A Foreword on the Playlist

My therapist instructed me to stop writing for a week, more like demanded. I agreed on allowing my current feelings to sit and settle before writing again. Apparently, I’ve opened the floodgates too quickly and I’m beginning to drown. She’s right. These sentences are confirmation of my failure to not write; a broken promise to myself. We’ve had two Zoom sessions a week for the past month, for good reasons. I’ve been drinking alone in my apartment three to four times a week while I play video games. The drinking started with casual drinks, cold blonde ales and the occasional hoppy IPA, but quickly changed into harder liquor. I switched to finishing at least one bottle of soju alone, usually plum or peach, paired with fresh green grapes. Then, I moved on to two tequila shots an hour from 7 P.M. until 11 P.M. or midnight.

Along with the heavy drinking, I’ve been smoking by myself outside of my apartment almost daily. I sit on a little red cement step that leads into my apartment through a separate side entrance. As I smoke, I play with a stray cat that has taken a liking to me for the last months. I feed it leftover meat whenever I don’t finish my dinner, which is quite often. Peace takes over my body while I rub its belly and roll my two thumbs down its soft head towards its neck. The combination of weed and petting a cat is enough to subdue the drinking. I laugh at the thought that the cat comes near me when I smoke because it wants a hit. That’s an example of my type of humor that my ex hated.

Currently, my worst symptom is a newfound obsession with pain. I seek new ways to experience pain that I ultimately find pleasurable. One method I’ve discovered to fill my body with pain is by getting tattoos—I’ve booked 5 tattoo appointments in two months, with two of those tattoos being hand sized. The actual pain from the needle is exciting enough to make me experience delight but the real pleasure is seeing the needle pierce my skin. Witnessing this consensual stabbing makes me euphoric in a manner that overpowers my entire brain. There exists nothing but pain and pleasure simultaneously within me. I’ve also spent my days purposely daydreaming about cutting my skin with a blade. The mere idea of blood spilling from a safe cut instantly allows me to dissociate in a way unfamiliar to me. I am able to dissociate with a smile while my hands shake with the image of painful bleeding. The last pain in my spiraling thoughts is abuse. I can’t stop wanting to be consensually slapped by someone—repeatedly, even if she leaves her hand firmly marked on my cheeks.

I made a playlist titled “Dissociating,” which is meant to do exactly as it sounds and has been proving itself effective. As soon as I play it, I’m able to turn off my brain and let the songs transport me to certain emotions and moments of my life. Everything around me goes blurry: the cars in DTLA barely exist, people have no memorable faces to them, I do not hear the barks of dogs, and the position of the sun is meaningless. The songs grant me the opportunity to unplug myself from any connection to the world: I forget my friends, my family, my job, and anyone else that has touched my heart. I take the opportunity whenever possible. I embrace the numbness rather than reject it.