6 or so AM fears, intrusive thoughts, etc.

Some of the worst intrusive thoughts that I usually forget about are the factual ones. The rational ones.
Not the hallucinations or the irrational scenarios that are based in nothing and make no sense. Not the
humanoid creatures that talk to me and call my name. Not the irrational fears of my relationships
crumbling. But the fear of the inevitable.

This fear of the inevitable consuming me was much of the reason I had ever considered taking my own
life, and is still the only reason the thought ever crosses my mind anymore. The only reason I picture
Sylvia Plath placing that towel in front of her child’s door and hear Radiohead playing as I stare into the
nothingness this situation would send me into.

The inevitable. Everything I love, will die.

My cat holds a large majority of my heart. Addison has been my life raft in the rapids I’ve lived in my
entire life. I got her at about 10. The same age I remember realizing something was wrong after having
an intrusive thoughts downward spiral in Disney World on my birthday. I didn’t know what it was, but at
all times I felt like I was drowning in what I now call scenario-oriented intrusive thoughts. Believing I
had been poisoned, that a shooting was going to occur, etc. Back then, Addi didn’t like me, and for a
long time I felt disconnected from her, and her sister Patch was my cat. But as Patch began distancing
herself from the family, knowing she was going to pass, Addi and I became connected and she
became my baby. She began wiping my tears with her fluffy face when I cried, pushing herself in
between me and whatever I was using to cut, and grabbing my attention when I suffered flashbacks
from my trauma. She was not trained, she was not taught, she just knew. She and I were spiritually
bonded. We still are. Sometimes I feel as though I feel her pain and she feels mine. I am an empath,
and absorbing other peoples’ struggles and pain in order for them to feel better when I am already
struggling is not good for me. But I do it anyway. And then Addi, my adorable baby, puts her paw on
my hand, rubs her face on mine, and takes my pain away.

One day, Addi is going to die.

I am so scared. I know that after she dies I will adopt another cat. I strongly believe that every cat
deserves a better life than they already have, and when I am capable of supporting another cat and
giving it a better life, I will do so. Therefore, when Addi passes, I will continue the same routine with
another baby. But I don’t know if anyone or anything else can love me as much as Addi does. If I can
love anything else as much as I love her. She is my child, and an extension of me. She has saved my
life. There have been numerous times when I’d considered taking my life, and stopped because I knew
she wouldn’t understand. That she’d be sad, and lonely. But when she dies, I will feel that pain.

One day, my parents will die. My brother will die. My partner will die.

I do not know if I could possibly go on after that. 

I do fear that if I were to take my own life at any point it would begin a domino effect. If not suicide, then
tremendous depression, as everyone in my family both suffers from mental illness and is very
connected to and dependent upon one another. I may not ever write about my fears about these
potential losses. They are too hard to process, and I have been told not to process them until they
happen. It is not worth mourning someone whom you have not lost. The heartache is too great. And
with my psychosis, if I become too caught up in the scenario of me losing someone, I will believe it. At
one point last year, my mother went to get something from a store 5 minutes away. 2 hours later, I
realized she had not come home. I had not heard from her. I started picturing scenario-oriented
intrusive thoughts of police at my door, informing me that my mother would not be returning home. I
called her. No answer. I called her again and again for too long to recall, screaming and crying.
Pacing. Falling to the floor clutching my chest, sure I was having a heart attack. My brother was telling
me to calm down and I just kept telling him she was dead, because I was certain she was. I was
having larger reactions than news that people I loved had actually died, and it was all in my head. My
mother walked in the door and held me and calmed me down, telling me she’d just decided to go grab
a friend, who was also with her witnessing me, heart rate slowing as I felt like I was going to pass out.
I still see these police officers in my head. I still hear my screams. And that has remained with me for
every intrusive thought that I’ve had in 20 years. The more I try to recall, the more hallucinations I
remember from my childhood, getting younger and younger. And I can still see them all as clear in my
head as I did then. I can hear my reactions from many of them. Just as I can feel on my body my
trauma, my rape. I have no idea why these sensory attacks have all stuck with me.

I am so scared. How much more hell do I have to endure? How many times in my life will I lose my cat,
my mother, my father, my brother, my partner? How many times will I mourn these people I love? How
many times will I have to watch them die? Speak to the people that found them? My mind is a prison
of all of my worst nightmares and I am being convinced of their full, unbridled, certainty. And whilst with
the sight of humanoid creatures- whether they be speaking to me, hanging from trees, pinning me
down and eating my flesh while I watch with live eyes- may still connect in my brain as being just an
illusion, these factual, rational scenario-oriented intrusive thoughts are so convincing. So convincing
they tear me apart, and I fear that my fears of others dying will be the death of me.

A Year Ago Today...

JANUARY 26th, 2019

A year ago today I was in bed, finally over the flu I had had for a week beforehand. I was depressed,

confused, and alone. I felt shut away by my peers, my partner, and the world. Things hadn’t been good

in a long time. I wasn’t happy. Until about a week before that. I was told that Austin, a person I’d been

pressured into straying away from about six months prior, had posted about my book on his tumblr

after he heard it was released. I had strayed away from Austin because I had fallen in love with him,

and he had with me, but we couldn’t do anything about it. The post talked about how amazing he

thought I was. How no matter what we went through, I still meant a lot to him, and was still his best

friend. I signed a copy of my book (with a little heart) and gave it to a friend of mine to give to him.

After I realized my flu symptoms had vanished, and my cabin fever was at an all-time high, I reached

out to Dan. A mutual friend of Austin and I, who out of respect hadn’t mentioned him to me since we

stopped talking. He told me I was free to come over, but that Austin was there. I told him it was fine,

and I was still coming over. Austin offered to stay in a different room so that I wouldn’t have to see him,

and Dan relayed this to me. I told him that it was okay, that he didn’t have to hide, and I came over.

It was very awkward at first. I sat in the floor while he played guitar and talked to everyone else that

was there. I just started pulling things out of my new purse like it was a very strange, adult

show-and-tell. I acknowledged his hair looking very different and his hat, as well as how many more

stickers his guitar had acquired since I’d last seen him. At one point out of sheer awkwardness and

word vomit I declared I wanted to go on a walk. It was about 1:30 AM, and 26 degrees fahrenheit.

But we walked to the nearest Sheetz.

Austin did not have a jacket. This became very clear as he was shaking and shivering violently. Dan

offered him his. I did as well, and Austin started running away from the kind gesture. Literally running

away. We chased him, and both tackled him into a weird three-person double-jacket hug. It feels very

cliche and gross to say that even just touching him again felt comforting, and it felt right.

We eventually arrived at Sheetz, where everyone went off into different directions. I couldn’t feel my

hands from the cold, and I wanted a hot chocolate. I read the signs on the machine, saying that the

water could be boiling, and it could splash on you. I was terrified. I took a second to look over at the

most fearless person I’d ever met, who was somehow at the refrigerators. I sighed, and walked over to

him, my small styrofoam cup in hand.

“Can you fix my hot chocolate for me?” I asked him. He looked at the cup, back up at my face, laughed,

and said

“Sure.”

He then walked me over to the machine where he promptly fixed it, found me a lid, placed it on and

said “There you go.”

He walked away, I went to pay for my drink, and he grabbed an Arizona Iced Tea. We all (me, Austin,

Dan, and his sister Moriah) regrouped at the tables. I sat across from Austin, beside Dan, and

diagonally from Moriah. They all started a regular conversation, and at one point, I found a way to

pester Austin about the thing I’d been convinced had torn us apart, a small misunderstanding that I had

joked was a lie on his part. This passive-aggressive banter between the both of us carried on for about

ten minutes. Just like the old times. The flirtatious pestering was interrupted by my best friend, and

mutual friend of Austin and I, Brennan- showing up and being very confused as to why Austin and I

were in the same vicinity. Things felt fun, and real, and happy again. I even bought him a water after he
ran to the bathroom, not being able to breathe from running so much.

Discussing how we’d all get back to Dan’s house, it was quickly realized we could not all fit in Brennan’s

car. Someone jokingly mentioned that Austin and I could take a walk to talk things out. I liked the idea.

So everyone gave us their coats, and Austin and I began walking.

It was silent for a bit, other than me asking if I could hold the flashlight because of my paranoia. I was

the one to start the conversation, saying:

“So… yeah. I’m still in love with you”

And him telling me the feeling was mutual.

We talked about how we were both seeing people still, but that it would be okay, and we could be

friends until we both figured our feelings out. He told me he still thought about me every day. I told him

that I forced myself to forget about him, and how hard that was. I broke down on that walk. I knew how

happy Austin made me and how despite my feelings, people were always very judgmental. Because

my relationship at the time seemed perfect to everyone around me.

That night I wrote a long letter to my partner at the time telling him I had reconnected with Austin, and

that I didn’t think anything romantic would come from it, but that was just because I was afraid of things

changing. They had been the same for three years. I didn’t have anything against my partner at the

time, and I have nothing against him as my ex. But I had fallen out of love with him a long time before

then… I knew I was with him for one reason still. Only one reason. And a few days before Christmas

he made it evident that reason was gone. He had made a promise to me, and he broke it. I had a

mental breakdown at my 18th birthday party in the parking lot of a gay nightclub because I was scared.

Things had changed, and I had to face the fact I wasn’t in love with who I was with. That is when I

decided to end it, but I held off until I was ready. On January 26th, I reconnected with the person I was

in love with, and my partner knew that I was in love with, and I apologized. But I shouldn’t have.

I had been so unhappy. And things just didn’t feel right. I was me, and I was living my life, but things

didn’t feel right.

I blamed it on my parents’ separation. How I’d had to stay at a different house for a week under

constant supervision for my safety and wellbeing. I blamed my unhappiness on that. And that was

partially it, but things hadn’t felt right in a long time. Since I’d had to forget about Austin.

And on January 26th, 2018, touching my jacket to the back of someone I had wanted so desperately to

forget felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

It wasn’t the last one, and it was nowhere near close to being done, but it felt like it made me more me

than I was before. Like I was safe, and this was right.

My parents’ separation also taught me that what I thought was love, was not love at all. And that I

wasn’t in love with who I was with. I didn’t know.

I went back to messaging Austin nonstop that night. How it had been the first time we met, the first time

we reconnected after being pushed apart, and now the time we had reconnected for good. I didn’t know

what was going to happen. I didn’t know if I’d ever have the courage to tell everyone that I didn’t care

what they thought, I just wanted to be happy. But I didn’t think about it. I let myself be happy in the

moment. And forget about everything. I let Austin tell me that he didn’t care whether we never ended up

together, but he just wanted me to be happy, and that the whole time we weren’t talking he just wanted

me to be happy. Whatever I was doing.

Things have never, ever been easy for Austin and I. Our lives have fucked us over and we never

seemed to find the right time to be together. But reconnecting with him a year ago today made me feel

the strength of what real, honest love is and can be. Wanting someone to be happy no matter what it

takes. And I’m so fucking glad I went to Dan’s house that day. I’m so glad Austin made that post about

me. I’m so glad I walked with him. I’m so glad I told him I loved him, and he told me back. I’m glad he

knew what that little heart meant even though the guys said he was crazy. I’m glad I did what made me

happy. I’m glad I was given the chance, and the ability, and the time, and the life to love another human

being and to be loved. I’m so fucking glad for today.

Lizz Matthews

SNEAK PEEK: Goose Monologues & Other Mediocre Works

As a sneak peek, here's the introduction of my upcoming book Goose Monologues & Other Mediocre Works, coming out in 2018.

Hello.

I’m Lizz Matthews.

Listen, I know it’s a bit strange to have somewhat of an “About The Author” at the beginning of the book and not the end, but I just wanted to welcome you to “Goose Monologues” - which is my shortened name for it that I use in conversation to make it a bit more convenient. Yes, I bring up my book in conversation because I, to many others, am a selfish little fuck.

I’m sorry if my cursing offends you, if it does, I suggest you get a refund on this book as soon as possible. That is because Goose Monologues is unlike any other books I’ve written, and while that seems like something I’m saying just to hype it up a bit, it’s not, I promise you. I see myself as a pretty depressing person. Yes, a depressing person. Even though my therapist tells me not to define myself as “depression”. I am not defining myself as “depression”, but rather saying that I am a person that just so happens to have depressing qualities.

This book is different than my others because it is personal. My other books are also personal because they are mainly all on the subject of my mental health, but this one is more personal. It is not like I’m writing a book about myself, because there’s a ton of fiction in this anthology, so it’s not an autobiography, but it is more about the real me than the me you see through depressing shit I wrote to cope.

It is called a poetry anthology mainly because it sounded better than “Writing Anthology”. So, spoiler, there’s not that many poems in here. But there are a ton of “Other Mediocre Works”. The title was kind of inspired by a book I really loved as a child, called The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. I loved its humor and interesting art style. I try to be funny and it usually backfires, so I decided to write a book where I tried to be funny and then afterwards, publish it and watch it backfire.

But why did I decide to publish a book simply to watch it backfire? Good question, person-who-obviously-didn’t-ask-me-that-question. It’s because I am Lizz Matthews and (along with writing depressing poems) it’s kinda my thing.

At the moment of writing this, I am 17 years old and sitting in silence at 1:20 AM writing a book called Goose Monologues & Other Mediocre Works: The Lizz Matthews Poetry Anthology, which isn’t even a poetry anthology. It is basically just my favorite poems from my previous 2 books, some old blog posts, personal writing, nightmares and dreams I’ve had, and shitty stuff I wrote for school. Seriously, when people are surprised I have books published, I feel like such a poser. Anyone could put a bunch of stuff they’ve written down into a document and self-publish it for free. I’m not a writer, I just decided to embarrass myself in a Barnes and Noble, but instead of doing a flash-mob, you can find my smug little face hiding amongst actual authors.

The book cover is a representation of how other people see me. The whole, “don’t judge a book by its cover” thing, because the inside of the book is the real me. Like I said, I try to be funny but it backfires, much like this stupid cover I thought of in a sixth-period Spanish 2 class after a test. I wrote a monologue that I called “Geese” in 9th grade when I lost my train of thought in Theater class. At that point in my life, I hadn’t been diagnosed with ADHD, but yeah, I had it. So that’s why I have a goose balloon. My attempt at being funny, or even fun for that matter, is represented by the party hat and party-blow-thing. People always think I’m either a bitch or depressed, so that explains my face in the photo, and I’m wearing a shirt that says “I WROTE A BOOK” because that’s what I do, apparently. Shameless self-promotion for money and fame.

Really I just publish my work so it doesn’t just sit around my house, cluttering my room. Also for another reason that I saw online. It was a Tumblr post that said that artists stare at their work until they hate it. That screenshot circled around Facebook, and I was like “hey, that sounds familiar.” That is what I did with my writing. I put it into the world before I could decide to trash it. I published it because for some reason I thought it was good enough someone would want to steal it, but I wanted people to know that it came from my little ginger head. That’s why I skipped reading the whole self-publishing conditions thing halfway through and said “as long as people know that it’s mine.”

Anyways. This book is basically just going to be me saying stupid shit, so you should probably get used to it. Prepare to undergo embarrassment on my part and to ask yourself: “why the hell would someone publish this?”

Because I’m Lizz Matthews, that’s why.

What is a Blackout?

When I blackout I do not lose consciousness, it is not passing out, it is blacking out. When I black out I am fully aware that I am blacking out or have blacked out already. My blackouts have lasted from 2 minutes to about an hour and not every time am I completely weak. Whenever I black out sometimes I can only lay there and mumble, other times, like the first time I blacked out, I feel as though my body is overtaken by another force. I am not controlling what my body does, it just does.
The first time I blacked out I tried to smash my head between two tables. It was not me, it was something in my head that compelled me to do so. That has only happened once. During that blackout, I was not able to control my body. Near the end of the blackout I was able to regain control of my hand and use sign language. Usually, I begin to regain control of my limbs before anything else during a blackout. I feel pressure on my head during a blackout, like imagine your body is just skin and on the inside it’s just smoke or fog, it’s light and limp. That is how my body feels when I black out. My head feels that way also, like it is foggy, but also that there is a weight in the top portion of my skull that is very difficult to keep upright.
When I blackout, I turn to deadweight and operate much like a doll, where my limbs do not move, you have to move them for me. During a blackout, I can hear 100%. I feel like my feeling senses are completely dulled, as well as taste, smell, and sight. This makes my hearing senses feel a bit heightened, and it sucks to be able to hear everything around you and not do anything about it. To hear everyone talking about you or asking if you’re okay but you can’t do anything about it. To have someone carry you across the whole school but you aren’t able to say thank you. I don’t see flashbacks when I blackout, I don’t see anything.
Sometimes I imagine a storyline as to why I’ve blacked out or I try to make sense of things. Sometimes I try to imagine whatever is compelling me to blackout as a person or being to better understand what’s going on and to make blackouts easier to explain to people. Whenever I awake from the blackout though, most of those thoughts disappear. I have to write them down immediately like a dream or tell someone like Dorothy when she wakes up. That is how I create explanations of the blackouts in my work, such as how I created the character of depression and explained it as a supervillain who uses a black, tar-like ink.
Before a blackout, I begin to lose sight. Things get blurrier and blurrier until I cannot see. A lot of times I will have my eyes closed, since my muscles aren’t working and I don’t really have the ability to blink. My arms lose ability and control first, usually hitting the floor. Then my neck loses control, then my back, my hips, my legs, my feet, then finally, my head. A lot of pressure usually hits my shoulders as they slowly lose control over my arms. I feel like then, the disorders can overtake my body and roam free all they want.

Support Network: YouTube & Healing

(this was originally posted on my book store website, http://lizzmatthews.wix.com/home )

When I was 12, I was just beginning to struggle with severe depression, my anxiety was worsening, my friends left me, I was self-harming all the time, and I was looking out for different resources for reaching out to people like me. 

I came to a fanfiction website where I liked to go to read works from pre-teens like me. I had an iPad and insomnia so that is what I came to. There, I met many people. Janessa, Harley, Katarina, Marian, Liv, and so many other people who guided me to finding new escapes from a world I deemed impossible to survive in. While I was there, a dear friend under the username Harleen Napier introduced me to a new outlet: YouTube.

She sent me a video called My American Accent, and she told me that the two guys in the video were like her favorite people ever. They reminded me of our friendship, and she felt the same way. I spent the rest of the night watching videos of these two YouTubers and began to realize that I felt comfortable, happy, accepted, and welcome while watching the videos. I told her that I really enjoyed watching the YouTuber who called himself AmazingPhil. I felt like I knew him. I felt like we were similar. Harley said that I reminded her of him. We were both a bit anxious, shy, and had very similar interests.

Sooner or later I found myself watching all of AmazingPhil's videos that he had posted since 2006. I became very well acquainted with him in my eyes. We were more similar than I'd expected and I felt that I'd gained a new friend who didn't even know of my existence.

But I felt like he did. I felt like we had known each other for a long time. It felt like he knew exactly what I needed to hear or experience every time he posted a new video. I remember being in school and not really talking to any of my far away friends, but when I did- I brought Phil and Dan up like they were good friends of ours. About how as kids, me and Phil both wanted to be meteorologists, about how our favorite movie is Kill Bill, or about how obsessed with lions we both are. There was talk of cats, lasers, Buffy, Quentin Tarantino, System of A Down, Muse and just... fun, happiness, love, acceptance.

My life at school didn't even come to mind when I watched his videos. I could forget about the mean remarks, the spitballs, the time-to-time physical abuse, the teasing, the names, the cutting in the bathroom, the skipped lunches- none of it mattered. I had friends. 

Then there was the attack not soon after my 13th birthday. Sexual assault. I still watched his videos whenever I could and talked about him to my new online friends constantly. He was still helping me through what at the time I thought was a healthy secretive relationship with who happened to be my attacker. YouTube was with me as I survived, and sooner down the line of the healing process, things got so out of control that I forgot about any positive aspects of my life. I forgot about Dan, I forgot about Phil, I stopped talking to anyone, and my mind spiraled into suicide mode.

Later on down the line I discovered a new side of myself- I'm pansexual. I like women.

I found Tyler Oakley and he helped me feel like being different mattered. Like I still meant something. As a pansexual, as a patient, as a friend, as a sister, as a survivor. He pulled me out of another deep dark hole. I began watching Phil more, but never as much. I stopped watching Dan completely. Things didn't go back to completely the same.

But it's okay.

YouTube has made me realize who I am, who I can be, and who to aspire to be like.

This post is for three men who guided me to light after such long periods of darkness: Tyler Oakley, Dan Howell, and Phil Lester.

Thank you

Your friend, Lizz Matthews.

Boiling Water & Bleeding

Boiling Water and Bleeding is my first ever book. Currently, it is in process of self-publishing. Boiling Water and Bleeding tells my story of healing through a jumble of poems. They all capture different aspects of how I've grown since my diagnosis in 8th grade. Now, in 10th, I will be publishing my story for others to see and share.
Through my struggles with developing my mental differences, becoming aware, striving, dreaming, healing, and relapsing- my way of escape was not to think at all, and to let my pen do the talking. I describe my work as something even I don't fully understand. When I write, I go into what seems like a trance. I don't think at all- about writing, about moving, about thinking, about breathing- I let my pen do the work. After writing, I usually find myself letting out a deep exhale, which slowly brings me into reality and into a state of mind capable of reading what I just produced.
Writing was an escape. It still is. At a time when I have no control over my body nor my mind, I don't need to control what the ink puts onto the paper- I just let it take over. I remember that I did this for the first time when I was sitting in the common area of The Hawbridge School in Saxapahaw for the first time. There, I wrote one of my most hated works, but my first... and somehow, it made it into my book. Even though I hated the poem, the story it told about finally feeling so free but yet so restricted was my first step into my writing-coping, and an entry into my own little world of nothingness.
When I start to write, it feels like nothing I've ever felt. I just sit. I just look. I just move my wrist. I feel almost as if I have lost consciousness, my mind, my thoughts, everything- have just fallen into a void. Then, in a matter of time, I can breathe again. Almost like the quick last burst of my inhale whilst writing the last line is a vacuum drawing my train of thought back on track, and my exhale is the train whistle that prepares it for it's next motion.
Over the years, when I found myself in a place of complete loss of control, if at all possible... I would draw myself to my pen... and like a magnet, I was attached. When that occurred, I could feel myself slipping off of the skinny metal bridge into the pit. Then, without feeling any time pass, I was back there. Ready.
I will never edit my poems- it wouldn't be the same. Each word, each line, each mark on the paper- they all tie into the beautiful story my mind paints while I go away. There's no holding back in any of my poems, and there never will be.
So why don't you join me in observing what happens when you document your loss of stability and control in a mixed up mind relying on therapy and medicines for a healing that we cannot predict?