be an ignorant bigot because of it, do it in private, on your own time. You know, the same as you expect “the gays”, or “the atheists”, or whichever group you have a problem with to do.
Lead by example. People probably won’t follow it, but at least you won’t seem quite so far behind the times.
Humans have a big cluster of dead keratin tendrils growing from our heads and we arrange them in different configurations and worry about whether other people find our keratin tendril arrangements aesthetically pleasing.
I feel like I need to try telling people “I find your deceased keratin tendrils pleasing to the eye”, just to see what they say.
Not only does it make that person more susceptible to concussions, it also increases the chances of all subsequent concussions being much more severe.
In a way, I think this is a good analogy for being betrayed, or hurt by someone you trust.
Every time someone you think you can trust lies to you, it makes it harder for you to trust people, and hurts more every time.
I’m glad that I have a small circle of people I truly trust.
Some of them will even read this, so to those people, I say thank you.
The two different sides that some people have.
The side they portray to everyone, and the side they show when they think no-one’s watching.
For example, I knew a guy once, who, in his public image, was a kind, outgoing christian, who claimed he stood up for women’s rights.
In private, though, it turned out he was extremely sexist, and really didn’t care about much aside from “getting laid”. The whole Christian act, was basically a lie, to make naive women trust him enough to start sleeping over at his house. He’d offer them his own bed, and then wait ‘til they were asleep, and then get in there with them, and apparently, wasn’t very good at keeping his hands to himself… He’s honestly lucky he never got reported for sexual assault.
Unsurprisingly, he was also a major homophobe, too. On one occasion, before I knew how far gone he really was, he tried to tell me that he didn’t feel comfortable hanging out with me on my own, because hanging out with someone with long hair made him “look gay”.
I’m pretty sure he’s still pulling the same old shit now… but I no longer associate with him.
If I had to choose just one… This is it. I’m disappointed I no longer have those pants, though.
When I first figured I needed help… I was about 15. But, the help I got at that point, was pretty much useless. That shook my faith in the system in general. I then started seeking help again at about 23-24, and have been trying various things ever since then.
Honestly… I don’t think my mother realised just how bad it was for me when I was younger.
My father, on finding out I have a mental illness, simply tried to force everyone to admit that there’s no way it had anything to do with his terrible parenting style. (If you can call routine mental and physical abuse ‘parenting’)
Over the course of the last few days, I have:
-Stabbed myself in the foot with the corner of a glass TV Cabinet door.
-Hit my head on the couch while being tickled.
-Hurt my hand trying to open a particularly stubborn jar.
-Hurt my hand a bit more by getting angry at said jar, and trying to punch the lid to pop it loose.
-Tried to climb into bed in a dark room, completely misjudged the bed’s location, fell straight in between the bed and wall, hurting my elbow.
-And, just now, stretched and hurt my hand again by smashing it into a ceiling fan. I’m just glad it wasn’t on.
When I first started to be honest with people I thought cared about me, about my depression, and just how bad it was, I often heard different variations on the same thing: “Well, you know, no-one can help you, unless you help yourself”.
I mean, that logic just pissed me off to no end, really. I was at a point where I was doing things like, throwing out any sharp objects I had, only to find myself fashioning crude blades out of the packaging of my anti-depressants… If I was capable of simply helping myself with this problem, I wouldn’t be sharing it with anyone else. I’m being honest, and sharing my problem with you, because I need a bit more help.
If you really care about someone, don’t write their problems off as just something they have to deal with themselves. Ask if there’s any way you can help. And if they say there is, and it’s something you can do… Do it. Prove that you really do care.
To better hide the spoilers, I’ll be putting my thoughts as a “read more”.