Learning Opportunities

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I’m okay spending many of my days alone. I have just enough contact with the outside world to keep me satisfied without overwhelming me. I also have enough video game equipment to keep boredom from crawling up my spine.

This is not another gaming post, but . . . admittedly, I play a lot. I do. I go through sessions of what I call “Binge Gaming” where I spend two or more days (depending on the difficulty and size of the game) glued in front of my television or P.C beating the shit out of ghouls or hunters or cars or whatever.

I used to be addicted to Call of Duty until I got bored with the franchise. I’d play for two days or three days with perhaps an hour or two break to sleep or eat. If I could spend my life entertaining people on YouTube with my screeches like some people, I would be a happy camper.

I love telling people online how much I game and what I play and I love when they assume I’m a man and I get the pleasure of bursting that bubble.

Do you all remember the old days when the PlayStation 3 came out and there was that PlayStation life or whatever the hell? The virtual reality thing? The first time I went in I got swarmed by about twenty people asking me if I was a real girl. That sounds cliche, but it’s the truth.

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As much as I’d like to go into detail about my crazy online gaming encounters, I won’t. Today is one of those days I feel like doing something that interests me (gaming, writing) but I just can’t push myself to get started with either.

When you struggle with your mental health there may be times when you also struggle to feel useful. Not just to yourself but to your friends and your family. Speaking from personal experience, I have immense trouble finding a job and keeping a job. Because of my lack of communication skills, and general preference to non-verbal contact, I never volunteered in high school. I rarely spoke with my teachers and I rarely speak with my professors so therefore I have no professional references. The last position I worked the cash register, had a meltdown, and refused to return. No two weeks notice, no explanation, I just disappeared off the face of the Earth.

So I’m not in good standing with my ex-employer, either. Whether or not some jobs I’ve applied for actually called them I’ll never know. But if they did, I know why I didn’t get those jobs.

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I Couldn’t Even Put Professional “Blogger” If I Wanted To.

My resume is rather unimpressive. I can beef myself up with a cover letter should the position even require such a thing, but my resume can’t back up that confidence or skill. Applying for jobs where other, more experienced people are also applying just throws me out of the race.

I can fake my way through an interview fairly well because they ask questions. I can handle questions. It might take me a little longer to form words and I try my hardest not to stumble or trail off my sentences. If they could speak with me in writing I would have much better chances.

Unfortunately, those of us who struggle verbally aren’t appreciated in a society which caters to loud mouths. I have a loud mouth too. When I have a pencil in my hand. No one understands my mind is uncomfortably blank when I’m forced into having a conversation. I literally break a sweat trying to come up with things to say.

So I’d rather work in an area where if I have to talk it’s for a reason and it’s not to different people every time. I could handle working in an area that expects me to be team orientated because eventually I’ll get used to everyone.

I can not handle working at a cash register. I don’t like a lot of things coming at me at once. I don’t want to have to help this person and have another person waiting on the side for a question to be answered and also have three blinking lights on a phone for people on hold. I was offered a position like that. I declined immediately.

mjaxmi03njvjztjjzthlytfhmddjDo people really understand this? I don’t think so. Because, often, the first words out of their mouth is “just do it” or ” just get over it”. Obviously if I could do either of those things, I would. But I’ve spent most of my life as a mute, communicating through scribbles on a page because I didn’t understand how people could form words on their tongue and blurt them so carelessly. Imagine a toddler who didn’t like to talk. Dream child, you’d think. And I was to a lot of teachers. I could do my work without much issue and they never had to reprimand me for speaking before my hand went up.

Because my hand never went up.

At home it was different because I could talk about things I wanted to talk about and ask questions about things I was curious about and spend days building endless fantasy worlds with my toys.

Anyway, whether people are educated or not, sympathizing in a way that isn’t condescending isn’t easy for a lot of people. So far, I haven’t met someone in the physical world (I.e, not online) who doesn’t make a joke out of what I go through or who just plain doesn’t understand–including my parents.

Well not my dad. His memory is shot.

But my mother still refuses to acknowledge I struggle as much as I do, even when I set it out very plainly for her. Whether she pays for it or not, she doesn’t think I should be seeing a psychologist.

There’s a very brutal truth about support: some people will never provide it. It doesn’t isolatedmean they don’t love you, it doesn’t mean they hate you, it just means they don’t understand. How could they honestly understand if they’ve never felt the things you do or seen the things you’ve seen?

Even the people who support you might not understand. The difference between them and the non-supporters is that what they do understand, the fact that it’s hard for you, is why they are there for you when you need them most. That’s a very good quality to look for in a person.

If someone is a non-supporter, don’t let your frustration get the best of you. There are probably things in their life you wouldn’t understand. I’m surrounded by non-supporters which is why, in my early teens, I decided to be a self-advocate. I support myself emotionally; I do for myself what I wish others could.

How?

Because I understand myself and the maladaptive ways of thinking I have.

The fact that I’ve built characters in my head who are really extensions of my different personalities since I was a toddler probably helps too. Rather than feeling like I’m giving myself advice, I feel like I’m having a conversation with people who support me and understand me. Because I am.

largejournal_acadia_green_75x975_029353There are two things I’ve always had issues with: writing to myself in journals and saying people’s names. I can’t do either. It’s hard for me to write to myself because I see no point in it. I could just tell myself those things in my head.

Seeing as I’m a writer, you would think putting stuff down in words would make it easier for me to see, but not for me. If I don’t write for a reader other than myself I see no point in it. It’s my way of communicating who I am, how I think, and my emotions. If no one reads it than I’ve just wasted precious words.

As far as the names go . . . I have no idea. I’ve just never been able to say people’s names, especially to their face.

The point? Keep a sense of dignified pity for the non-supporters who won’t take the time to understand how hard something is for someone else. They’re missing out on a valuable learning opportunity about someone they care about. It’s their loss.

Entertain Yourself

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I come to you live from some obscure little beach town in California that I’m not going to say the name of because I learned from an early age when AOL was your Xfinity high speed connection that you should never mention where you live on the internet, certainly not your address, because killers and kidnappers are just as often online as they are your neighbor, and maybe one of them will get obsessed with the luminescence of your writing and decide to track you down and force you to be a writing slave in their basement, chucking out short story after blog post after manuscript until your hand develops carpal tunnel at the mere touch of a pencil tip because fuck computers, he wants you to do it the old way, the right way–with the daily news.

I come to you live with the daily news, essentially.

No news, really. I . . .

I’m just coming to you live I guess.

Who wrote this script? Diane . . . Diane! I’m not saying this shit it make me sound like an idiot!

Alright, alright, I’m done.

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My Actual Keyboard. She’s Gorgeous.

My juices are flowing, my fingers are itching for some of that keyboard cocaine, and this is what I get for trying to sleep early.

After sleeping 4-5 hours these last few nights, one could imagine I’m reasonably tired. And I am. So yesterday, after another five hours of sleep, I decided I would stay up all day and move around all day just to tire this old freight train of a body out.

 

I literally exhale black smoke, too. It’s the essence of my soul.

I’m done, I’m done, ignore me.

I passed out at 8:30-9 p.m. A new record!

Only to wake up at 1:40 a.m

*Cue canned “sad crowd” noises*

I dreamed about living in a fictional place called “New India” where I had to hide my identity because I was wanted. I lived with a white couple who ran a clothing store in a plaza. We lived in the store. The whole plot of the dream revolved around me putting on proper New India dress and blending into the public. I also asked the man to go back to my house in America and get my Chromebook charger because, shit, I’d forgotten it.

Now I ask you, dear reader, who has graced this blog post page for some reason I’m sure you’re regretting by now, why do I even try?

“Hurr Durr, duh, you try because you need to sleep”.

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Dear reader, you would be of wondrous help if my I.Q were 20. Alas, it is not (I’m pretty sure), and I am cursed with a general level of cleverness and intelligence that sometimes gets me into more trouble than I’d care to admit. The awesome thing about that is I never get caught.

I’m not a secret serial killer, but I could be if I wanted to. If I had no moral compass and simply rode the waves of my aggression, could you imagine the bloodshed?

Anyone can kill, of course. But only certain types of people can be good at it. Just like anyone can talk, but only certain people are really good at it. Like Hitler.

I tell people they should be happy I’m awkward in social situations. If I wasn’t, I’d be really good in them and you never know what could happen.

You all know I love you right? I love all of you for reading this ridiculous shit day after day, night after night, and finding humor in the torturous nights I’m awake from sunset to sunrise using sarcasm as my greatest coping mechanism in every ounce of this life.

Sure, I can’t sleep and I feel like ripping my hair out and chocking a crow with it, but–

What the fuck? That flew out of my fingers before it was an actual thought. I don’t choke animals. I love animals. They keep me better company than humans most of the time.

Anyway, I’m generally happy at the moment, despite the circumstance. In fact, I’m riding a pretty nice wave of satisfaction. It’s quiet, I have my Iheart radio, and my technology, and even though being alone can curse me with some hardcore health anxiety, tonight I’m not going to let that stop me from enjoying this peace. I feel well rested. My eyes don’t, and my body definitely doesn’t, but my brain does and that’s all I care about.

One of my favorite songs just blasted on Iheart. My night is now complete.

lsd-484533423-resizedThe point is, no matter how annoyed I am with what my brain throws at me–which is weird when you think about it, spending night after night impeding yourself–I love all these quirks. Think how boring my life would be if my parents didn’t think I was on drugs? Think how boring my life would be if I didn’t act like I was on drugs? If I didn’t stay out until 5 in the morning and come home and pass out on my bed for four hours and wake up in a rage?

How boring would life be without my rage? I love my rage. It’s a moment of release.

Shit, Iheart is on FIRE right now son, Daaaaaaaamn!!

Where was I? Rage. I like anger. I like arguing. Contrary to what you may think, I don’t go around starting arguments or tripping innocent people smaller than me on the sidewalk just to start a fight. I’m just saying in the moment I don’t mind the adrenaline rush and the momentary feeling of dominance.

I used to think I was a control freak when I was a child. But I have no urge to control anyone or force them into anything. I just don’t like them trying to control me or force me into anything. We’re all fine and good as long as someone doesn’t try and trample me. Kind of explains why I fight to get to the top of everything, because my definition of someone trying to control me is probably warped and much different than yours.

There’s an educational, empathetic reason I want an M.D and there’s a primal reason I want an M.D.

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No matter what field I’d study, I’d get my Ph.D in it for the partial satisfaction of knowing there is no greater degree.

Obviously a little piece of paper signifies nothing more than the years you went to school and the so-called training you received. It doesn’t reflect your true intelligence or any of that bullshit. The dumbest people can have Ph.D’s. 

So can the smartest.

I knew a girl in high school who sometimes outperformed me in A.P English because she was a quick poetry interpreter. She was good in Chemistry and physics and literally everything you threw in front of her.

So she was good at reading books and having people tell her what to think and how to do a problem. But my God, she was the dumbest motherfucker I ever met in my life. Even her friends made fun of her for being so book-smart and so . . . dumb in literally every other area of life. Anyone can memorize the meaning of Renaissance English words, anyone can learn Physics and Chemistry, and Microbiology, but if you can’t put that knowledge to creative use, than how smart are you really? Instead of standing on the shoulders of giants you’re just kissing their ass and stepping in their footprints. 

Have you ever tried whisper-singing German lyrics to a song while reading and typing in English? It’s fun as shit.

See, I entertain myself. That’s why I love me.