Hi, my name is Leif E. Greenz and I’ve changed platforms! My new YouTube channel focuses on the same subjects as this blog, but the video format gives me the opportunity to be more vulnerable than ever before. I’ll be using Big Mouth to post regular updates about my channel. If time allows, I’ll try to post the occasional blog, too!
Are there any subjects you’d like me to write about? Let me know in a comment or email me at firstname.lastname@example.org ❤
Subscribe to my channel: https://youtube.com/user/leifegreenz
This video is meant to provide an overview of where I’m at and what you can expect from my channel. I talk about being a “stay-at-home crazy person,” chronic unemployment among the mentally ill, and suicide rates in those with C-PTSD. This video the first in what I hope will be a longer series about living with debilitating mental illness.
Check out my other YouTube channel where I post old Y Lime? videos: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCr50Wr9uNiivBtaLBfQc8YQ
Let me write something for you: http://thewritingleif.com
I will never again read a book about mental illness by someone who doesn’t suffer from it. Yesterday morning, I found my mother’s copy of a book on borderline personality disorder that I’ve long resisted reading because of its name: I Hate You — Don’t Leave Me. I decided to peruse a few chapters, hoping they might shed some light on the increased rage I’ve been experiencing. This was a mistake.
A few paragraphs in, the shame was dripping like sweat down my body. The borderline’s outbursts of rage are as unpredictable as they are frightening… Most therapists will, whenever possible, try to limit the number of borderline patients they treat.
I want to tell you about a very stupid and embarrassing thing I did this morning. (If my shame list was still being written, this would be on it.) When I got home from Milwaukee last night, I squeezed ketchup and mustard all over my face and took some pictures of the aftermath in one of many personal attempts to challenge aesthetic conventions. And then – big mistake – I posted it on social media. It went mostly “unliked” and, feeling humiliated, I deleted it. I do this quite often. I post a photo, wait to see if it’s worth any social capital, and, if it’s not, I virtually incinerate it. I then spend a few hours fighting the urge to put a Jewel-Osco bag over my head.
How’s that for an unflattering truth? I’m mortified to confess that I’ve enlisted myself in this battle for online attention, but I’m doing it because you’ve probably enlisted yourself, too.
Let’s start with a disclaimer: “Bottle Up and Explode” Syndrome is not a real thing. It’s actually the title of an Elliott Smith song that pops into my head every time I have an emotional breakdown.
This is essentially a grownup version of my emo middle school poetry.
I’m two weeks sober today. It’s not much, but I haven’t been clean for this long since last October.
And I haven’t experienced cravings like this since…. ever.
First day back in the States. Not looking so hot.
On September 23, I woke up in Prague on an L-shaped couch, head to head with a 30-something party boy from the suburbs of Chicago. He was sniffling in his sleep, occasionally pinching his nostrils to remove residual cocaine.
He sat up abruptly, checked his phone, sprang off the couch, buttoned his pants around his skinny boy beer belly, and scrambled to find the document he had picked up from his bald Australian friend’s house the night prior.
Admire my hairy wrist. Thank you.
Hi. My name may or may not be Leif and I’m pretty sure I’m addicted to men.
But not the good men. No, the good men terrify me. I’m addicted to the addicts, the alcoholics, the emotionally abusive, the eternally confused, the self-loathing, narcissistic, nihilistic boys for whom I come second. Or last. Or never.
Traveling alone is hard. Traveling alone with a history of mental illness can be hellish. There are days when all I want is to go home, sleep in my own bed, and hang out with friends who I know I won’t have to say goodbye to in a few days.
Unfortunately, I don’t know where home is anymore, and even if I did, I don’t think I’m ready to go there yet. I have things to undo, things to learn, ways in which I desperately need to grow. I need to learn to be okay with solitude and to take care of myself without relying too heavily on other people.
I have slept in 20 different beds since June 27.
Hi. I leave Corsica tomorrow morning. I’ll take the ferry to Italy and catch a ride to Florence, where I’ll probably stay for a week, more or less. Then Rome. Then Venice. Then, if things work out with Petter and his family, I’ll start making my way to Sweden and stay with Petter for a week.
Corsica has been intense. The first week was a blast, but in a pseudo-manic way. I was diagnosed with bipolar spectrum sometime last year and have been in denial about it since then, but I’m starting to see truth in the diagnosis. It’s incredibly painful to admit, especially when my list of diagnoses is as long as it already is. PTSD, dysthymia, Borderline Personality Disorder, substance abuse, major depression, etc.
It fucking sucks. I’m so tired of feeling crazy. I’m so tired of my brain.