How I see Myself

 

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How many times in a day do you confuse yourself? 

It’s a strange question,  I know.

I don’t mean confuse yourself by picking up an item, putting it down, and then asking yourself “where did I just put that?”

I mean in terms of personality. In terms of defining why your depressed, why you’re anxious, what situations make you anxious, what situations make you depressed.

How times a day do you have trouble managing your emotions?

Mine get mixed up so heavily I feel I’m on the cusp of insanity. I can’t focus on anything, I can’t identify any feeling, every sound infuriates me and I can’t even listen to music without feeling like the lyrics are confusing my thoughts.

Like right now. Which Is why I’m struggling to write at the moment.

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When I get this way, the only emotion I can truly identify with is anger and frustration. So I listen to aggressive music and think about how happy I’d be if I saw that one Laundry worker from the healthcare center on his knees in front of the three APS agents in business suits and sunglasses.

I switch personalities quite frequently. Not in a DID sense, and not in the average sense where you switch on your “charm” to go confidently into an interview and switch off your “bitch” so the interviewer doesn’t throw you out of her office. In public, we all switch certain traits of ourselves on and off. That’s average behavior.

I switch from generally content to unbelievably aggressive/disinterested to generally depressed and suicidal and each of them have a separate personality attached to them.

My content personality is the average, one. It’s anxious and unsure and insecure about the majority of decisions I make in my life, including if someone asks me “what do you want to eat?” That personality will always beat the rest of me to the punch and say “I don’t know” in fear of insulting the other person if I pick something they don’t like. That personality gets offended to the point of tears if someone says “No, I don’t want that”. That personality feels like it’s done something equal to the social crimes of Hitler. Yes, that is my content self. 

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The depressed personality is lethargic and generally not anxious. It may be brought on by the anxiety but generally that personality will keep me locked in my room, in bed, and ignore the anxiety of missing class and ignore the anger of missing class. I might cry out of anger or sensitivity.

Contrary to what many people believe, my emotions do not have a wide range. When someone asks me what makes me happy . . . I don’t really have an answer. I have to think very hard. When someone asks me what makes me sad . . . I don’t really have an answer for it, I have to think very hard. I know the things that typically make people happy or sad, so I just say those things. Things don’t make me happy or sad, they just make me satisfied or unsatisfied.

The truth is, I’m just really good at faking it. 

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The personality of “unbelievably aggressive/disinterested” is my baseline personality. It’s completely separate from the other two. It was never developed like the others, it was always with me, therefore I consider it the baseline.

The older I’ve gotten the more I’ve realized my “disinterest” is in . . . well, everything.

I don’t care much about other people’s opinions. I don’t care much about what they like nor do I care to discuss their interests in length. That, to me, is “chit-chat”. I hate chit-chat.

I listen to other people’s opinions. I give them respect when they’re based on fact. I do things they like or give them things they like because I know that’s normal.

And I know as you’re reading this, perhaps your eyebrows rose and you’re thinking “and you want to be a psychiatrist? You want to listen to people?”

Here’s the thing.

How many psychologists do you know who have given up therapy because listening to the horror stories of other’s lives took a toll on their own mental health? I personally know a few.

I might not convince you, but trust me: you want someone who is capable of separating their emotions from your emotions. You want someone who can help you find logic in your illogical thought patterns.  You want someone who understands what you’re saying, and can think outside of the box you can’t for ways to use your strengths and weaknesses to your advantage. You don’t want someone who will bathe you in sympathy and be just a friend. You want a helpful friend you can trust. 

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Helpful, Motherfucker!

I am a nice person. I’ve learned to be nice. I’ve learned social customs, I’ve learned how to make people laugh, and I’ve learned to tolerate things. I know that I have a gift in terms of the way I can relate to people (it’s a one-way street in this case, I don’t feel I relate/connect to anyone), the way they flock to me for advice or just so I can be an ear for them. Since I have this gift, I might as well put it to use right? That’s the logical thing to do.

My aggression got me interested in psychiatry. The blatant disregard for logic in the world of business and medicine also got me interested in psychiatry. The people get helped in the process and that’s my main goal.

This is how I see myself. A shoddy integration of three distinct personalities. How do you see yourself?

Moving And College Degrees

Revelations are nice.

one-step-aheadI’ve realized I’ve spent two semesters overwhelming myself due to my insatiable need to be two steps ahead of the rest of the world. It’s part of my perfectionist arrogance. There is that part of me that expects me to be perfect at everything I try all the time, so when I’m not I get flustered and overwhelmed.

Obviously I know no one and nothing is perfect. But academics is all I really have in terms of reputation: I’m not talkative, I’m not socially active, or communally active, I rarely leave my house lest it be for necessity, so I felt the only way to keep people off my back was to show them a 4.0 g.p.a

I could achieve it. But because I’ve been overwhelming myself with the idea of perfection, I’ve blocked myself from it. How ironic. 

But the good thing is I’ve realized that now. It could be my good mood talking (it usually is) but I’ve realized that I’ve been trying to overachieve my overachieving. I made everything a competition. And after doing some extensive reading on one of my favorite philosophies, Taoism, I’ve reminded myself how damaging competition (especially the kind you create yourself) really is.

This has caused me to drop more classes I felt I couldn’t keep up the energy for, and it’s delayed my progress.

However, today, I came across something spectacular.

I will be leaving this town. After this coming semester. 

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Yes, finally, the time has come! To get the hell out of this college and leave behind the basic classes I find so horribly INSUFFERABLE, and get onto the things I want to study, what I want to learn, and be around people like me, hopefully culturally diversified people.

With transferring, comes the 43,000 dollar tuition. The trouble of housing. Setting up tours. Getting a reference for the Common Application.

With completing this last semester comes the Research Methods class I’ve been dreading with the psychotic professor I’ve been dreading. There comes the language class I have to take; I’m doing American Sign Language (ASL) because I know if I had an oral class my anxiety would cause me to forget everything I learned, since we’d have to respond orally in a different language. I can’t even respond orally in my own fucking language.

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I’ll have to take the first ASL class this summer, and the second next semester.

I’ve been looking at positions I could apply for over the hill with my degree and I’m pleasantly surprised that there are actually options for me.

This is the first time the reality of what I’m doing with my life is hitting me: I can actually become what I want to. That’s crazy. 

Unfortunately I have to choose a history course. It’s listed as “Diversity” under the university transfer agreement. It’s so diverse that the only history to choose from is American history, women history, and latino, hispanic, and chicano history. That’s really diverse, right? Damn, I wish I had that much diversity.

Oh wait, I have ten times that amount in the tip of my fucking finger. Pathetic. 

I also have to take an Ancient art class, or something else under “Cultures and Ideas” which really should be “a very narrowed down version of what we think culture is”.

I’ll be doing a creative writing course, which will be nerve wracking and I’ve heard complaints from other students that the professor is biased towards Hispanic students. When I say bias, I mean she’s nicer to them than others. So we might butt heads.

I also have a choice to make. And this ties into my overachieving issues. I dropped another math class this semester because I couldn’t get out of bed these last six or so weeks. That being said, the math classes isn’t “needed”. I was taking it because I wanted to finish out the series for bragging rights.

'Oh yeah? Well yesterday, I caught one this big!'

However, when I transfer, I will need to take it anyway.

So I can either take a cognitive psychology course. Or retake the math course and risk flunking out of it again because of the heavy load of classes.

The other issue is that because I got an “Average” (a fucking C alright) grade in the first class of the series, and I don’t know the exact percentage of that “average” grade, the private university might try to tell me shit. They only accept Average “pluses”. If it’s a regular average or low average (say, 70-75 %) they have a right to reject the class from your transcript and not accept you.

If you do not have a B or an A in a class, they pretty much don’t like you.

So my plan was to take the second class, get at least a B in it, and flip off the university if they gave me the stank eye for the first class. The problem was this semester I was also getting an “average” grade and I would have ended in the 78% range, given I was able to make up the days I had missed in class.

78% Wouldn’t cut it. Not when I already have another C. So I dropped the class because I didn’t want it bringing down my G.P.A.

One C. One C on my entire transcript in the last three years. C’s can haunt you for the rest of your life man.

I wanted to take a cognitive class because it would probably be my last psychology class for a while. When I get to the University it will be Chemistry and Physics and Biology.

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If I take that math class here, I won’t need anymore math, only the rest of those three sciences. That’s a huge perk to me.

Obviously my anxiety is kicking in. It’s a lot to think about, so I know I need to prioritize. Focus on finishing off this semester as strong as possible, as shitty as it looks right now, and make it through that summer class unscathed.

I know my list of classes are going to include a lot of social interaction and it’s going to test me immensely. I know that my mental health is going to cause issues when I move. But because I’ve chosen to leave my fucks on the curb as I’ve stated multiple times, and because the only other option is to flunk out and not get my degree, I figured I’d give it a try.

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On a completely unrelated note:

I hate when the licensed therapists and doctors track me down on this peer counseling site and say “hi” to me and then don’t respond. It makes me feel like they’re stalking me or judging how I’m talking to members or surfing through my account or something.

It’s like when you’re driving in a car, and there’s a car parked on the side of the road, and as soon as you pass them they turn on their lights and pull out behind you. Don’t tell me they weren’t waiting  to follow me, because at that moment I won’t believe you. 

I’m sure my mild paranoia will safe my life one day.

Anyway, College. University. Going to the university where one man woke up to find his roommate standing over him with a knife and then was stabbed repeatedly in the chest and back last February.

One thing about this university is that the academic programs are great.

I’ll say it’s safe to assume the University’s mental health ones are not.

Definitely will not be living in the dorms. 

Mental Illness . . . err, sickness . . . err, Disorders.

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An interesting conversation on some forums came up yesterday about those of us who struggle mentally possibly making ourselves ill. They had the support of people until they questioned:

Now the doctor should say “try to imagine that your not mentally ill, don’t tell yourself that it’s the case, and go about your daily activities as if you aren’t ill.”, would that get many people over the depression? Physical problems are obvious, but with mental illness it’s always subjective, one may answer that I have these traits, but those could be grey areas.

After using their logic to defend their belief that if you took a lot of tests everyone would have some kind of disorder, so they wouldn’t be disorders they would be normal, they came up with the above question.

I think it’s why the person who responded to them was not on their side. Their response was:

No, it wouldn’t. Depression is epic to deal with. If a person responded to that kind of “treatment.” Then they probably didn’t have depression in the first place. And yes, there are grey areas. Where something could be depression or another issue. But that’s the same with physical illnesses. There’s often not a firm single diagnosis. The doctor will treat the most likely cause. If the treatment doesn’t fix it, they try the next most likely. And so on. Any physical illness forum will have “horror” stories. About doctors who refused to believe the actual diagnosis. And tried all the wrong treatments first. That doesn’t mean that people don’t have a genuine issue. Or that whatever it is is something they should “just get on with.”

I gave them both the benefit of the doubt.

Let’s discuss it anyway, shall we? Because one of the reasons I started this blog was to talk about stigma and self-stigma and how we as the people being stigmatized can address it in a productive way. Although that concept has gotten a little lost in my aggressive, generally satirical rants. 

I’m sure we can all agree here that telling someone “you don’t have depression” will not solve their depression.

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However, can we all agree that when we were first diagnosed, or when we’re labeled by a professional, you almost immediately get that sense of something being wrong with you? Of being clinically different than others? Of having a “chemical imbalance”?

Can we all agree that so many mental disorders listed in the DSM-V have overlapping features, and can we please agree that many of them have symptoms that could easily be misdiagnosed by a professional or exaggerated by a patient caught up in themselves after searching on the internet?

This is what the original poster mentioned about labels:

[Labeling] people with a disorder is a more polite way of saying “your a pussy”, “or your lazy”, “or pull your head out of your ass”, maybe they can’t do that, but until they test whether it is an illness and not the latter, then you can’t know.

Because they defined everyone as having some portion of mental disorder, and therefore rendering mental disorders normal behavior, they can come to this conclusion, it follows their logic.

A response to that line of text was that labels are a way for people to “Deal with a collection of symptoms” in which a method is suggested to resolve or manage said collection of symptoms.

I agree with neither of them. I don’t think a label is a way to deal with a collection of symptoms, nor do I think the doctor is calling me a pussy whether or not he’s actually thinking that, I think a label is a way to list a collection of symptoms for clinical purposes and nothing more. And yet, over the years, we’ve placed stereotypes on those symptoms, labeling them “abnormal” and “weird” or “freaky”.

Then we want to start changing the name of the label as if that would change the way people see the symptoms. Because the label is the problem here, right?

Wrong.

Stigma isn’t just people calling us lazy and unorganized and this and that. Stigma is us calling ourselves that and honestly, as an advocate for all of us, I’ve always pushed more for a transformation of how we see ourselves, rather than a transformation of how other people see us.

We can always change how we think. We can’t change how they think That’s their job. 

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That doesn’t mean we stop educating the public, it just means we focus the majority of our energy on ourselves, on how we feel about ourselves, on realizing that we’re not defective, genetically mutated, chemically imbalanced, or “Abnormal”, no matter what kind of professional documents say so.

As much as I love psychiatry and psychology, it is not in any way, shape, or form an exact science. We need to stop treating it as such.

That being said, I believe that poster had an underlying point the person responding didn’t catch: seeing ourselves as ill is a problem. Our illness isn’t a problem, obsessing over it as an “illness”, is.

depression-and-bipolar-disorderI have depression. And anxiety. It’s been severe, more severe than I let people on about. But even as a child, even when I knew there was something about me that didn’t quite match with the other children, there was only a brief period in time (a few months maybe) where I thought I was defective.

That doesn’t stop me from being depressed. However, it does stop me from worsening my depression, my anxiety, my obsessions, on my own. It stops me from worrying that my ideas of reality and death, the way I relate seeing a sign on the road to my destiny or seeing someone flash their lights as a message to me, or reading a really inspirational quote and feeling it was meant for me because I’m here for a special reason, my derealization and such, are the beginnings of something “psychotic”.

I think people in general get worried when they take a test online that tells them they’re suffering from traits of a disorder, a mental health problem, an illness.

So I took the liberty of taking a few personality tests, things I feel people go online for the majority of the time. 

Paranoid:

High (Not surprising)

more info | forum
Schizoid:

Moderate (Also not surprising)

more info | forum
Schizotypal:

High (still not surprised)

more info | forum
Antisocial:

Moderate (fucking hilarious if you know what Antisocial means)

more info | forum
Borderline:

Very High (hysterical)

more info | forum
Histrionic:

Low (honestly truthful)

more info | forum
Narcissistic:

High (fuck you)

more info | forum
Avoidant:

High (Not as ‘high’ as you think)

more info | forum
Dependent:

Very High (LOL)

more info | forum
Obsessive-Compulsive:

Very High (Yep. Totally.)

Paranoid |||||||||||| 41% 50%
Schizoid |||||||||||||| 53% 40%
Schizotypal |||||||||||| 45% 56%
Antisocial |||||||||||| 45% 46%
Borderline |||||||||| 36% 45%
Histrionic |||||| 21% 52%
Narcissistic |||||| 30% 40%
Avoidant |||||||||||| 45% 48%
Dependent |||||||||| 40% 44%
Obsessive-Compulsive |||||||||||| 44% 45%

I feel these are pretty common tests people take on the internet, I see it all the time, people self-diagnosing based on traits generalized from an automated system. And when someone sees: “Jeez, I scored 53% on Schizoid, that’s 13 percentage points above the average score!”, they google the term, find the symptoms, and two things happen:

  1. They feel they’ve finally got answers
  2. Subconsciously, they embody those criteria, they embody those symptoms. They may have legitimate struggles, but making themselves (by no real regard of their own) fit a label, they’ve essentially made themselves “sicker”.

I took a mental health assessment. Scores out of 100, animated with the following gifs of my exact reactions:

Substance Abuse: 0

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MDD: 92

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Manic Episodes: 43 (keep in mind, I answered ‘sometimes’ to the ONE question that spoke about “feeling elated” and I answered never on the ONE  question about impulsive behaviors, spending, gambling, sexual encounters.)

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Bipolar Disorder: 99

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GAD: 100

Panic Disorder: 58

Panic attacks: 53

I took several more. Psych Central thinks I have Borderline Personality Disorder and so does “Borderline Personality Disorder Demystified”. Healthyplace also thinks I have BPD, but they also think I have schizophrenia so go figure. Psych Central disagrees and says I do not have schizophrenia.

What do I gather from all of this?

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Because what people don’t understand about these things are how bullshit the questions are. If someone truly has magical thinking, do you think they’re going to know what that entails? They’ll most likely mark “never”. Most of the questions are generalized, provide no concrete examples, and would be better at rating the consistency level of a healthy dog’s bowel movement than anything about my personality or mental health.

My advice?

Use personality tests for fun. Don’t even use them to “see if you have traits” of a disorder. It’s just not accurate enough for that.

If you’re struggling with your mental health, avoid the internet, it bullies you into believing it. If you’re struggling with your mental health, see a few professionals and get some different opinions.

Don’t take their diagnosis as a life sentence. Don’t take what they say as words from a religious text. You really are as sick as you think you are.

You could struggle with the worst disorder known to man, and as long as you don’t limit yourself, no one else can limit you.

I’m not saying what people experience on a daily basis is a lie. What I’m saying is that it exists, but not in the terms the medical business puts it in. It exists, it’s manageable, and the better we feel about who we are, the easier it is to live with ourselves.

I figure that’s pretty solid common sense.

I’m going to sleep. It’s 5:18 a.m

Mr. Arrogant, M.D Speaking

 

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Everything you’ve ever heard and haven’t heard about Nursing homes is real.

Today was my first day and I must say this company has done such an outstanding, marvelous, stunning job of making me lose all respect for them. Enough for me to decide to terminate my employment after 7 .5 hours. On my lunch I applied for the same position at a crisis behavioral health unit, where I fucking belong.

Lets start off with me getting three hours of sleep last night in order to be at this shit hole at 7 a.m.

I stared around the empty halls looking for the woman the administrator told me to meet up with. I happened to run into a different woman in the housekeeping department who stared at me with wide eyes and said she was told I was coming on Monday. I was told to come in on Saturday.

Great job, fucking pill-popper. First you lose my fucking resume in your pile of donkey shit papers on your desk, then you slur your words through my interview, and now you told the entire department I was showing up on Monday rather then Saturday.

Turns out the woman whose name I couldn’t remember? She didn’t work today. The fucking administrator asked her Twice in Spanish if she was going to be in today. So does she not speak Spanish either? No English, no Spanish, how the fuck do you survive?

.The kitchen staff, the laundry staff, and the housekeeping staff only speak Spanish. No English, only Spanish. And they’re all related. It became relatively apparent to me that I was hired because I look Hispanic. All he had to do was look at my paper where I marked my ethnicity:

“Two or more races (Not Hispanic or Latino)”.

Oh how foolish of me. I forgot, he probably lost that in his dog shit pile desk too.

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Imagine this x10, and you have his office desk.

Is it really that hard to ask “do you speak Spanish?” or “Are you Bilingual?” Fuck it, on the next interview I’m going to walk up to them, shake their hand, say my name and immediately repeat “I do not speak Spanish.”

So while I was following around this one housekeeper who can’t explain the rules, or where the carts are, or what rooms we’re supposed to do, or the schedule or anything to me, she suddenly disappeared. I came out of a room I was dusting and she was gone.

I stood by the cart and waited because what the fuck else am I going to fucking do? I waited for five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.

A CNA came up to me and told me she had taken her break.

Twenty minutes passed.

A RN in red scrubs asked me if it was my first day. I said yes. He asked where the woman had gone and I said “her fucking break, I guess” and shrugged with an exaggeration.

Thirty minutes passed.

Keep in mine, I’m still standing by this fucking cart with no instruction and no one to give me any instruction.

The RN informed me the CNA who had informed me the woman I was working with took a break, was her cousin. In fact, they’re all related in the department. He told me it isn’t right what they’re doing to me and it’s ridiculous and they should have got someone else to orientate. I said I know. He said he’s been working here for ten years and “boy has this place changed”.

31x1esbjuol-_sx331_bo1204203200_A man strolled down the hallway in a navy blue button up shirt and navy blue slacks and he went into a room next to me and the RN who was giving everyone their morning medication and taking note of it in the giant record book. The man was an M.D, I saw it on his name tag, and all he did was wander into a room, crack some jokes, and walk out.

He waited in the wall in front of me, and I was an inch or so taller than him. He asked me if I was new, I said yes. He nodded and took a glance at the medical records the RN was writing in. Then he took off back down the hall.

A woman in a wheelchair was reaching towards the phone but she had spinal issues and couldn’t reach it, nor could she dial. She asked the M.D who walked past if he could dial a number for her.

Keep in mind this guy was just chilling and entertaining patients with his lame ass jokes a few seconds earlier. Now all of a sudden he’s too good to interact with them. He pawned her off on the laundry man. He says “let me get someone to help you” and goes for the fucking laundry man. Not the CNA, not a RN, not the receptionist:

The laundry man who SPEAKS NO ENGLISH.

So what does the laundry man do? He pawns the phone call off on me and says “help” and points to the woman. I have no idea how to dial out of the place and there’s no one around to ask, not even a CNA. The number won’t go through for some reason and the RN had to come help me, barking at the air that someone should have got a nurse for her.

Yeah, someone fucking should have. That piece of shit cocky son of a bitch M.D. I can’t wait until I’m his educational equal. His type are going to hate me.

After thirty five minutes the woman i’m working with comes back from her fifteen minute break. We start cleaning again, in fucking silence, and the laundry guy is trying to get some blankets off the bed of an elderly woman. Once he gets her in her wheelchair, he brings her into the hall and fucking shoves the wheelchair off to the side while he goes into another room for whatever fucking reason. I jumped in front of her before her chair slammed into the wall.

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I straightened her out and glared at the laundry guy’s back. Fucking punk.

By this point I’m beyond pissed off. I was thankful that I got to walk around and break a sweat because it helped whisk away the adrenaline.

Walking towards the Soiled Laundry room to toss in some bags, I see another woman in a wheelchair at the base of a small ramp. The small ramp goes up towards station 2 where the nurses are and where the smoking area door is.

Two feet away stood a RN in grey scrubs. He was just leaning on the counter. Doing nothing. Chilling out. The woman is staring at him and calling for him to help her up the ramp. She’s shouting it very loudly. Not in a aggressive manner, not in a rude manner, she’s just saying “excuse me, can you help me up? Can you help me? Hello? Can you help me?”

So I push her up the ramp and she says thank you and I made her fucking day with that one little act of kindness.

blown-head-gasket-www-deaven-netMy gasket blew. I slam-dunked the laundry bag in the bin and went back to the fucking housekeeper cart and I noticed the woman who I’d said hi to early in the morning and the woman whose chair I stopped from slamming into the wall were following me around the unit. They went where I went. And they always smiled at me.

The woman I worked with was scared of the man with severe Tourettes–I’m assuming that’s what it was. He could have been prone to seizures or something else, I don’t know. They lay fat mats by the side of his bed and he has a pink helmet, so I’m assuming the worst. She gets scared and confused when his tics go off because they are major and a little hard to watch. It’s hard for him to talk during them with his body jerking all over the place.

But abruptly it stopped. And when I saw the floor was dry I went back in to place his mats by his bed and asked him how he was and what his name was. He asked me if I was new and I said yes and he frowned and smiled at the same time, I don’t know if that was on purpose or another kind of tic. But he was nice.

The fact that the woman I was with never took a moment out of her time to at least say “hi” to the people, disturbed me.

Because the people in these departments are all related, they each do each others work. The housekeepers pick up after the kitchen staff, the laundry staff help the housekeepers, e.t.c. The RN saw this and stared at me, angry at them, and told me “don’t do what they do, that’s not your job”.

I saluted him.

They sit in their clique and speak Spanish in the halls, even though they know English is the only language that’s supposed to be spoken on the floor because there are residents suffering mentally who get paranoid and violent and angry when people are speaking other languages–they think they’re being targeted.

The CNA cousin kept talking to one of the residents until she told her five times in a row to leave her alone. The CNA wasn’t doing anything productive, she was just trying to have a conversation and the woman didn’t feel like having a conversation or laughing at your fucking awful jokes. So leave her the fuck alone.

simple

One thing is for certain, they were talking about me. Smiling in my face and stabbing me in the back. But it’s fine. Because fuck that place.

On my lunch I went home and applied for the same position for the crisis behavioral health unit.

Because here’s the thing. I could report that laundry man for neglect. I could inform an Ombudsman. I could tell the administrator that he’s unprofessional and so is his pathetic staff.

And if I see the same thing at the Crisis unit, you better believe my mouth is going to go off. I pretty much had an elderly army behind me today. Imagine me with an army of mental health patients.

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Yeah, think about that for a moment. I’m already mental. We could take over the world.

My loyal friends, my mental health minions, also threw their fucks on my fuck-curb. They threw them there a long time ago, that’s why they’re in a crisis center. And I’m sure they’re going to love me. I’m a comedian. I make people laugh without really meaning to. I make old people like me without really meaning to. I make them follow me up and down the halls without really meaning to.

I’m going to miss a few of the elderly patients and I hate leaving them there. But I’m not stepping foot in that fucking place again.

I can’t compromise my sanity for a job any longer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Fucks Are On The Curb

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Perhaps I forgot to mention I have another job.

Yep, I flip through jobs faster than my moods change.

I’m a housekeeper at a nursing home exactly one minute from my apartment. I walk to work: I’m serious, I can see it from my bedroom window. It’s right there. Right across the street.

Today I had my orientation and . . . and let me tell you. Let me tell you something.

I’ve had my fill of people already. It’s not looking good, folks, I’ll make sure to round up some more applications and you can tune in next blog post to see which other job I hop to.

Fucks sake.

There were two other women doing the orientation with me as first. They were applying for CNA positions. They were mother and daughter. They would not, could not . . .

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

I fucking hate, and I mean HATE, casual chatter. It is human kind’s single most useless skill.

I mean this in the most respectful way possible: they would not shut the fuck up. They kept telling stories about their lives, about their schooling, about how they went for a quick “Two month” program because they’d been working as nursing assistants for a while (the mother for ten years, the daughter who fucking knows, she was 14 in 2008, I was 13 in 2008) but had never been officially “registered”. She worked for a place where her boss got hammered, never showed up for work, and she got stuck working 13 hour shifts at night.

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The guy doing our orientation is a nice guy. I could tell. He was too nice. He let them take over the conversation sometimes and the lot of them had a nurse-threesome while I sat in the corner staring into spacing waiting for this bullshit to end.

I can tell there are cliques. CNA’s stick with CNA’s, RN’s stick with RN’s and the fucking physicians spend two minutes wandering around the facility dressed in their fancy clothes with their stethoscopes and then they take them and their fucks and they leave off to wherever the hell they go.

The kitchen staff? They stare blankly at you like you’re an alien.

A fourth woman, also applying for a CNA position, came an hour and a half late. She was from Kenya.

The orientation guy kept saying the word “Bloodborne” in terms of pathogens, but I kept hearing “Bloodborne” the video game. I kept getting myself confused. Legitimately. I asked myself once, “why is he talking about Bloodborne?”

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The orientation often got interrupted by stories of the mother and daughter duo and their tattoos and piercings. Once again. I don’t give a fuck.

We had to watch training videos. Now, I’m relatively alright around the elderly, they generally like me because I’m quiet and smile a lot (little do they know how utterly fucking annoyed I am inside) and I let them talk. I’m used to short term memory loss because of my father, I’m used to brain damage-type behavior because of my father, I’m generally alright with being around psychosis and mania, because of my father’s reaction to Ativan and a woman I used to talk to who was part of a residential mental health facility. She used to walk around the block sometimes manic, sometimes psychotic, talking about the most random shit and on my way home from high school I’d stop and talk with her until I had to go over the railroad tracks and she had to go back to the facility.

That does not mean I do not get tired after two and a half hours of talking with an elderly woman obviously in the midst of a mental disease. She kept repeating the same questions to me over and over again “are you alright? Alright, that’s good. Are you hungry? No? Are you going to eat? Are you all going to eat?” and once she pointed at me and said, about four times, that Jesus had told her this morning that I would be coming to make her happy today.

Knowing me and my tendency to link everything to everything, that freaked me out a little #Trigger-moment.

Then she pointed at my feet and said “is that yours? Is that yours? You should pick it up. Pick it up and put it in your pocket.”

I thought she was talking about my shoe, so I lifted it and asked “this?”

She pointed at the floor and said “no, that. Is that yours? You should pick it up.”

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A generally accurate representation of what we all saw her pointing at.

One of the new hire CNA’s picked some air up for me and I put it in my pocket.

Then she started singing the star spangled banner. Loudly.

She liked calling me Irene. In fact, she called all four of us Irene. And she liked alluding me to Jesus, calling me beautiful, a prophet, and that I’m the boss around here, that when I walk down the hall people know who I am. Again: freaked me out a little. Had to rub my ears and blink a little to make sure I wasn’t also hallucinating.

She asked the Kenyan woman if “the little one” was hers and pointed. We stared where she was staring. The Kenyan woman tried to reason her out of the hallucination, that she did indeed have ” a little one” but that little one was at home and she was only four years old. It didn’t work very well.

I generally enjoyed this woman. She was from Hawaii, and if you could yell in her ear loud enough for her to hear you, she gave coherent answers sometimes. But the majority of the time it was just babble, hallucinations, and an odd growl she kept exuding. After two and a half hours of simultaneously watching some boring ass 80’s video about HIV while also trying to be kind to the woman spouting nonsense, I had a headache, was thoroughly irritated, and had had enough of the fucking chatter box next to me.

Not the elderly woman, the fucking new CNA’s. The daughter, the one my age, kept trying to fast forward the DVD because they’d “seen it before”, and they almost broke the fucking DVD player and the T.V.

d0f003ca7a05ae5597d501f95c185d4d1d1c75121b843d0899a87d4931ad3696I don’t mean to be cocky, but I was sitting there like bitch, I’ve read more books about your profession than you did in that two month course you took when I was fifteen, stop acting like you’re someone, sit the fuck down, and be professional. You don’t see me spouting all my knowledge about the brain, dementia, Alzheimer’s, hallucinations, ativan, and other things do you? No. So sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up before I do get smart and shove one of those DVD’s up your ass.

At this point I was NOT in the mood for the disorganization of this system. We got a tour of the facility in which the guy giving us the orientation caught six health code violations his employees were doing right under his nose. Within the first two minutes of the tour. Things he said they always did no matter how many times he told them to quit.

I said I could work tomorrow. The guy in the orientation took me to the administrator to ask where I should report in the morning and he spent a few minutes running around looking for the housekeeper. They started speaking Spanish to each other. They stared at me.

I stared him dead in the eye and said, as calmly as I could at this point, “I don’t speak motherfucking Spanish.”

Minus the “motherfucking” part

He, being obviously CONFUSED because he was yet another person to NOT ask me if I fucking spoke Spanish and just assumed because I’m tan, apologized and said I would meet up with this woman (I forgot her fucking name already) in the morning at 7.

Where the fuck am I supposed to find her? I asked twice. He just kept saying to meet with her.

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How do we clock in? We fucking don’t. We grab a piece of paper, write in the time we came in, the times we go out for lunch, the time we leave, fold the paper and slip it in a box until we get employee ID numbers and can use the automated system like normal people.

The problem is, no one told us if we fill it out right when we get in or after our shift. Where do we keep it if we fill it in in the morning? How do we known when to take our lunch? Where the FUCK are the superiors in this fucking place?

They also forgot to mention I needed Scrubs.

Which I handily remembered at 4:20 P.m and called just in time to catch the administrator and ask. This entailed I drive to a Goodwill and pray I could find some last minute without blood stains on them. I did.

I’ve been suffering mini anxiety attacks over this place already and I haven’t even started yet. I assume once I go into the flow of things, once I figure out how to clock in correctly and where to go, I’ll be working on my own like normal and generally keep to myself.

Thank God. This place is letting my inner Schizoid Personality out. I could honestly give two shits. The residents are fine, I’ll say hi, how are you, smile and hopefully make them smile by default. But everyone else I refuse to fake for. I’m done faking.

As for now, since I have no idea where to go tomorrow or what to do, I’ve convinced myself that it’s time to stop giving a fuck. I give out way too many fucks in a day, it makes me anxious.

So I’m emptying out my fucks.

I’m pouring them on the curb right in the red zone so no more SUV’s can park there and block my vision. I’m sure you all remember that rant. I drew pictures. Me. That’s how you know I’m pissed off, when I use my shitty artistic skills to illustrate a point.

I’m going to leave the fucks there. So if some of you feel you need to start giving a fuck more often, there’s a few hundred outside my apartment for free. Take them. They’re no use to me. 

 

Thoughts #2

We’re losing all the icons man, Prince dead at 57, wasn’t expecting to wake up to that this morning. Soon we’re going to be left with Nicki Minaj and Taylor Swift and Skrillex as our icons, and the majority of the kids of the next generation aren’t going to know the satisfaction of playing a real instrument or experience true talent beyond someone pressing the space bar on a laptop or flicking the auto-tune button in a studio.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about this kind of stuff lately, the fragility of human beings. Not in a nihilistic or depressive sense, I’ve just been thinking about it.

It’s one reason I do admire my philosophy professor.  She’s very open about the way she thinks and believes in the reality we observe every day without paying any mind.

The password on her computer is over twenty characters, supposedly to keep out hackers, students, or hacking students or student hackers. Perhaps even colleagues, I don’t know. When she screws up on a key, we have to wait another five minutes for her to type it out. That’s how long it is.

I too share the paranoia of hackers–and it’s well justified these days. If I had a dollar for every time Nigeria and China hacked one of my damn Gmail accounts, I’d have enough to fund the L.A trip I’m taking this summer. 

She doesn’t like being video taped or recorded in any sense. Because my college is small, and the professors are surfers and pot heads even if they don’t identify as them and are usually chill about being recorded, I’ve never came across a professor who loathes it as much as this woman. She allows students to do so only if they’ve given her early notice and even then she lets you know how much she hates it.

One kid tried to sneak in a phone video and I thought heads were going to be chopped off. He’d slouched in his chair with his Iphone 6+ (yeah, the 5.7 inch one) and the camera light on facing her as she went on one of her infamous energetic rants. She caught sight of the light out of the corner of her eye and fell silent abruptly, pointed at the dumbass and said “Are you recording me?”

He shifted in his seat and lowered the camera a bit. She repeated herself and the room went cold.

Every fight I’d conquered in BloodBorne flashed behind my eyes at this moment. I was hoping we’d be bathing in student entrails.

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He said, “Well, It’s just because I think you’re so great. It’s a compliment.”

She didn’t buy his excuse, shuffled on over to his side of the room, leaned over the balcony in the front of the lecture hall as close to him as she could possibly get, smiled, and calmly informed him she would snatch his phone and smash it to pieces on the concrete, she’d done it many times before and wouldn’t be afraid to do it again.

The best part about all of this was the student had really white skin, so his entire self turned into a beet. 

I too hate being video taped. Perhaps not to that extent, it’s pictures that bother me the most. I’ve had my share of moments I’ve threw someone’s phone to the ground because they wouldn’t get it out of my face.

does-time-exist-blabberpoShe’s just as forgetful as I am, in terms of the things people called “important”. You know, like time. And dates. She’s never late, but she always forgets which times our class is at, what time it ends, and what days they’re on, even this late in the semester. She’s had this problem since she was a child, she said, because she doesn’t believe time exists, nor does she believe reality exists. That was the introductory sentence to our class. She wouldn’t explain why, much to my dismay, and if I didn’t have social anxiety I would be in her office hours asking her her theory and justification to see if it overlaps with mine. Because I tend to believe the same.

If there’s a yell or a shout or a loud noise somewhere, or even someone’s phone ringing, she always pauses in the middle of the lecture, stares at us for a moment, and asks us if we heard that. We all say yes and she continues. I laughed the first time that happened because it’s true, you can never quite know how real something is when you don’t believe in this reality. I think everyone else thinks it’s just some weird quirk of hers, and I think she plays it up for entertainment purposes in terms of class, but I understand the logic behind it, that’s the most entertaining part for me.

She goes on tangents too, that’s the best part. Sometimes they’re relevant, sometimes they’re irrelevant, and sometimes they’re just plain nonsensical but in a relevant way if that makes sense.

But attending her lectures and moving on in life always gets me thinking about how much we don’t know, and how much we think we know. It gets me thinking about how centered we are on ourselves as a species and how strange it is we’ve developed so many different ideals and cultures and languages and how much stranger it is that we become so self-centered we feel we have a right to tell someone else their behavior is abnormal.

I just think it’s all weird.

To be quite honest, I’m bored, that’s my problem.

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I’m bored with people who think money is valuable for anything other than survival, I’m bored with working, I’m bored with our “education”, I’m bored with standards, I’m bored with rules, I’m bored with “normality”. Maybe it’s just my twenties talking, just as my teens spoke well in the language of nihilism.

But this boredom isn’t like “Oh i’m bored with rules so let me go steal a car and stab someone in the eye”.

This boredom is like “Why am I not allowed to steal a car and stab someone in the eye? Why is that bad? I’m confused“.

This boredom is like “why do people waste their time with this petty reality? What gives them the confidence that this reality is reality? I haven’t seen any proof to convince me anything existing in this moment actually exists.

This boredom is like “What allows us to plan for a future we’re not guaranteed? Why do our brains just casually skip over the fact that we could all drop dead right now? I bet it’s hiding something from us. What prevents me from dropping dead this second?”

This boredom is like “Where are the fucking aliens? I’m bored of humans.” 

This boredom is like “I can’t even ‘go against the grain’ without being clumped into a whole other group ‘going against the grain’ so am I really going against the grain?”

Humanity bores me, basically. Jobs and family and material things and enjoyment and sadness and everything is labeled as significant without any proof of any of them being significant. I’m bored with that. Life gets much more interesting if I try and construct it through the eyes of someone who sees no significance in anything, but only sits back and observes the chaos.

 

Rambles . . .

*Breathe*

For two days I managed to lift myself from bed and do something productive, so I would say I’m feeling a little better.

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That being said, I believe very thoroughly in having a spiritual connection with the universe and respecting the interconnection we all have with each other, with the stars, the planets, and this realm of reality in general. I’ve known I’ve been needing some money apart from the money I’ll be making at my new job, and this week I believe I’ve been saved once again.

Some people pray, some people obsess, some people believe in luck. My mother often goes crazy over the lottery and buys tickets almost every day, no matter how often I tell her the amount she spends way exceeds the amounts she’s ever won. She spreads the colors red and gold through her room for “good luck”, something I personally don’t believe in.

We all know I have different views on reality, I believe I made an entire post on it. We all know that I see signs and symbols in everything: call it ideas of reference, or call it a creative mind, you choose. All I know is that since I was a child this method has worked for me.

the-secret-book-coverI read that one book “The Secret” because my mother is also obsessed with it and it was trash. All those books are trash.

It’s hard to explain a connection I’ve felt since I was a toddler and could think about these kinds of things, but it’s always been there and it’s always been dependable. This sounds odd to a lot of people, talking to the universe and having it listen to you. Makes it sound like I’m hearing things in my head. I’m not.

I predicted where we would live while we were homeless. I felt it in the air and I wrote it down in an essay in school. My teacher loved it. And after I finished writing it, including my explanation of my connection with the universe, everything I’d written came true. I said we would live in the four different regions of this county (there are about six different regions within the overall city we live in) and I listed the order it would happen, and it did. I said once we finished those four specific regions, we would find another apartment. It wouldn’t be  a house, but it would be an apartment, and it would be across town from my high school. Which is where I still live today.

It wasn’t something I guessed, it was something I felt.

I feel I’ve been sending out distress signals and this afternoon I came home to two checks and a third on the way, in addition to the other two I picked up yesterday. So five checks total in two days, a couple worth three hundred, one worth two hundred, another worth four hundred.

I thought my college account only had $300, and when I looked yesterday it had $1500.

I don’t know where the numbers are coming from, or why they’re coming, but they are.

It’s not about being lazy and manipulating the universe to your every whim. It’s not about not having to work for the rest of your life. It’s about understanding that you will always have what you need if you’re connected in life. This money isn’t something I want just to spend frivolously, it’s something I need to save. It’s something I’m putting to use for other people, not just myself. It’s something I want to use to give experiences to people who have always used their money to give me experiences. There are two birthdays coming up, father’s day, a car that needs fixing, and a trip to L.A this summer, so I’ve got my work cut out for me in terms of budgeting.

I withhold from bragging about these kinds of things because that’s not good natured. If I found a hundred dollar bill on the ground I would text my friend and say “look what I got bitch, suck it”. But I know the checks that I have in my hand that happen to come all at once, some of which have been due to me since 2013. If I win this particular writing competition I’m gunning for, well . . . my life will be complete.

I’m gunning for two, actually. One of which won’t alert me if I won or not until September. One will tell me by July 1st, and that would be perfect before I go to Los Angeles.

I’m going to Compton to find Ice Cube. 

universal20studios20hollywoodAnd by Compton to find Ice Cube, I mean Universal Studios. Seems like a social anxiety nightmare, I know, but I’ve never done it and I’ve never been to L.A, and I’ve let my anxiety hold me back from a lot of things. There are some things, like going to amusement parks, where I suck it up the best I can because I know I can have fun if I would just give myself a chance.

Speaking of having fun, the tickets I wanted for a concert this may were sold out because my dumbass forgot to buy them a month ahead like I usually do: my depression stole my annual concert from me. But it’s alright, I spammed their reservation ticket website with four different email addresses, so the next four tickets are going to me. I’ll resell two of them.

If anyone can figure out what the hell this post is about or why I’m even writing it, feel free to comment below. 

Because I’m pretty sure by today’s standard of being completely disconnected with everything except your Insagram, Facebook and Twitter profiles, I must sound crazy.

 

Plummeting.

I’m always interested to see what countries across the world view this blog and my amazement never ceases. I know many of the people who read me do not have a WordPress account but nonetheless thanks for reading and taking the time to stop by and see what the crazy American has to blabber on about today.

I’m still not satisfied.

I don’t know what’s going on with me anymore. There’s something that’s sucking the life out of me and it’s not school. I think my being “strong” has pushed me to a breaking point. The last time I was this bad, this unmotivated, this blank was when I was 17 and it was the last semester of high school. I got myself together that summer and blazed through the first year of college.

But I’m losing my ability to stay focused and to stay interested. You all know me, I find positivity in everything. I coach people to find positivity in everything. I’m actively enacting every single coping mechanism known to me to be able to hold myself together at the moment, and, like I said, I haven’t had to put so much effort into this in years. It genuinely scares me.

I have another interview tomorrow and somehow I have to keep this flattened demeanor from fucking it up. Somehow I have to gt out of bed and go to class tomorrow.

I like being alone but this is when I hate it. I’d like to have someone keep me company in my room or just take a walk with me or just sit somewhere with me. I’m a very simple person, I don’t need to go through a lot of things for me to feel content. Sitting on a log underneath an Oak listening to birds makes me content.

As for tonight . . .

I just can’t type anymore. It takes too much effort to think of words and that hurts too, because words are my only true friend.

Genetics and a Book Recommendation

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I woke up feeling blank as usual and lay in bed in this robe that, honestly, I’m getting sick of feeling on my skin. I spent twenty minutes . . . a half hour . .  . an hour staring at the wall listening to thoughts pass behind my eyes that made no sense at all and then, because I’m terrified of spiders and always wonder about them, put my ear to my wall wondering if I could hear them scurrying around in the wood. No such luck.

After that charade was over I figured I’d trudge out into the kitchen and get some food before my stomach killed me.

It’s two in the afternoon.

I sat at this computer with my food, purposefully avoiding the second email from my previous employer, and got prepared to stare at a screen for another twenty hours.

5231811-a-bowl-of-spilled-neopolitan-ice-cream-on-white-carpet-that-is-melting-stock-photoDays mesh together like strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate in a bowl in 100 degree weather, and I’m sure I’ve mastered the art of existing, regardless of the circular philosophy you send yourself in at an attempt at defining it.

That being said, thank you to those of you sending encouraging words. I know sometimes it doesn’t seem like much to just send a positive word to someone but just reading them reminds me I’ve been through this before and can make it out alive yet again. What I will do after that I have no idea. For now, I’ll ride the wave until it crashes on the shore. Whenever that may be.

All of THAT being said, I opened my flipboard in hopes for some juicy content, something I could maybe thrust some sarcasm in, twist, and rip a few organs to shred.

I found a gem but not one to mock, one to bring attention to.

I wish it were longer. But I suppose keeping it short these days guarantees more people will take the time to read. I know it helped me get through the few paragraphs with this fucked attention span of mine. I used to be able to read, I don’t know what happened.

This article has to do with genes. It has to do with genes in relation to mental disorders, specifically schizophrenia, one disorder I feel we often attribute heritability to more often than any other. Is that because those of us in the psychiatric research world have no idea what goes on in the process of this disorder? You can bet your bottom dollar.

Do people still say that anymore?

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That reminds me, there is a book I would recommend for anyone interested. It’s called “Of Spirits and Madness: An American Psychiatrist in Africa”. By Paul Linde M.D. He discusses the lives of 9 patients he treated while in Africa, the majority of whom were suffering psychosis, mania, schizophrenia, or a combination of the three. He speaks of getting accustomed to 1) greeting everyone in the hospital every morning as a cultural requirement, 2) learning their customs 3) realizing how absent spirituality is in western medicine these days. He often asked him self “is there a possibility this person is cursed/possessed by his ancestors as the African healers suggest?” He often found the healers methods worked at times.

In Africa going to a Psychiatrist is a last resort. 

In Africa their go-to medication was Thorazine.

In Africa they don’t care about “how” an illness came about, they care about “why”.

750825-_uy400_ss400_It’s an interesting read. I’ve been going to the library and reading a chapter or two because I still owe them 50 cents and I don’t want to pay it.

Anyway, the article I read today had nothing to do with Africa. The article I read, which you can also read here is entitled “There are no ‘schizophrenia genes’ and here’s why”. Written by a couple of professors.

We all know there’s a big uproar about this, about finding a single gene to link to a mental disorder so we can finally have that biological cause that absolutely means . . .

literally, nothing.

But we want it anyway. So we spend millions on trying to find that gene rather than improving treatment standards and training professionals to help those with the disorder live the life they want to.

Logic.

These professors pinpoint the real issues about these genetic studies.

The “Rosetta Stone” gene that got published last year? The one I remember hearing about? On Flipboard?

Studied on mice and had already not been linked to schizophrenia in a 2012 study.

Harvard, good old Ivy League Donate-To-Us-And-We’ll-Give-You-A-Full-Ride-Scholarship-Especially-If-You’re-ethnic-Unless-You’re-Asian, University claimed they produced “a landmark study that provides the first rigorously tested insight into the biology behind any common psychiatric disorder”. Now if that doesn’t already sound ridiculous (it should), the findings which showed the genetic link incredibly tiny, minuscule even, got exaggerated. As usual.

sn-genetransferThere are hundreds of genes that have found to have a tiny effect, a tiny link, to all psychiatric disorders. Including Anxiety. Including depression. Including things like Autism.

This paragraph explains these warped views better than I could have summarized. I couldn’t taint this perfection with my sloppy vocabulary:

The high heritability estimates reported in earlier quantitative genetic studies don’t rule out environmental influences, but have discouraged researchers from taking social causes seriously. But we now know that there are proven strong associations between psychosis and a range of social risk factors, such as exposure to impoverished and urban environments, migration, childhood traumas (sexual or physical abuse and bullying by peers), and recent adverse experiences in adulthood. So why does the genetic story about mental illness continue to appeal?

What’s funny is that a link to an article below is entitled “Study reveals genetic secrets behind Schizophrenia and Bipolar disorder”.

Give me a fucking break here, you guys. Really.

Why does the genetic story about mental illness continue to appeal? Quick fix possibility? Kill the baby before it’s born so it doesn’t suffer? An obsession with the “how” and nothing more? Another reason to call yourself defective maybe? Another reason to prove you’re not part of the average population?

What do you think?

 

 

 

Obligations and Creativity

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It’s only taken this last week for me to realize I’m not interested in much anymore.

You ever get like that?

Of course you do, everyone does and we’re all apparently “mental” or “psycho” or “insane” here, right?

*Rolls eyes*

I’ve been sitting in my robe, chilling in my bed, watching YouTube videos for the past four days now. I have no clothes, it’s too much work to take a shower or comb my hair. I’d like to take some photos or write or do some homework (I think I’m six chapters behind in math) but honestly I have no real energy for any of that.

I’m not depressed, I don’t feel sad or unhappy, I’m just . . .

Bleh.

dranem_bleh_base_by_xxrawrdino24xx2-d5e3hj3

I can still chuckle at funny YouTube videos, so I guess that’s a good thing. And I suppose it’s better than feeling overwhelmed by a tornado of emotion.

One of the issues I struggle with is my feeling obligated towards people. I’ve always been the person people come to for advice, which I’ve never minded because I’m someone who speaks my mind to people who ask for it and I’m someone who doesn’t care what they think after the fact.

You asked for it, didn’t you? Now you’re going to shun me because you got what you ask for? No logic in that. 

At any rate  . . .

The college English teacher I took in high school hated when I used that phrase “at any rate”. Now it’s starting to come back after three years of being captive in my archives of dumb transitional phrases.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, my obligation. I feel I’m obligated to show people I’m alright. It’s not that I don’t want them to worry about me . . .

Well I don’t.

But I also feel I have an obligation to myself to show people that I’m alright, because if I show them I’m alright I might convince myself I’m alright through pure social placebo effect.

fake-happiness

It hasn’t really worked, it just pushes me further inward. 

I think I need to let go of that obligation. I tell people all the time they’re not responsible for other people’s emotions, they’re not responsible for other people’s happiness and yet I have trouble following that advice.

Disappointing people is the last thing I want to do, because then I disappoint myself because I feel I was obligated to keep them satisfied. You see the problem there? That’s setting myself up for a vicious cycle.

That’s where the faking comes in, that’s where the mask is. I fake smiling in public, I fake being happy or not annoyed, I fake it all for the sake of other people so they don’t find out how dissatisfied I am.

But I’m not obligated to behave that way, life didn’t assign that to me. I assigned it to myself.

I don’t feel like speaking with anyone. I don’t feel like going outside or trying to have people cheer me up, I just want to watch YouTube. It’s gotten to a point where I can’t fake it any longer.

kid-runs-into-wall-oWhat bothers me more so than my imaginary obligation is my loss of interest in everything I’ve worked so hard to get to. I think it’s gotten to the point where the wall I’ve been pushing against and making progress against has gone from a wall of hay to one of wood, to one of aluminum, to one of steel, to one of titanium. I can only push so far before my arms snap at the fucking elbows and my knees give out.

School has been set on the back burner. I don’t have the energy or even the interest for it. I keep falling behind and although I will always be passionate about what I study, I just can’t focus on it like I used to. I can’t spend the three, four hours a day studying math just to get that A on the test like I used to. It frustrates me because I know that I’m smart, I know I’m capable, I just don’t feel like doing it.

Sometimes thinking is hard. Not in the sense of studying, just in the sense of coming up with a simple sentence, it’s as if I have to sift through a soup of letters and put together something that I’m not satisfied with. My vocabulary has disintegrated. Reading frustrates me because I’ve got to read a sentence ten times before I understand what’s being said.

I’m a creative person. Even in my episodes of depression, however long they’d last, I could some up with something beautiful and flowing, something to express how I felt in a way that could touch a part of someone else they didn’t even know they had.

just-my-mind2Now everything is so scrambled and hard to grab that I can’t write because I can’t identify the feelings. If I’m not in touch with the emotional part of myself then I’m not able to put out the pieces I want to. Writing is about emotion and human connection; I related to people through words on a page and now that that is severed, I don’t think I’m apart of this world anymore.

It’s only frustrating because writing was my outlet. I know you might say “Well, you’re writing right now stupid”.

To that I would say “shut up”.

I’m speaking in terms of fiction, in terms of creating worlds, the one thing I’ve always been good at since I was aware of my own cognition.  I feel that creativity has dwindled to a single, weak stream rather than flooding my eyes like Niagara falls.

That was my outlet. I could escape. I could be who I wanted to. But now that motivation and interest in that has faded, which I don’t entirely understand.

I just don’t care much anymore. I feel that I should, I get angry that I don’t . . . but I just don’t. There are things I want to do, tasks I want to complete, all of which I don’t have the motivation for.

I’d rather feel hopeless and depressed than this. I don’t like feeling nothing, it’s too odd.

So here comes another night to laying in bed in this robe watching YouTube videos of people my age running around doing stupid things with their friends, making backpacks out of raw chicken and sporting it on a catwalk, or downing Ghost Pepper chilies until they hallucinate.

Businessman Giving Thumbs Up

 

 

I remember the first time I was offered medication and the first time I decided to try it. I remember, unbeknownst to anyone, the uncontrollable panic that came with the thought that the medication would drain my creativity. I’d heard the stories of people turning into zombies. While that didn’t happen to me like I thought it would, it had always been a fear of mine. Who would have known four years down the line my brain would enact those side effects on itself. That’s what I feel like, a medicated Zombie without being medicated.

I feel in these last few weeks this blog has become a steady diary logging my descent into madness.

Makes sense, right?