Stare At ‘Em Till Their Head Pops

I’ll start this post off with a yawn.

I don’t exercise as often as I should, so sometimes just a constant stream of movement is like ten hours of cardio. Today I spent two and a half hours at the car wash.

I didn’t grow up with the money or the mind set to have someone else thoroughly clean my car. I drive past Whalers Car Wash all the time (I wonder if it’s owned by Japanese people, that’d be ironic) watching the all-male workers (*cough* BULLSHIT) wipe down people’s scuffed up Cadillacs and Jaguars and . . . Hondas. They look miserable in the heat. Some of them really don’t know how to clean windows because I see streaks across them all the time. They probably don’t get tipped very well.

This Isn’t Whalers, But It Is In My Town. B.S These Guys Are Even Half That Happy. Nice Try, Advertiser.

No, I go out and buy my wheel spray, my tire spray, my paste wax, my window cleaner, my interior cleaner and then I drive my ass to the little “do it yourself” car wash, hose it down, scrub it with some bubbles, and I sit in the parking lot wiping down every inch. Then I pull out the paste and wax on-wax off until I get the shine I want. Then I spray the tires so they have that wet, black look, then I spray the wheels so they shine like chrome is supposed to.

I can’t do this at home. The landlord would throw a bitch fit, then I’d shove some wax up her ass and we’d get evicted. So I drive the mile or so to the carwash.

I have an affinity for cars, I’ve been around them all my life. I must say, I’ve watched and learned a lot about a lot of engines from my childhood but I’ve never seen anything as quite as strange as what’s under the hood of a Dodge Stratus. It’s just . . . I’ve never had a car I had to use coolant for instead of water (It’s a 99), and I’ve never had a car where the battery is about the size of half your Ipad mini and the positive charge is towards the front of the hood and the negative charge is towards the back. It’s split up into three pieces–what the fuck is that shit?

It’s got some nice subwoofers though, a nice tint so you can spy on bitches when you catch them staring.

Just Like This. Perfect.

Everyone needs their “me-time”. A time where you focus on one thing and one thing only, for a certain stretch of time, and just let your mind wander. You don’t linger on any thoughts that come, you just let them come and you acknowledge them, and you wait for the next one. And unless you have to swat away some ferocious bees like I had to at the car wash, it’s usually a very relaxing experience. That’s what washing and waxing my car is for me. It lets me focus on taking care of something I love and if I feel the need to think, I do–but it tends to get brushed aside if I’m focused enough.

For someone who feels they’re constantly thinking, constantly worrying, those two and a half hours are sacred to me.

You know, we discussed medication in therapy last week and I’m still on the edge about it. I’m not against it for myself because I had one really bad experience. I’m not against it for myself because of all the shit I talk about Big Pharma. I’m not even really against it at all. But I can’t put Ivory soap on my skin without it breaking out. I have to use Tea Tree soap. Shampoo that doesn’t have Olive Oil/Aloe Vera as the majority ingredient just dries my hair out. Me and chemicals don’t mix. My body knows what it likes and it told me through my medicated phase that it didn’t agree with what I was doing. And I respect that.

I also feel like the struggles I go through are more than a chemical can tackle. We talked about the medication as just a temporary dose that could help me along but I don’t really need something to calm my anxiety if I can learn how to calm it myself. I don’t really need something to make me less depressed if I can learn how to make myself less depressed. And I don’t really need something to make me react less strongly to things, or keep my moods in check, if I can learn to cope with them myself. Medication is a last resort, not a first one.

Unless the person is hardcore suicidal and about to jump out your office window. Then I hope you have a bag of antidepressants in your purse you can toss them.

But anyway, that’s my preference. I’ve never really been someone willing to let something else or someone else do something for me before I’ve given it my all. And I’m at the breaking point, I really am. Things are falling apart rapidly. But things do that. The cookies will eventually crumble if you leave them out long enough. That’s life. I’m not going to be scared of something that happens naturally.

I have to keep reminding myself to be patient. I come out of my literature class all excited and I come out of my psychologist appointments feeling all excited and then the weight of what I’m up against slaps me across the face and stamps “idiot” across my forehead and sometimes I let it crush my high. I’m learning not to. I’m learning that yes, I have a right to feel good, positivity is good and yes, I’m up against a lot but It’s going to take time to weed through. I can’t just expect one good class to cure my social anxiety. I can’t expect one good psychologist appointment to lift all of my depression. Patience is key.

If you’re not feeling good even after being on medication for a yea, two years even, and you’re in therapy, don’t get discouraged. This stuff takes more time than you’re going to be willing to accept. So instead, just accept that it takes time. Everything is a work-in-progress. You’ll never be finished. Even if you don’t live with mental health struggles, your life is a constant work-in-progress.

Now if you have trouble accepting that, well, there’s your problem.

The more I connect issues from my past to issues in my present, and the more I identify issues in my present, the more excited I get. Because now I know why I act that way I do. It’s not because of anxiety or bipolar or avoidant personality or borderline personality or paranoia or whatever they want to call me. Like I said, diagnosis is for clinical and insurance purposes, don’t read into it as your identity.

So what my emotions are crazy haywire. So what I can jump from one level to another in a matter of seconds. So what I’m on the brink of hospitalization for suicidal issues every couple of months or so. Sue me. I grew up in a tiny household, with a large amount of drugs and alcohol, I’ve seen seizures since I was six years old and had to deal with it on my own before I even knew what a seizure was. Talking to that particular parent is like walking on fucking glass and it has been all my life. How was I supposed to come out with steady emotions if I couldn’t even predict the ones in my own household? It went from smiles and laughter to physical altercations in a matter of seconds.

Kids internalize things.

Before you think you’re just another sick person, take a look at what you’ve been through and appreciate the fact that you were strong enough to get through it.

I’m not just talking about people with depression or anxiety. I know there are a lot of genetics with bipolar and schizophrenia and other severe mental disorders but you guys are in this too. Trauma can make them worse. Stress can make them worse. Stigma from society in general can enhance paranoia. It’s not always the disorder causing behavior.

I think a lot of doctors have this stored in their subconscious but don’t think much about it. Sometimes they don’t think much about anything, they just do. I’ll try my hardest not to be one of those arrogant people. If I had to take an oath in front of the entire student body to get my M.D, that would be my oath.

If they won’t think about it or pay attention to it, that means we have to.

Your body and brain really are on your side. You guys just need to come to a consensus.

Don’t hate your brain. It’s just as scared and confused as you are. 

By the way, It cost me $5 to wash my car. It cost those people at Whalers $20+

Who are you? Who am I? Who are we?

I’ve said it once, twice, three times I think, that this literature class is life changing. It’s going to be the awakening of me, I’m sure of it. It already has been.

I want to make this brief, concise, and to the point.

But It’ll probably spray all over the place like a Fire Hose on the ground, so you know, clench your teeth, give me your pity face, and just nod in agreement.

A lot of my therapy is bringing up things from my past I thought I was “getting over”. Or things you know, that I acknowledged happened and that I thought I were over. Apparently I wasn’t. Last night it hit me like a ton of bricks and for the first time in three or four years I cried myself to sleep over memories I thought I hardly gave two shits about. So it’s been rough.

Finding answers is rough. Trying to understand who you are is rough. You know, that identity crisis seen in Borderline Personality Disorder isn’t that abnormal if you think about it. Even the extent it reaches isn’t that abnormal. There’s a reason many people diagnosed with the disorder have had past trauma or often grew up with an alcoholic as a parent.

Two women came and spoke to our class today about historical trauma. One woman shared the fact that her grandfather’s sister was put into a boarding school for Native Americans back in the day and was forced, along with all the other children, to watch another little girl receive a punishment by being mauled and raped by a dog. Well if that’s not traumatizing, than I don’t know what is. These were children stripped from their homes and forced into a way of life, into a uniform, into a narrow mind, all under the name of God, in the name of Manifest Destiny, in the name of American society. This is a fact, not a judgement and not a personal attack just for anyone who feels the need to argue.

They were taught that you don’t speak unless you were spoken to. I was also taught that.

I was taught “children should be seen and not heard”.

It explains why I’ve never felt safe. The person who raised me didn’t either. Neither did his mother or her mother or her mother’s tribe.

Well, My family is full of historical trauma then, isn’t it? If my father is African american and his grandmother is Cherokee, well fuck me I’m just a clusterfuck of trauma, aren’t I? It explains why he grew up the way it did, It explained why my grandmother grew up the way she did, and it explains why I now live in a house with an alcoholic with a 30+ year track record. My grandmother picked cotton. She had eight kids. She disciplined them with belts and had violent relationships with other men. My uncles don’t have the same father. My last name, of which is French, is from a man who was in a few year relationship with my grandmother and happens to have no blood relationship to my father. My real last name is Ware. That’s not French.

My father never got his name changed. He’s thought about it, but hasn’t yet.

I might. In fact, the more I learn of my history, the more I learn to respect it and to be proud of it. I’ll change my name, I don’t give a shit what people think. I  want it to reflect who I am and where I came from, regardless of whether my biological grandfather also drunk himself to death.

I’ve been searching for roots to my social anxiety disorder for a long time. And, as you can tell, I think I’ve found it.

The native woman who spoke to us tonight say it takes four generations to heal. Well, guess who’s the fourth generation after some crazy trauma? This chick right here, sitting all straight at her desk, excited like a child on a rollercoaster, ready to fucking punch someone in the face for calling her a pussy because she screamed on the ride.

I know people like to get hung up on the percentage amount of Native in my blood, and in all Native’s blood, and we talked a lot about that tonight as well. But let me ask you this: have you ever been asked what percentage white you are? No, so then lay up off us. We’ve been slaughtered, there aren’t that many “full bloods” left. Secondly, it’s a culture, it’s a set of value systems, not a blood quantum, not a card issued by the American government. Educate yourselves, please.

I never went to ceremonies as a child but I did have some of the spiritual values instilled in me.

I don’t know man, I’m just so . . . enamored. About everything. About life, about love, about spirit, about nature, about everything and everyone and anyone. Because I’m finally learning who I am.

You know, when people called me Mexican in school, or assumed I was, I never really countered with a “oh, I’m black, or oh I’m white, or oh I”m native”, I just told them to shut the fuck up, I’m mixed. And it’s true, I’m mixed. But I never had a cultural value or anything growing up, I didn’t know who I was and so how could I fight all those people who seemed so confidant in knowing who I was?

It’s a crazy world out there kids.

Now, what I gather from all of this? Well, my anxiety may have a slight bit to do with neurotransmitters but that’s a direct result of how I developed. My so-called “chemical imbalance” was caused, it didn’t come out of no where, it was caused. And in today’s American society where “mental disorders are on the rise” or whatever stupid shit they claim, we forget to give understand towards environment and who we are as humans, not just sacks of meat with cells.

How do people in American society know who they are when America doesn’t even know it’s own identity?

We start American history when Columbus sailed the ocean.

Me In History Texts All My Life

We tell our children when they take field trips to missions that colonialism started because the people who came over here saw vast land and no one on it.

Sarah Palin said she wants all the foreigners gone, including the Native Americans who can go back to Nativia.

Well just poke me in the eye with a hot pin, ride me like a donkey, slap my ass and call me Johnny; I’d like one ticket to NATIVIA PLEASE. PLEASE SARAH PALIN, ID LIKE ONE TICKET TO NATIVIA.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

I mean people, really. Just sit and think about it for a little, especially if you’re American and especially, especially if you’re American with an ethnic background.

If you are a psychiatrist, a psychologist, a therapist, a social worker . . . and you don’t understand or care to understand the culture of your client than do us all a favor and just walk over to your nice, comfy fireplace that you installed in your house after the Prozac company gave you a surprise bonus for making your millionth prescription, blow dust from your credentials, stare at it lovingly, smile at the memories of why you got into psychology, at all the parties you attended in college, how you woke up from a hangover outside of the deans office and scrambled to make it to your last final of the semester before he caught you, and burn the fuck out of it. Burn it. BURN IT. You don’t deserve it.

And if you’re a psychiatrist who thinks you’re so fucking amazing that you hardly took any psychology courses in your undergrad and graduate years, don’t even talk to me. Just . . . just fuck off, really. You’re not in touch with people as humans, you’re in touch with people as patient and doctor and that’s creating a hierarchy that only further perpetuates bullshit in this society. So fuck off.

I feel I’ve been guided all my life. Not by God, not by my parents, not by my peers, not even fully by myself, but by the mere subconscious memory of my ancestors, of their spirits. Everything in my life, no matter how tragic, has always had a bit of supernatural mystery to it. Things just fall into place somehow. Things are always a coincidence. I just happened to find this psychologist, the first one who happened to mention my cultural background and then just happened to say eh, I’m going to take this Native class because why the hell not?

There are more examples I can’t think of right now. But regardless, I feel I’m on the right path now. I’m slowly understanding who I am, where I’m from, and this class has helped me cope with my social anxiety disorder more than any avoidance tactic ever has.

I thank my professor for that, and any mysterious ancestors that may be watching over my shoulder right now saying, yes! She’s finally got it! Yes! Yes! Yes!

But probably in a Native Language I wouldn’t be able to understand if I heard it.

Sorry ancestors.

Music Is Love; Music Is Life

Here’s something you might not know about me:

I’m a music lover.

Shocked?

You shouldn’t be, I’ve said it a million times.

See, when my father moved into this town he started a few bands and one of them took off. They were a Rhythm and Blues cover band doing classics by Stevie Wonder, James Brown, E.c.t. So that’s the music I grew up around. I was the only little girl in the clubs at night sitting with my mom who got special meals and treats because I was the Drummer/Vocalist’s daughter. In my early teen years one dude in his late twenties asked me to dance because he thought I was older and I said no and was too afraid to go back to that club after a while. People walking up and talking to me was not part of the deal.

I’m not that tall, I’m about 5’7, almost 5’8. I was the tallest kid in middle school always fighting for the top spot with this one boy. We were always the same height until middle school when he sky rocketed to almost six feet and my growth steadied itself. So I guess in the dark I looked older than I really was.

Anyway, my father’s band did a lot of weddings too. Those were the big bucks. Three, four, five grand maybe more. I went to some extravagant ones in the mountains where they had huge stone pools and clear water and great food and bubbles and although I wasn’t a social child I had my adventures in the pools with the other kids. I mostly liked the little bubbles containers though. I constantly had one in my hand so I could blow them into the air at any moment. I think I still have some.

The band broke up before I started high school. He solidified his identity in his music and I think that was a breaking point. He was already drinking and into drugs and it spiraled out of control. The last straw was when we’d been kicked out of our apartment (due to a gossiping drunk of a manager who lied to our landlords about us) and we were living on the street and he had to sell his Slingerland drum set. He’d had it since he was a child and it still had that vintage wood with the exception of a large black mark from when his mother threw it out of his bedroom window as a child because she had eight kids and couldn’t stand anymore noise or disobedience.

Contrary to what you might think, I wasn’t a huge oldies fan. I think it was pounded in my ears all hours of the day that I fucking got over it. As a socially anxious, tall, mixed race, acne covered child, the last thing I needed was to listen to music other kids couldn’t relate to. I discovered a local battle of the bands CD and fell down a dark chute into hell where all the metal bands sat around a table sipping tea, snorting coke, and tuning their guitars. My parents called me a demon child and I gladly embraced that title. I loved the chains on my clothes, the black hair, the thick eyeliner, the band shirts, the chokers with the spikes, the wristbands with “fuck you, dick” on them or whatever.

Then I had a lot of friends. I actually had about five close friends, ten or eleven all together, and I was mostly comfortable around them. I went to their houses, I stayed the night, and all their parents loved me for some reason. Probably because I was the quiet one until someone did something fucking stupid and I got in their face about it.

Two of my friends enjoyed making fun of this girl who was obviously slow and one day I got sick of it and shoved them backwards in the middle of the school yard and told them I was going to fucking break their nose with the basketball in my hand if they didn’t back off. They thought I was kidding until I got closer and said “fucking try me”. They asked why I was so mad and I stared at them like they were the mentally challenged ones. I told them to stop being dumbasses and launched the ball at them and walked with the slow girl to the fence where she waited for her mother on the bike. I told her not to listen to people like my friends. She followed me around (literally, she followed me) through high school until my senior year when she finally got a group of friends.

She’d turned bitter by then, though.

I was never made fun of. Okay, maybe once or twice in high school, but it was never hounded in my face. I wasn’t bullied or even really talked about because I kept to myself. I had my earphones in my ear and people didn’t mess with me. I wasn’t an easy target. The whole of my sophomore class saw me almost yank out the piercings of this one girl’s face (former friend) because she kept walking past my friend and I and muttering “whore” to her. I was very open about the fact that I am always willing to beat someone’s ass. I’m the quiet aggressive. If they couldn’t get that, they’d hear it in my “Cryin like a bitch” by Godsmack screaming from my earphones. I was known for smacking shit out of people’s hands and shoving them down or cutting an argument short with persuasive yelling. You didn’t win with me.

So people left me alone.

I wasn’t a bully. It was people who were fucking ignorant I targeted, and they were more often my friends.

In my family, the words that come out of your mouth are important. If you say something “stupid”, you will get fucking corrected very fast. Do I believe that’s how you should raise children? Not entirely. I don’t think screaming in their face and threatening them or hitting them with belts gets them to understand . . . but it was how I was raised and in high school it’s how I was with others. If you said something ignorant, like arguing with me over whether or not a broken arm can heal in two weeks, you’re going to get smacked and taught a lesson. The parents of many of my friends were still in their late twenties, early thirties. They’d had children in their teens. My parents were already in their fifties and had traditional values they followed. My parents weren’t strict but they weren’t loose with me like their parents were with them.

Who the fuck lets their thirteen year old walk out the door with shorts barely covering their asscheeks? That’s the type of shit I’m talking about. Are you kidding me? I would have got my ass beat! Honestly, if I wouldn’t have gotten in trouble I would have beat their ass myself.

I was an angry child, I think. I didn’t see it then but I see it now. And now much of that childhood anger has morphed into . . . well, I still have a temper. But it’s simmered considerably. What does music have to do with any of this? It has everything to do with it. When I was angry, disgruntled, depressed, anxious, happy, music was the one thing that never let me down. There was a song for everything. And I listened to anything I could get my hands on, from American classics and oldies to Beijing Theater songs. Today when I wander into a store and hum the tune to every song they play, my boyfriend is baffled. He claims I know every song ever. I know I don’t, but I have heard a lot and the best thing about it is that it never gets old. People get old, people leave, people hurt you–music never does, it never will, and it never can. It’s forever solidified in whichever emotional state it was originally recorded in and therefore it caters to your need without complaint.

I have a guitar, a bass, a clarinet, a keyboard, all of which I’ve lost my magic touch with really, but could pick up and lose myself for hours relearning what I’ve forgotten and learning what I still don’t know. I have an emotional connection with music I don’t think I’ll ever have with people. And I’m okay with that.

I still mourn the death of MTV.

And for the record, I don’t know if you’ve all had your ear to your local “hip hop” or “pop” station lately but . . . what the fuck is the world coming to? I listen to a lot of culture’s music, everything holds a story. These people today are disgracing the sacred bond humans have with song. I don’t give a fuck if you like to fuck your girlfriend in your mansion or that you spent two million dollars on the chain around your neck. God, these people are a disgrace. And the R&B stations? That is not R&B. I grew up with R&B.

USHER IS NOT RHYTHM AND BLUES.

If you want to label him and any of those people with R&B, then announce the acronym to mean something else. Just take away the R and label it B for Bullshit.

Rant: END

Hotwater Cornbread Isn’t A Muffin, Ya’ll

One of my greatest comforts in this world is food. I admit it. I’m spooning chocolate ice cream pie into my face hole as I type this. Contrary to what you would think, I’m not overweight. I have the knowledge of nutrition and exercise. I don’t stuff five thousand calories a day down my throat, I probably eat a little under than what I should. I will snack on almost anything and I will try almost anything. I have never been a fish person but I gave sushi a try at a birthday party and hacked it back up. So I learned I don’t like raw fish either.

Being where I live there’s a lot of different Mexican foods to try. For example, I learned they don’t put cheese on their tacos traditionally.

I know, overly excited cat, I was surprised too! After eating a million of them I finally realized hey . . . there’s no cheese on this. It’s not yellow corn tortilla either, it’s white tortilla with the meat and some cilantro and onions maybe, some type of salsa and you call it a day. They’re just as delicious with cheese as they are without cheese.

I like spice. And steak sauce. I put A1 on my chicken, on my fish (it makes it taste like real meat), on my steak, on my burger, whatever. A1 is the shit. Hot sauce is the shit. I want to sweat when I eat, that’s how you know it’s good to ya.

That being said, I never understood why no one in my tiny, Californian coastal town of mainly Caucasians and Mexicans had never heard of grits or hot water corn bread. I mean, I literally spent the majority of my high school years baffled. Just like they’d ask me if I’d ever tried Posole and at the time I was like I don’t even know what language you’re speaking and they’d give me a look like I’d just run over their whole family with a tour bus. I’d give them an equally confused look when they said “You mean .  .  . the muffins?” when I mentioned hotwater corn bread.

So let me fill you in. Hot Water Cornbread is not a muffin. Hence the “hot water” part. You take cornmeal and put it in a bowl. You boil water. You pour just the right amount of the boiling water into the cornmeal until it’s just enough for the cornmeal to suck up the water and clump together. Then you cup it in your hand and press it into a puffy hand shaped patty and toss it in a skillet to fry. My family usually fries with left over bacon grease or vegetable oil. When you google hotwater cornbread you get this little perfect patty all rounded and shit . . . fuck that, it’s meant to be handled with you hands with love put into it that you viciously fry away until the outside is a deep golden yellow. Then you slice it open and put some butter and munch out on it with some blackeyed peas, some mustard greens, some potato salad, and some baby back ribs.

That’s how I grew up.

Grits is also not a type of rice soup. I . . . I don’t even know where people come up with this stuff. It’s also a type of corn. It’s good with eggs and sausage and bacon and toast.

I could eat hotwater cornbread and grits with anything. It’s one of the reasons I want to visit the south where half of my family grew up. Hotwater cornbread started with Native Americans (in the southern region like Tennessee and Mississippi and such) frying these concoctions on the iron skillets from the new comers. I would love to walk into a restaurant for once and order a plate of what I grew up with, surrounded by people who also grew up around the same, with people I might actually be able to relate with.

I love Mexican food, I love burgers, I love curry, I love vegetables, I love fruit, I love grits, I love hotwater cornbread, I even have learned to love the fish Tilapia. I used to fish for crawdads and kept one as a pet. I watched my father clean fish a lot. We went fishing often when I was younger. I love gumbo, particularly the crab and sausage kind even though I don’t even like crab. Haven’t tired the one with fish head and brains in it, not willing to go that far. I’ve also never eaten pig feet or hog head cheese. I guess you could say I’ve been westernized.

I love everyone and I love them even more when I try their food and it’s good.

I don’t like when people try to push cultures on me. I know I’m all jumbled together, but that’s who I am. I’m not going to become “white” and eat hotdogs and hamburgers all day, I’m not going to become Mexican and eat tacos and fish and I refuse to drink grape soda and munch out on fried chicken just because you think I need to be more black. Just let me be who I am. Why is that such a hard thing for people to do?

Food heals the soul. What you eat is part of your identity. I eat a lot of different things because I am a lot of different things. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

What’s your favorite childhood snack? If someone says hotwater cornbread I’ll forever love you.

No pressure.

El Chapo, Toss Me A Lexapro

We’re never going to rescue Matt Damon from Mars if we only have $96 dollars out of 99 million. My mother and I were talking about starting an opposing GoFundMe fundraiser to keep him on mars. I mean . . . we have a lot of celebrities, what’s losing one? Hollywood is bubbling over the brim with weird robot stick people (what I call celebrities) who spend their life in front of a camera trying to defy aging. We seriously won’t miss one. #KeepDamonOnMars.

If I were a douche, I would start a GoFundMe like that, but I can’t knowingly take people’s money where people needing their cancer treatment paid need that money way more than I do. My friend’s sister used a FundMe page to pay for her treatment. I believe hers was 10k. I fight depression for my life and they fight cancer for their life–the only difference is I don’t need to take radiation drugs and undergo chemo. It doesn’t cost me money to fight my fight. Unless you count the money I lost because of my classes. But even then it’s minuscule compared to what they have to pay. And we all know insurance isn’t there to pay everything for you.

Do people just go around browsing GoFundMe and finding people to donate? I skimmed through it a couple times and saw an eighteen year old and her boyfriend getting kicked out of her parents house. She asked for $900 dollars and she got $9000. Now, can someone explain why the fuck people would give that much money to an 18 year old just because her parents kicked her out of the house? In that case, I’ll start punching walls and slewing curses at my parents so they’ll kick me out and I can get rich too. I didn’t know it was that easy!

Fuck off with that shit. People get kicked out all over the place, (go visit a ghetto, bitch) what makes her so special besides her pretty white face and blonde hair? I’ll make an identical account with similar words and see if I get $9000. Is GoFundMe a scam or something? Are people not really getting money for the dumb shit?

Money makes the world go ’round. Which is why I’m assuming these doctors are so obsessed with finding physical reason as absolute causes for mental disorders. Parasites in cats cause schizophrenia, inflammation of the brain causes schizophrenia, infection causes depression . . . so what do we do about that? Do we not own cats? I owned a cat as a child, in fact I was around several, I was probably exposed to the T. Gondii virus more than once. I know they say it “increases the risk” or whatever, but let’s be careful with all this bullshit. For one, i’m pretty sure your genes and environment are much more influential than a fucking cat. Secondly, America is a culture of fear. Everything is a risk. Everything has dire consequences. We aren’t told to avoid anything but we are told “if you do this, this bad thing will probably happen”. Our societies foundation is anxiety. If you screened the majority of the people in the united states, they’d probably have some symptoms of generalized anxiety. We’re stressed, we’re anxious, and when they can’t live up to societies standards and consequentially our own standards, it causes some mental turmoil.

Just know that life never set any standards for you. Life doesn’t care about your DD boob job or that nice new Tesla you’re driving or that you’re suicidal or all that money you donated to some charity or the foster home you run. We created good and bad, we seek pleasure out of life so fiercely because if we didn’t we’d have to own up to the fact that we just exist. Think about how less stressful life was if you were on an island, hunted for your food, sat around with your family and ate it. Maybe played on the beach until the sun set. Life just is and we just are.

We make existence very stressful, you know?

Search for the “beginning of the universe” all you want. I love reading your theories, science, but I laugh at each one of them. Even if you find something feasible you’ll never know if it’s right or not. That kind of theorizing is more of a hobby than a career to me. Hence why I’m not a theoretical physicist right now.

On the modern side of the spectrum, if they can find physical reasons for mental disorders . . . well all hail the drug lord. El Chapo is going to start negotiating fucking antidepressants and antibiotics and antipsychotics instead of cocaine and heroin. You’ll start reporting your symptoms to him, not your doctor. “Hey, Chapo buddy, I need some Seroquel and some Depakote man, and bill my insurance alright? See you next month. Don’t get thrown in prison while I’m gone.”

His Face When You Mention Prison

How much of a difference is there, anyway? What is the difference between the sick bond between Insurance Companies, Big Pharma, medical boards and El Chapo? They all deal drugs, they’d all be considered criminals if people exposed the scams–and hey, if corporations in America are considered people, they could all be locked in a prison cell for the remainder of their life.  

I read a quote by a woman who suspects depression results from infection. She said:

“The idea that depression is caused simply by changes in serotonin is not panning out. We need to think about other possible causes and treatments for psychiatric disorders.”

She’s right: the idea that depression is caused by serotonin changes is pretty vague. We do need other treatments. Does that mean we need to find a biological cause to treat it? I think that’s about as stupid as believing a shift in serotonin is the absolute cause of your depression.

They’re always trying to find a cure: and for good reason. We as a culture demand quick fixes. Don’t take twenty minutes to cook my delicious, fresh, hamburger hot on the grill, I want a fast one that’s been sitting in the freezer for three years and heated up in a microwave then set under a lamp.

We try to cure things that are “wrong”. And if you believe that something is wrong with you because you suffer with mental health issues, then I could see why you’d want a “cure”. Why you’d want someone to “fix it” for you.

But what if you change how you see yourself? What if you see your struggles as just a part of you? Then it doesn’t become a need for a “cure” (how vague is that anyway?), it becomes a need to “cope”. And coping seems much more likely. When you break your knee you put it in a cast and you have to wheel around on a little scooter thing or use crutches. You’re coping, not curing. And when the bone fuses back, you still might end up with a limp so it’s never fully healed and yet you limp proudly. You cope.

When you get a gash in your skin do you think the fucking gash fairy flutters down from gash heaven and taps a wand to it and it heals? No, your body works like crazy to close that shit up so you don’t get infected. Everything it does is for you. It works hard to keep you healthy. You have to work hard to keep it healthy. It’s not a one way street here. There are no magic cures. There’s nothing wrong with you. Life is life, you are you.

El Chapo won’t be there for you forever.

Mary Jane

It’s funny how time flies when the entirety of your mind gets sucked into the relentless black hole that is the World Wide Web. Of course I would have been up until 6am on my phone or reading anyway, so what difference does it make whether I’m watching videos on my phone or watching videos on this thing?

Anyway, since I hate being alone and hate being in the dark and have no real reason to get up in the morning, I have officially reverted into old habits of staying up all night feeling dreadful–literally, I feel dread; something’s going to happen, somewhere, to me, to my family, whatever–and trying to curb that dread with the empty voices of people from YouTube. It’s almost equivalent to human companionship. I’m very particular about my YouTube videos at night–they can’t be animations or anything where a living person is not shown talking. Yes, I’m substituting their company for the company of others because I really, really hate the dark.

I’m more active at night anyway, I always have been. My anxiety didn’t always used to kick up at night, but it does now (for the last few years) so I adapt and manipulate it to the best of my abilities. Besides checking around this giant screen ever few minutes to make sure someone isn’t staring at me or freaking out when I hear someone close the bathroom door, I pretty much just sit here for hours upon hours.

What do I watch, you may ask? Well, good question!

I don’t care if you don’t care, I’m going to tell you anyway.

At night I’m a sucker for “reality” shows, especially the ones on TLC documenting the people over 600 pounds who get weight loss surgery in hopes to reclaim their life. To be honest it gets me fired up to try and exercise. I never do of course, but at least it gets me fired up to do it eventually.

She Had One Of The Worst Attitudes

Some of them have really bad attitudes. I mean, this doctor from Albania or wherever the fuck Dr Nowzardan is from, just jabbed your giant ass stomach with four prong thingys, reattached your cut stomach to your intestine, and performed life threatening surgery on you . . . and you’re not even going to try and walk? Do you not understand what the fuck a blood clot is? It will kill you. I had a friend who, when we were nineteen, died in her sleep from a pulmonary embolism. We hadn’t been in contact for two or three years but she had always been overweight severely (I think she had thyroid problems). So you don’t fuck with blood clots, they’ll take you out quicker than you can blink.

Then you have the people who are obviously addicted to food. I suppose they all are, but some overcome it by motivation and changed eating habits. Other people just say fuck you, shove a brownie down their pie hole and drink a huge ass soda and while they’re hurling in the toilet (Err, bedside bucket), they got a hot plate of cookies waiting for them made by their faithful spouse.

I remember when the show first came out. The first thing I said was “get these fuckers a counselor”. It took a while, but I noticed on the newer episodes they have. It’s just common sense. Have an addiction? There’s probably a reason you have an addiction. Talk to a counselor. Surgery doesn’t fix your brother molesting you when you were five.

Or whatever.

Then I watch Taboo. Anyone watch that? I fucking love it. Say what you want about cultures marrying their children to each other when they’re seven, their ceremonies are some of the most beautiful I’ve seen. The colors are vibrant, their dress is elegant; how do they get the pigment in their dye for their clothing so neon? These people live in fucking trees, they must have some natural way of doing it. No offense to people who love their traditional weddings here on the western so called “civilized” (don’t make me laugh) part of society, but black and white? Really? Reflect the mindset of our society much?

Then they have the culture somewhere in the middle east that recognizes five genders. That’s right–five: male, female, transgender man, transgender woman, and the fifth one which I can’t remember. They do ceremonies where all five genders come together and do these chant prayers. If all five genders aren’t represented, aren’t respected, and aren’t treated equally and blessed equally, then the world falls out of the balance. Why is this called taboo again? I don’t care if I have to wash my feet in fire ant spit or go halfway down the road for an outhouse, at least they’d accept me.

You know I watched the one about drugs. In India they have their ceremony where they celebrate the God Shiva and sit around and get fucking wrecked. Stoned. High as a kite. On Marijuana. It’s illegal the rest of the days, but for this event it’s legal and handed out for free. I would really like to witness this ceremony. Who is Shiva again? God of destruction? He can destroy and restore me all he wants as long as he tosses me a pipe. And it better be packed. I ain’t got no time to pack that shit on my own. I probably won’t have arms or hands anyway since he destroyed me and all.

They say westerners have gone crazy smoking it. Well of course we would, we have a certain mindset about drugs. With Marijuana we expect to feel high, maybe even a bit paranoid if you’re like me, and we expect for our consciousness to just be lifted. To them it’s not a matter of getting spacey and “feeling good” it’s about getting closer to Shiva and that’s what their high is. Of course we’d go crazy, we wouldn’t understand what’s going on. Not to mention their shit is straight out the ground. I mean people here be smoking “spice” and whatever, putting PCP in their joints–the fuck is wrong with ya’ll?

Another tribe in the mountains of Venezuela have their Shaman-to-be snort the fuck out of a hallucinogenic plant and then they sting him with ants all over his body. If he can endure the pain then it’s the first step into becoming a man who can harness the power to heal others. Shamans regularly snort this mind trip because it’s part of his healing powers. Now, I’m not going to argue with these people, I mean by now they probably have a doctorate in snorting hallucinogens, but because I’m in the western part of the world accustomed to western tradition where we view such things that induce psychotic-like states “crazy”, I was a little taken back. The first thing I associated hallucinating with was terrifying.

But it all depends on how you were raised. If you were somewhere in India and you start hearing the voice of God talking to you, commanding you how to live your life and telling you “Good job” or “I love you” or “you’re doing great” than your life’s functionality isn’t really going to be impaired. If you’re over here and hear the voice of God or whoever, they’re most likely going to tell you to do some heinous shit. They’ll degrade you and prompt you to kill yourself. Culture plays a bigger role than people think.

If you lived in this tribe you would have been around people snorting hallucinogens since you were a baby. You’d grow up understanding that that elixir was a way to contact the spirit world, to be outside of yourself and see life through the eyes of spirits. So by the time you’re in your mid-twenties or whatever and decide to be a shaman, and you snort that shit, you’re mentally prepared. When you float you’re connecting with the spirits. When you see things they’re not there to attack you but to lift you up and help you help others. That’s why this man sat there quietly after snorting and isn’t up running around screaming about spider monkeys tearing his flesh off.

Or whatever people hallucinate when they’re on that shit.

Westerners couldn’t handle it.

Then Taboo turns around and tries to convince me ecstasy is one of the most dangerous drugs. I switched to a different video. I don’t like people lying to me. Now, I’m not advocating the use of ecstasy, as my Biopsych professor said, but it’s really not that dangerous. The only thing I’d ever be concerned about is it’s control over your bodies temperature. That’s pretty damn dangerous. That’s why kids go into heat stroke in clubs after they take a large dose. Here’s a tip–don’t take something that interferes with your hypothalamus. Or your cerebellum. Or Medulla or pons. So basically don’t pop ecstasy and don’t drink loads of alcohol. If your medulla and pons craps out on you, you’re going to go into respiratory failure. There’s your major concern for alcohol poisoning. If you didn’t know, now you know.

Oh, also stay away from those other things. You know, the ones people put battery acid and coolant into.

Fuck man, you see people cooking that shit and you still take it? Who knowingly snorts battery acid into their nostrils? That’s how you know addiction is one powerful motherfucker.

We have a tendency to think because we grew up in a certain way, it’s the right way. I mean, America has a long history with that fucking problem (Manifest Destiny). It’s time to step outside of yourself and see the world reacts differently to everything. We all have our own beliefs, our own customers, and if human rights exist (which I’m iffy about; go ahead, rip me to shreds), then they would be solely the right to practice what you practice. Get off your high horse. Stop running into countries and telling them how to live. Get out of Africa. Get out of the middle east. Your stupid ass won’t be laughing when they finally get a solid footing and come over here and do that shit.

Stay happy. Stay healthy. Smoke Marijuana.

Just Thoughts

I slept a good twelve hours today and I’m still tired, but I’m feeling a little better despite the overwhelming feeling that something bad is going to happen. That’s a norm, too. I’m not unfamiliar with the realm of feeling suicidal or harming myself or anything like that but I am unfamiliar with pulling myself out of it. I’ve been trying this time. Instead of forcing myself to “think positive” (whatever the hell that means; seems as vague as having pride for being a “good worker”), I thought about the things I wouldn’t be able to do if I killed myself. I wouldn’t be able to write–wholly shit, that was a whammy. I’m like damn son, if I can’t write then what the fuck? What if I float in purgatory with a ghost pen that doesn’t write on any type of ghost paper and I’m forever doomed to a wispy existence without the ability to record my thoughts. That realization keeps me here another day.

I would say something about missing my family, my boyfriend, e.t.c., because I would, but when you’re depressed (at least when i’m depressed) you already think everyone around you is better off without you. So it didn’t make much sense to use them as a reason to stay because I would have to try and convince myself that I needed them. The last thing I want to do when depressed is try and convince myself not to be depressed. I’d rather try and find a reason to enjoy things again. That’s the scariest part for me, is that fact that I can’t enjoy things like I used to. So I try and force myself into them to make me enjoy them again and that didn’t work. instead, I played Minecraft because that takes a very, very minimal amount of brain power and it has a creative element to it; get those juices flowing again that I know I have. So that’s what I’ve been doing for these last few days.

Don’t really have a lot to say today, makes sense I guess.

Until next time.

In The Eye Of The Storm

I went to the cliffs yesterday evening. I’m not sure if I want to share what I wrote or not. I might later, when I’m in a different headspace, but right now it would just be a constant reminder of how bad I wanted to leap off. Little did I know how crowded the cliffs in that area get in the evening. The sunset is amazing, it gave me something to focus on. I wish I had had a better camera than my piece of shit phone whose “8 MP” camera looks more like “.0001 MP up a dinosaur’s ass”.

That was one of my goals, you know? Get a new camera (the one I have is too basic and the video camera is too clunky) and start getting back into photography. I had so many amazing ideas and I had the confidence to do them, the motivation to start them, and the drive to carry through with them. Now that school is tanking I have no more hope and barely a thing to live for. I take education so seriously because it’s the only thing I’ve ever really succeeded at–plus it’s my largest income. I don’t want to be put on academic probation for fuck’s sake. I don’t want to pay them back half of what they’ve paid me.

Well, it’s too late for all that, I’ve made my decision and that’s that. Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’m the one in my head making the decisions, I really don’t.

It’s funny how my phone knows exactly what depressing songs to play when I’m depressed. Looks like it’s gotten used to my mood swings too. Like I’ve said before, I’m big on my connection to inanimate objects, I’ve always had an obsessive thing with them since I was little, that they exist in life much like we do. Whatever, it probably makes me sound like a loon. Honestly, I don’t care anymore.

That “relaxation” I smoked a day ago or whatever was much stronger than what I’ve usually had I think, because my curtains turned blood orange (and it wasn’t sunset) and I thought it was the apocalypse so I almost hid under my desk. So I don’t think I’ll be using that kind any time soon.

Anyway, this is what I watched last night via my dinosaur-ass phone:

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I think the creepy part about this is if you know what that dark boat sinking in the water behind the wharf is, than you know the town I live thirty minutes from. If you don’t know what it is . . . well I’ll just tell you. It’s a cement boat. Yes, a cement boat. I used to play on it as a child until it got too dangerous for people to go on. Now it just sits there sinking, fenced off. The birds love it. It’s covered in seagull shit.

Well, that was my night last night. I still feel shitty and I’m sleeping ten, eleven hours again, so I should feel rested, right? Wrong! Oh so very, very wrongSo fucking wrong on so many fucking levels!!!

Plus every little thing is irritating me today. I just want to sit at my computer and feel like shit, I don’t need people (meaning my parents because who the fuck else would it be) walking in and out of my room! Just let me fucking wallow alone, for fuck’s sake!! It’s not like anyone is ever willing to walk into my room (“Friends” included) and say “hey, wanna talk?” or anything. No, they just act like it’s something they don’t know how to deal with so therefore I should deal with it on my own. No offer to talk, no offer of hugs or even a “what’s wrong?”. If being on the brink of offing myself isn’t enough to get even an offer of a hug, than I’m just not going to get one. So if that’s how everyone wants to act then fucking leave me alone. Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t ask me for weed, don’t ask me for shit.

It’s funny how when you just need to feel loved people are suddenly busy.

But oh, when they need to talk I’m supposed to drop all my shit and pay my fullest attention. Fuck that shit. Go sit in a corner and talk to a wall because I’m done with this shit.

Anyway, I don’t know what else to write, I might just go back to sleep.

Depression and Irritation Goes Hand-In-Hand

I haven’t been out of my house (except for a brief period in time at 2am) since last week and I fear I’m reverting to old habits. What is there for me to do outside? I have no one to interact with (and don’t really want anyone to interact with). The two people I know have jobs and lives to attend to, I’m not going to interfere with their moment of being token citizens. I wouldn’t be happy with a nine to five or a part time position that doesn’t require me to do anything else than service people. Not help them or aide them or even bring joy to their lives . . . just service them. That doesn’t enrich me as a human being and it doesn’t enrich the customer as a human being.

I’m grateful for people willing to do those service jobs, however, because I sure as hell couldn’t do it.

Social anxiety is one thing. Dissatisfaction is another.

Everyone is so proud of themselves when they get their first or second job, I’ve noticed. I was proud when I got my first job; I know now that pride was artificial because I figured I was supposed to feel proud.

They’re proud they can provide for themselves, they’re proud that their parents see them as a part of normal society, and they’re proud that they feel useful. But I don’t understand why: I’m not capable of understanding why. Why do they feel useful? They’re servants. I mean . . . I guess that’s useful, but not in my eyes. They’re making money, yes, and can buy their own gas and their own food and some of them might even be able to move out . . . but isn’t that all a little selfish? You get a job so you can make money so you can do things for yourself. I . . . I don’t understand.

Maybe it’s the logic side of me, maybe it’s the creative side of me, maybe it’s the arrogant side of me, maybe it’s the depressed side of me that’s about ready to put a gun to my temple, maybe it’s the dissatisfied part of me, or maybe it’s the socially anxious side of me–maybe it’s all of them combined, but for myself I see no reason to conform to any of that. When I find another “job”, I want one that I’m satisfied with, one that has a creative side to it, one that enriches people’s lives in some manner, one where I have control over what I’m doing and if I have to interact with people it’s through collaboration, not an authoritarian-to-submissive-being type relationship.

I know I want to volunteer at the homeless shelter downtown, eventually. Bagging food or putting it on a tray for those people is kind of a service but it’s a little bit of richness to their life: they’re getting food they probably wouldn’t in a different setting. I know many of them have mental issues and I know many of them cope with addictions. These are people that don’t have your white-picket fence, your neat little family, your trip to the amusement park, you vacation in the mountains–these are people who make due with what they have. Whether or not they put themselves in the situation is irrelevant: they’re starving, cold, alone, most likely hopeless, and food is probably a moment of comfort. I enjoy providing that moment of comfort.

I wouldn’t mind tutoring high school students whose second language is English. Shit, I’ve been doing that since I was a freshman. Even college students asked me for help. It’s fun, it’s something I love, and in the process they gain a skill that will help them better communicate to the people around them.

I wouldn’t mind dedicating a significant portion of my life to writing again. In fact, it’s one of my goals and once I get a goal it might as well be etched in stone.

Analyzing petri dishes in a lab. Assisting a researcher. I can’t do it this coming semester since I won’t be able to finish my chem class . . . but later I can and later I will. That’s useful, it’s fun, it’s got meaning–to me.

Photography, flash animations, videos, music, things that appreciate the joy in life, things that bring joy to my life and to others: that makes sense to me. What is life without a little bit of joy? I see nothing joyous about being stuck in a restaurant waiting on some customer who thinks she’s the shit and demands you bring her the spicy mustard rather than the regular mustard even though she asked for the regular mustard then leaves you a penny for a tip claiming you had attitude. I see nothing joyous about being stuck behind a cash register listening to some customer bitch at you about the APR on the credit card you have to try and sell them. Does it look like I fucking made the rules? Does it look like I even know what I’m selling you half the time? And most importantly, does it look like I give two shits about whether you sign up or not?

Some people enjoy these tasks. It’s easy to them, they get money, they get to do what they wish without restriction and you know what, if that pleases them than who am I to judge? But it’s not for me.

I am extremely grateful for my mother who works those kind of jobs so I don’t need to. She doesn’t enjoy the hours, but she enjoys the work she does. She actually likes a lot of it. I was the one who promoted her to leave her bullshit job (of which she worked for 25 years) because they were under new management and weening out the old people. They wouldn’t give her commission that she obviously made and then rang her around for months saying “oh, we’ll look into it”. I told her to leave that fucking place because they’re a bunch of incompetent, corporate bitches.

People started quitting left and right. I told her they should all get up and report them to the labor board. No one would. I told her they should all get up and walk out, let the business fall to the ground–they’d get their job back. But no, people let themselves get put down, dragged around, and beat into the floor by this company. I wouldn’t let it happen to my mother.

It was hell trying to find a new job for her, of course. I started looking for jobs too, even though there were none that fit with my school schedule. I’m sure it would have been hell for anyone from that place to find another job if they quit. I ask her now whether she thought it was worth it all and she always says yes.

But this is what I don’t understand: who let’s a corporation, a leader, an authority figure, degrade them to that level? Who? What makes you people submit your entire life to getting shoved in the ground?

One of her coworkers has a husband who is a lawyer and makes 400,000 dollars per case he wins. She pays for his health insurance through the job she worked with my mom because . . . who fucking knows? She said the reason she wouldn’t leave is because she wouldn’t be able to pay for his health insurance.

They’re fucking rich. They go to Paris, to London, to India or some shit all the time on his fucking salary!!.

What the fuck is wrong with people? You’re going to give up your happiness, your identity, your self-worth to a motherfucking corporation that treats you like a piece of shit on the ground, abuses your talents, blows your stress levels through the roof, because you don’t want your rich husband to have to pay for his health insurance? I’m so confused!

This is why I refused to get a nine to five. This is why I want a job that appreciates who I am not because “I’m a good worker” (who gives a fuck? What does that even mean?), but because I have something to give back to society, I have something creative, something unique, something that enriches others lives, something that I can live off of and something that can simultaneously give me a life. And when I get there I can give back to the people who sacrifice their happiness for the sake of money and for the sake of family.

Call it arrogance if you want.

Maybe it’s this depression talking.

Maybe I’m so arrogant that it’s impossible to be selfish,

Or maybe I’m so arrogant the only thing I can be is selfish.

The Beauty Of Life

I wasn’t feeling good today. I hate having no energy and feeling so useless. I cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen (at least that dog is gone so no more hair or vomit), so I guess I’m not completely useless, but I’m still feeling like a failure. I can’t wait for this depression to pass, it’s really putting salt in my game. And my game was already shriveled up as it is. Rather than deal with that, I ate some chocolate, smoked a little relaxation and, of course, started reading about aliens.

I’m sure everyone’s heard about the object circulating around some star. It’s got an irregular pattern or something, so it’s not a planet. Honestly, as much as I love science, I didn’t read the articles, I just skimmed them and got bored because my mind doesn’t really feel like thinking about a lot right now. Instead, I found these ufo shaped clouds:

Beautiful, aren’t they? It just helps remind me how amazing life is.