I think I complained in an earlier post about how much I hated anticipating nervous events.
Consider this Part Two.
Whenever I get that little voice in my head telling me “Don’t you see how nice it is at home? Just stay home tonight. One class isn’t going to kill you,” as if I haven’t skipped multiple classes this semester, I put myself to sleep. I’ll lay down for five, six, seven, eight, nine . . . ten . . .eleven hours today I think it was and just sleep.
If I wake up, I force myself back to sleep.
Because when I’m awake I have one of two options: 1) Ruminate on all the bad things that could happen in class tonight or 2) Try not to ruminate on all the bad things that could happen in class tonight and sequentially end up ruminating on all the bad things that could happen in class tonight.
So I say fuck it and go to sleep.
When I woke up today that little voice was very loud–he often is–and I almost went back to sleep. Instead, I pulled myself out of bed and into the shower and somehow made it out of the house in less than thirty minutes. That’s a new record. I got to my campus in twenty minutes. That’s also a record considering I leave in the middle of rush hour traffic.
Of course no one was in the class when I walked through the door so my professor told me about a woman he’d spent the last two hours talking with who’d read his book and who’d asked her to make sure some indigenous portions in her own book were accurate.
He also gave me a paper with scholarships on it for writing that I’m going to look through this week and consider applying for. I don’t really care about the money I just want the recognition. It’s always nice to have a
ego confidence boost as a writer.
Anyway, I didn’t say much in the class discussion tonight, I rarely do unless forced, but in the smaller group I found myself able to speak a little freer. I still didn’t say everything I could of, there were a few words bouncing around on my tongue itching to get out but my brain wasn’t sure if they were right and so it 86’d them from the menu. As usual.
Tonight I just didn’t have the energy to remind myself that when discussing literature it really doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong, just as long as you get some ideas out in the open for people to mull over. It’s like the math test where there are several ways to do one thing but ultimately you come to the same type of answer.
Anyway, turns out the answer I was going to say was right. Go figure.
Of course it was; who am I kidding? I’m a genius.
Sarcasm is healthy.
Regardless I’m going to count tonight as a success. Even though most of the talking I did was completely unrelated to the book, I don’t even give a shit anymore at least I opened my mouth.
It’s curious how the people I’m supposed to be close with, my other family members perhaps even my boyfriend’s family, are the ones I have the hardest time speaking with. Even one-on-one I have more trouble speaking with any of them than I do with some stranger on the street.
I’m pretty sure that’s due to judgement. If the stranger judges me, fine, I won’t see him again to read it in his expression or hear it in his voice. If my family or someone else’s family judges me, I have to face them often and see it and it’s a constant reminder I’m not like them.
I feel as if they remind themselves I’m not like them as much as I remind myself I’m not like them.
I’m still figuring out what my social limits are. Not the limits set by my anxiety but the limits set by my own urges. I do like talking with people, I sometimes don’t shut up. I prefer alone time. I need to find a balance. Just as with everything in life, I need to find a balance.
We were talking about in class tonight the separation of people today from reality. There’s a weird kind of illusion over society, over people’s understanding about life which is the reason Donald Trump and Ben Carson actually have supporters. It’s the reason your doctor tells you to take medication without further inspection. It’s the reason there are so many clinical disorders in the DSM. It’s the reason many psychologists don’t take into consideration your background or your ancestry. It’s the reason most people think you need to “let go” and “forget” the past.
How are you going to forget something that is responsible for the way you are today? You might as well forget who you are. Saying it happened and it’s over with isn’t acceptance, do people understand that? Saying it happened and learning to carry it with you for the remainder of your life, that’s acceptance. If you can’t do that then sorry, your anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications aren’t going to help. And don’t blame your doctor and don’t blame the medications–it’s not their fault you don’t understand.
I just realized I denoted the little voice in my head as “he”early on in this post. I do that. I don’t hear voices, besides the ones that shout at me when I’m just waking up or really tired and trying to fall asleep. You know, the normal ones. At least the internet says it’s normal. What’s normal again? Oh yeah, everything’s normal and nothing is normal. So I’m normal.
I know I can’t be the only one in this world who has several different personalities within them they discuss things with in their head.
Stop giving me that look, you do it too.
These aren’t separate people, they’re all me. I know they are because . . . I’m me. They’re the reason I love imagining characters in my writing because a lot of them are characters in my writing. They’re the reason I get nervous letting people read my fiction because they’re reading my soul. I don’t want a critique on my soul.
I denote the rest of me that are separate portions of myself as “he”. Don’t know why, I just always have.
One is just pure rage. He’s the one who wants to smash your face in or break the door or hit you with my car because you’re a bicyclist with a nasty ego who rides over the white line like I need to give a shit about your space when you clearly have plenty of room within the white line. That’s why the white line is there. I don’t hear from him very often anymore because I don’t let myself. On occasional I’ll punch a door or wall and then I feel better and don’t need him anymore.
Another is the thinker. Just sits and thinks and thinks and thinks and he’s the one I go to when I need some serious philosophical concepts and spiritual concepts. He’s the one that connects all the rest of mes into the spiritual world.
Convinced I’m a loon yet? No? Good. I’d have to kill you if you did.
Another is . . . I don’t know what he is yet. He pops out randomly sometimes and he’s the one who’s obsessed with the serial killers and “human nature” and he’s also the most truthful part of me. He’s the one who knows Human Rights are constructed by society. Were he his own person, he’d probably murder you just to try it because why the hell not? Luckily he’s very good friends with my conscience, who I’ve spoken with in a few dreams before, and my personal morality so he won’t be killing anyone any time soon.
He’s the one who pushed me into psychiatry. When he senses a violation of life on the basis of stupidity, he makes me do his dirty work.
Murder is way too much work anyway.
Prison looks uncomfortable.
The Soap is too slippery.
Plus the rest of me doesn’t want to live with that for the rest of my life. All the Donald Trumps in the world couldn’t distract me from myself if I’d killed someone.
You do all know that’s what he is right? A distraction from all the poverty and racism and all the other issues America does a shit job of confronting. He’s just a distraction.
That’s some insight to my brain. There’s a lot going on up here. No I don’t have DID, no I don’t hear voices, no personalities don’t take control of my body. That’s just how my brain sees itself, it always has. These people in my head have grown with me. They’re in my stories and they’re my reality.
Anxiety sucks. I go to the people within myself when I need company and support.