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Truths

Titillating White Candle Holders

I’ve said it a million times in other posts and I’ll say it again, straight up, for any of the general public people reading this who have never encountered mental health issues of any sort, who have never experienced it themselves, have never taken a psychology class or who have never read up on the development of a child brain: get educated.

I mean, really; 58,000 children without a diagnosed mental health issue taking Anti-psychotics like Risperdal and Abilify?

From ages 1 to 6?

While you’re at it, let your doctor toss ’em a couple painkillers for that scratch they got yesterday when they tripped over the stone; they could have a broken leg.

“Serious behavioral problems such as hyperactivity and aggression”

I’m assuming that means a tantrum? Two year old Little Jimmy didn’t get in the car when you told him to for the fifth time this week and stomped his foot and scared you so horribly you took him to Dr. Pusher who held his mouth open with clamps and tossed in some Risperdal, Abilify, maybe a dab of Prozac or something, some Lexapro. Now little Jimmy sits very quietly and does exactly what you tell him to. Mission accomplished.

“We would hope these would be used cautiously”.

Don’t make me laugh, really. Since when have humans had the capability to do anything cautiously to the extent they should?

Anyway, I got bored tonight and started flipping through articles and if you’ve been following me for a while you know how much I love to rant and rave on this type of shit. I mean, damn, you must have one aggressive one year old to be condoning use of anti-psychotics on them.

But at least I feel content enough to write shit about all this again. I even plowed through my Chem homework like I was going to get a box of kittens afterwards. If I had a box of kittens I’d be so happy. If I had a box of puppies I’d be so happy. If I had a box of kittens and puppies I’d be rolling around in the floor basking in their cuteness and never again step foot on a college campus, let alone out my door. Baby animals are the last bastion of American Freedom.

I never had a problem opening up to animals. They connect with me. Even my boyfriend’s dog, the one who barks and bites at everyone who isn’t close family, the one everyone is scared of, sniffed me and let me be the second time she met me. She growled and bared her teeth the first time she met me, just in case you were wondering.

I was attacked by a Chihuahua when I was two or three, scarring me with dogs for most of my childhood, and those are the dogs that to this day always chase me and bark and lash their teeth out. I don’t know why they don’t think I won’t snatch them and grind them into taco meat.

It took a playful Pit-bull puppy to break me out of my dog phobia, ironically. I still get nervous around dogs; I won’t feed them food and I don’t like letting them lick my hand because I’m convinced they’re going to rip it off, but hey, I’ll pet them and hug them. That’s huge progress compared to the days I would cross the street to avoid people walking their dogs on the sidewalks.

People though, that’s a different story. It’s odd letting go of secrets that have been crowded in your head for so long. They’ve become your little buddies. The musings in my head, the analysis of my feelings and of the world around me that runs on a constant assembly line and probably goes a little deeper than it should, keep me company during the day. A destructive type of company, but company nonetheless.

All I have to comfort me through this uncomfortable time is my music. It’s always there to lend a helping hand. I grew up around live bands and concerts and cope with my daily social anxiety with an earphone in my ear. If I can’t find my earphones before I leave, my entire day if ruined. I’ll get highly aggressive and uncooperative (oh shit, toss me a Risperdal) and I won’t be able to focus. There’s music playing as I write this. There was music playing as I did my homework. I played music going into the library, while I was in the library, while I printed my paper, and while I came back home. I can’t drive my car if I don’t have a sustainable source of music, preferably not the radio but I make it work if I have to. The radio is a last resort, the commercials drive me insane. Literally. My road rage is 10x worse if I have to listen to some chubby muffled voice blurt a bunch of stupid shit about liberals or conservatives or whatever.

If my ear phones break, within the next minute I’m in Best Buy or Sears buying a new pair. That’s a class A emergency, one of the most urgent. Even my parents are aware of this fact.

I usually have four or five fully functional spares and maybe one or two half-functioning (one ear works) spares.

This summer I broke my last functional spare and couldn’t deal with listening to music through only one ear. That also drives me to the brink of insanity; I hate the quiet of my mind, hence the constant stream of music, but I also hate the cacophony of the outside world, hence the constant stream of music.

Anyway, I ordered a new pair of earphones on Amazon because I wanted over-the-ear headphones with good bass. Well, the mail lady put my box in the mail box for the apartment next to me and I received their package. In my blind elation I tore it open without looking at the name and, having already been rather depressed and irritable that week, you could imagine the devilish fury across my face when the two plain, white candle holders stared back at me.

She Must Have Been So Excited To Get These. They’re Absolutely Titillating.

I have trouble talking with people as it is, so my mom went over and informed them our packages had been messed up. They didn’t check their mail for three damn days. I was writhing in silent agony on my bed for three damn days. You couldn’t talk to me without sparking an insult from my mouth or a sarcastic remark. Music withdrawal is a bitch.

Bottom line of this scattered post? Stop giving your 1 year old Risperdal and if you ever meet me in person don’t touch my earphones if you like your head being attached to your body.

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About AlishiaDee (378 Articles)
Alishia D. is a blogger, a beginning novelist, and a counselor at 2nd Story Peer Respite house where diagnostic labels and the culture of mental health is long forgotten. She's a mental health peer who has bounced through as many labels as she has doctors, and enjoys being sarcastic when she can. She also hates writing in 3rd person.

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