Perfect Places

[TW: Suicide, self harm, body image issues]

It’s weird. I’ve never actually processed that I’m on this giant metal cylinder soaring through the sky until right now, as we’re cutting through the clouds. The floor feels different. I have a bad feeling. I feel like we’re going to crash. So might as well get things off my chest.

Where to start?

Well, I don’t think I can accurately describe what this flight feels like right now.

Bittersweet, I guess? Even though the bitter part outweighs the sweet. It’s like downing shot after shot of vodka and then trying to chase it with Fireball because you remember it’s sweet but forgot it’s tequila so now you’re double fucked.

But it’s actually been the “easiest” flight back to Toronto yet, in which I wasn’t pressed for time at all, I got to eat beforehand, I got a window seat despite the fact that my boarding pass said aisle, and there’s a free seat between me and the man on this row, so both of us are taking advantage of this and just putting our things there instead of the overhead compartments, since this is a bulkhead seat. (Pictured: My view right now. We’re over Atlanta right now. 8:37 PM.)

Emotionally though, I’m miserable. Mexico’s always been a safe haven for me I appreciated 3000 times more since I’ve come to Toronto, a brief respite between the insanity and stress of living alone at a very demanding school 2 countries away from the people I love. I miss them a lot. I’m happy in Mexico. It’s my perfect place. Or I used to be. This weekend was horrible. Last night was easily one of the worst nights of my life. I cried so, so much. I thought about suicide. I hit my head several times last night. It hurts, still. I hope I didn’t concuss myself again. My best friend, who was at a party, saw me crying about it on Twitter and messaged me and told me I was good, and worthy of a good life, and everything that comes with it.

And that just made it worse. Because I’m not. Because I know I’m not. If you know me personally, you might try and disprove this claim, but I’m not. I’m not a bad person. I don’t think I am. I try to be good, but I still do bad things. I don’t think I try hard enough. I don’t know what I am. All I know is I’m ugly. Inside and out. I’ve gained weight. My clothes don’t fit me quite right anymore. I’ve lied to people. I’ve disappointed people. I’ve withdrawn myself from the people I know and love. And I want out. I’m just not far gone enough to do so yet. Yet? I do all these things, complaining I want to be better, to feel better, and I always end up back at square one and I’m so sick of being such a goddamn cliché.

I used to be red. I liked it. I felt vibrant and determined even if I was bummed as hell, but now, my color is transitioning to a blue. This isn’t necessarily bad, but right now feels like I have to make life-changing, character-defining decisions and I don’t want to. I’m so scared. I just want to go back to Mexico, crawl into bed with my cat, and sleep. For forever.

As I think about everything that surrounds me, in my mind, I play a supercut of all that’s made me happy. And I realize that the last time I was passively happy was about half a year ago. Ever since then, I’ve just been spiraling down further and further and I truly feel like I’m going to hit rock bottom soon. I don’t feel safe. I feel like one of these days I’m just gonna give up on school and head back to Mexico to spend the summer with my loved ones before I peace out. I lied last time, you know. In “Spark.” When I said I could be something and that that’s helped me and I’ve always believed it. I’ve tried. I swear I’ve tried. But I’m tired, and I want to rest.

It’s 10:30 PM now.The plane’s about 30 minutes away from touching down. The lights have come on and I’ve been abruptly taken away from the dark little corner I made for myself, pretending I was among the stars, looking down at the lights of the towns and cities we’ve passed by. This plane feels fast. It feels so much faster than other flights I’ve been in. Like it’s trying to get me to Toronto as soon as possible so I’m forced to deal with reality.

I miss my home. My cat. My mom, my dad. The person I love but who doesn’t quite have the time or energy to love me anymore, even though she says she does.

But my home could be anywhere. My perfect place could be anywhere, if I could just feel at peace with myself.

Jakarta could be my perfect place.

New York.

New Zealand.

Spain.

Croatia.

Anywhere. I just want to get a car, find someone I love, and drive down the highway while playing Melodrama front to back. And then the remixes, and then the live versions. It could be beautiful.

If I could just feel at peace with myself.

I don’t want to belong to anything or anyone. I want to run free, into some meadow and look at the stars while listening to Lorde. With someone. I’d be happy. Probably. Hopefully.

But my feet are in Toronto now. My heart used to be in Mexico. God knows where it went to now.

What the fuck are perfect places anyway?