Hunted On Halloween

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Halloween plans anyone? What did you all do? Do you celebrate the holiday? Do you believe in ghosts and spirits and demons and angels? How many “sexy cat” costumes were there in your town?

I went to California’s Great America Halloween Haunt.If you don’t know, Great America is an amusement park. They had haunted mazes and skits and theater shows and rides going with zombies roaming free.

I bought the passes for my boyfriend and I that gave us extra access to five extra scenes. They were very interesting. I’ll get to that in a minute.

First let me say fuck google. The GPS took us to the employee parking with hundreds of other people also misled by their GPS. The cars lined up all four ways down the street for a few miles. My boyfriend got the idea to cut through a huge parking lot behind a building called “Palo Alto Networks” and we beat a good hour and a half of waiting in traffic.

We had to wait in another line to get the quick passes. They allow us to go to the front of the line to all the mazes, along with experiencing the extra scenes. While we waited, people with nothing better to do than be lazy kept cutting through the line with their pathetic “excuse me’s”, rather than take an extra two seconds and walk around. It was okay at first.

Until the sheep came.

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By sheep I mean the idiots who see one person cut through the line, so they push their family of twenty through too, all muttering “excuse me”. The drunk woman behind me was getting annoyed. I was getting annoyed. My boyfriend was getting annoyed. The guys behind us were also annoyed.

It’s very simple. You see a line, walk around. For someone like me who is already getting worn out from all the of flashing lights, the voices, the people, and the sheer volume of noise around the park, I got easily confused and overstimulated by all the people cutting through the line.

While waiting for one woman to stop arguing with the workers and holding up the line in front, another guy tried stepping in front of my boyfriend and me. I stepped in front of him, and he tried going behind me. The man behind me stepped closer to me and shouted at the guy to “go around! go the FUCK around! Go around, you rude motherfuckers!” and I joined him in the shouting. Why? Because behind that one guy was another three families of people getting ready to push through the line, and I was sick of being bumped and touched.

#TeamworkMotherfucker 

After a half an hour of waiting in that line, all because of that one fucking woman, we got our passes and started the night.

london-ripperIn one of the mazes there were different actors portraying people in history, usually murderers. I jumped a mile in the air at the man in the corner with the top hat and the trench coat standing next to the woman laying with her throat cut: Jack The Ripper. I started laughing and told my boyfriend they should have him following people around. Jack the Ripper heard me, hopped down from his stage and came after me, running with me, and I ducked as he growled in my ear. If you all didn’t know, I’m a huge Jack The Ripper enthusiast. I’ve read and watched about as much as a person could on the guy.

I’m a huge serial killer enthusiast. It’s normal and not disturbing at all.

I got followed by another woman with a huge gash in her forehead, smiling, and she followed me all the way to the end of one of the mazes. I got followed by another short woman playing a little girl with pigtails and she didn’t just walk after me, she ran after me and my boyfriend and he was saying “oh shit, oh shit!” so I squeezed past him because she was really close to me and it was creepy as fuck. I made him get chased by her.

There were several other mazes and funny experiences, but I can’t remember everything.

In the extra scenes, well, let’s just say shit got weird.

ht_hoarder_home_06_jef_150415_4x3_992The first one we entered was called “Hoarder House”. It was a man with a southern accent in a house full of junk and a bunch of (fake) cats. He came up and down the line and called one man “Justin Beaver” and the girl next to him Selena Gomez. He came to me, because I was laughing my ass off, and got right in my face and said “and what’s your name, scaredy cat?”

I said I wasn’t scared. He asked my name again and I told him. He told me to come stand in front of everyone and I said shit and my boyfriend laughed. The guy made me hold a rubber Halloween hairless cat with a missing eye, and he named the cat after me. He told the group that if they didn’t find two keys in the mess of litter boxes around, that he would skin the girl he called Selena Gomez, and poke my eye out. He was great.

The group found the keys. I have both of my eyes and Asian Selena Gomez still has her skin.

We went to another scene called “Dominated”.

Yes, it’s exactly what you think. We could hear the paddles through the wall.

We get in the room and this woman in this sexy outfit has chains hanging everywhere and whips hanging from her hips. She’s hilarious. She handcuffs us in twos, and we have to weave through the chain mazes with our partner. My boyfriend and I weaved through the quickest and she picked on us mostly, saying we’d been handcuffed together before. We all laughed because, let’s face it, she’s not wrong.

At the end, we get paddled.

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I don’t know what to think about that.

In another scene we get shoved in a box with one other person, and air compresses sheets against us, like the walls are closing in. When we step out the guy with the deep voice stares blankly, gestures towards the door and says simply “that is all”. Our entire group cracks up.

Another scene a man gets strangled and we have to run from a woman on the loose.

Another sorority scene, Bloody Mary crawls across the walls at us and right when I tried escaping she crouched on the counter, eye level with me, blood dripping everywhere, and stared into my soul.

I got followed a lot. There’s something about me that guys in costume and women with blood on their face get attracted to. I was hunted by these people the entire night.

I got home and passed out immediately. The level of sensory overload was too damn high. But it sure did beat not being scared. I love being scared. Halloween is the greatest holiday I do declare.

Now, let me get my ass out of the library before they kick me out. Be safe people.

Mystery Blogger Award

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Thanks yourenotaloneinthisworld for nominating me.

I haven’t participated in one of these things in a while, mostly because I live under what some people call “a rock”. I prefer to call them “small, safe spaces under which people never look because they’re afraid a snake or spider may live there”. I live there because I am both a snake and a spider. Jokes on you if you thought I was human.

Anyway, with chain blogging awards come rules. With rules, comes anarchy. With anarchy, comes me. So I will follow the guidelines in my own style. As you can tell.

If you’re wondering what a mystery blogger award is, you’re not alone. Apparently the creator of this is Okoto Enigma. Kind of jealous of the name. Check out their blog here. Their definition of their award is as follows:

“Mystery Blogger Award” is an award for amazing bloggers with ingenious posts. Their blog not only captivates, it inspires and motivates. They are one of the best out there, and they deserve any recognition they get. The award is also for bloggers who find fun and inspiration in blogging, and they do it with so much love and passion.

-Okoto Enigma

If you support anarchy, of which flows through my veins adamantly, do not follow these set of rules:

  • Put the award logo/image on your blog.
  • List the rules.
  • Thank whoever nominated you and provide a link to their blog.
  • Mention the creator of the award and provide a link to their blog as well.
  • Tell your readers 3 things about yourself.
  • Nominate 10-20 people.
  • Notify each of your nominees by commenting on their blog.
  • Ask your nominees any 5 questions of your choice; with one weird or funny question (specify).
  • Share your link to your best post(s).

I will reiterate my stance on nominees once more: I feel incredibly awkward nominating people. I feel incredibly awkward typing how incredibly awkward that is. That being said, whoever I nominate will probably be people who I see most often moseying around my blog, or people who’s blogs have given me (and others) insight to a different perspective. However, if you feel compelled to completely ignore my nomination, I won’t take it personally. If anything, I just want to list the blogs so others can click on them.

For those who are still wondering who I even am, or why exist in this world–well, I’ve been wondering that as well. But I probably have a little more insight on me than you have on me, so here are three things about myself:

  1. Giving fucks is not a characteristic of mine. This means, as I’ve stated in many posts, my fucks generally reside on the curb outside of my apartment. Still confused? Stay turned for a post I write later today on how I teamed up (I was on a team, guys!) with three men in line behind me to create a force-field around our line from, as one guy put it, “a bunch of rude motherfuckers”.
  2. I am not human. I come from the stars. If you look out on a clear sky in places where light pollution doesn’t exist to the extent it does in main-land America, you will see my homeland arching across the sky: the arm of the Milky Way. I descended on Earth with no purpose, and have instead found many purposes. Looking forward to the day I return to the stars.220px-milky_way_night_sky_black_rock_desert_nevada
  3. After many years of confusion, after many years of hopping from professional to professional,  after much anger, exhaustion, and hopelessness, I will be seeing soon yet another professional for a possible autism spectrum diagnosis. After many concluding opinions from those doubtful and those convinced, I’ve decided to launch down that rabbit hole. Diagnosis in general means nothing to me, but the implications of understanding my infancy, toddler-hood, childhood, and now adulthood, kind of means something to me for some reason.

As you can tell, I often spew words from my head with no end in sight. I’ll try and keep my answers to these next questions short:

  1. If you could switch lives with one famous person for one day each year, who would it be and why? This is kind of tough for me, as I don’t recognize many celebrities or famous people. If we’re talking about the years 1856-1943,I’d switch lives with Nikola Tesla, just to be inside of his brain. Then I’d time travel back to the present day, switch lives with Elon Musk, and re-create everything Tesla dreamed of.
  2. What would be the best present you could find under your tree this year? Anything with a processing system i7 or greater.
  3. Let’s say you just won the lottery and are now the richest person in the world. What are the first three things you will do? 1) I’d buy out all the electric companies to shut them down, so when I switch lives with Elon Musk and recreate Wardenclyffe, everyone will have free energy. In case you’re wondering, all those jobs will be replaced with jobs to run the free energy sites. 2) I’d buy out psychiatric hospitals across the globe and turn them into peer respites, some of which will offer similar hospital services, but only if you want that. 3) I’d buy a lot of chocolate.
  4. What’s your personal opinion of social media? Social media disturbs me. I use Facebook for science articles. To use it to put blurbs about your life seems like a waste of a learning opportunity.
  5. If you had to loose all of your senses except for one, which would you keep? Even though it gives me a lot of frustration, I would keep my hearing for the sake of music. Music is creation, and it’s all around us, even in the rotation of car tires against the road. Sound is also vibration, and vibrations are the universe, as Tesla says.

Nominees:

If anything, click on these links, you’ll find some great blogs. There’s a huge other list on my blog homepage. It shuffles every few times you refresh the page, so you can find new faces.

If you choose to do the nomination, my questions for you, I suppose, are:

1)If you had any supernatural power, what would it be?

2) What’s your greatest accomplishment and deepest regret?

3)Who or what, or  both, inspires you?

4)What would be your ideal fantasy world?

5)Describe yourself in five words.

Feel free to answer, regardless of whether you participate or not, or whether your blog is listed above or not. I think questions can be a great way to fuel a new blog post if you’ve been stuck in a writer’s block.

Poetry Slammed

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This weekend I am supposed to write a poem.

A poem.

A single. Poem.

My response?

I just wrote it.

“Best Poem About Gaming Ever–oh wait, it’s not about gaming? Whatever, best poem of 2016”–IGN

That quote is literally from IGN, I totally know everyone who works for them.

Not.

nycpofest-logo-transparentI’m also not a poet. I admire portions of poetry, I admire the way poets can string words together in a way that injects emotion and breathes live into something otherwise bogged down with simple definition or boring fact. Somewhere I read in a poetry book that everything in life was a teacher, and we just had to be keen enough with our eye, and with our words, to learn. Poetry then, was a reflection of that learning.

Something like that.

I’ve been wondering what to write my poem on. I’ve never been a simple person. I want to be able to describe something, perhaps an action, but having the meaning separate from the action. I’m pretty sure that’s what a lot of poets do anyway, and I’m just being a technical prick. I can’t really tell. You know why? Because I’m not a poet.

Ask me to bust out some fiction, or a nice comedy reel, I got you on lock. Ask me to be fragile and yet aggressive in some stanza’s and make words feel like liquid gold across the tongue and I’ll probably just slap you all the way back to your momma’s house, because I can’t make words into liquid gold, that is physically impossible. While I’m slapping you, I’ll explain known physics to you, because it’s obvious you lack that knowledge as well.

Like I said, “Technical Prick”. That’s my new title.

I can be excruciatingly literal sometimes. I can also be annoyingly metaphoric sometimes. I believe a strange combination of both attract people to my writing.

I could write a poem about insomnia because it’s 5:17 a.m for me and I have yet to get more than a few minutes of sleep. In this time I’ve managed to print tickets for a Halloween Haunt at Great America tomorrow–err, today. There: someone who is a poet, put that into a poem for me and I’ll give you 1/3 of my grade at the end of the semester. Why 1/3? Because poetry is 1/3 of the class and you will now be doing all my assignments.

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There is much to write about, I just need to let it flow onto paper, regardless of what it sounds like. The more I think about it, the worse the poem is going to sound  I think. Isn’t that usually how it works? Or is it the opposite? Uuuuggggghhhh poooeettrryyyyyy.

Perhaps I’ll write about things that are there and yet not. That’s always a fascinating topic for people who don’t understand it.

Tonight I was not home, tonight I was about my boyfriend’s house. I got there around half past midnight: he has a printer and I do not, and Great America does not send PDF’s to your email like every other e-ticket vendor in the world, they require you print it upon purchase from a different tab in your search engine, so I went to his house. He was doing what he normally does: play video games.

And when I was leaving, which was about a half hour ago,  I noticed my shoes sounded really thick against his wooden floors. I said out loud that I hated my shoes, something I always say, then words came out of my mouth I wouldn’t normally say. I said: “I sound like a dead person walking”.

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He’s used to me saying weird things, and he was tired, so he didn’t say anything. I, however, started freaking out.

You all know me by now as the one with the demons following closely behind me, breathing down my neck and reading my blogs as I type them, and the rest of the universe in front of me, guiding me away from them. Well, the demons were close this evening, young ones.

I had to park two blocks away from his house because there was no parking anywhere near, and his parents cars take up the driveway. Their driveway is shit anyway, I hate it; you back out against a blind corner into two lanes of same-way traffic. It’s a death sentence.

Anyway, I’m walking quickly down the middle of the two lane road because it’s four forty in the morning and silent. I love silence when I want it, I hate silence when my mind is reeling. I feel I can hear every little sound, every little scuttle, every little voice that might happen to roll along in the wind. In my head I’m repeating the line I said in the house and wondering where it came from.

185bno26vplqxjpgI turn behind me for no reason a few cars away from my car and see a man in all black following my exact footpath. He was about a block behind me and had no face or footsteps or shadow and I quickened my pace because I got it in my head he wasn’t human. I got it in my head he was the reason I said what I said, and thought like I thought.

I made it to my car a second later, turned it on, backed out like I needed to get back on the race track, and searched for the man in black but he was gone. He wasn’t down the two side streets. And while I fought myself gallantly over what I believed–“well he could have gone into a house”, “no, he wasn’t human”, ” he could have just been walking and turned down a street and you just couldn’t find him”, “no, he put those words in your mouth, you saw him, you’d never say something like that”, “you’re just tired”–I decided I wasn’t going to fight it. I decided the man was a figment of the demonic force that follows me, indefinitely, whether he existed or not.

Flipping through my songs, I could find nothing to soothe the panic, not until a song, out of my 749 songs on Spotify, started blasting through my speakers:

And I knew the universe had my back, even when it didn’t feel like it. The song stretched until I made it home and when I parked it ended, as if on cue, and here I am now, sitting on my computer waiting for that guy to pop up outside my window.

I’ll write a poem about that.

I Wonder . . .

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One of humankind’s greatest assets: our ability to wonder.

The best thing about wonderment is that it’s free. It’s free and anyone can utilize it. All you need is a little curiosity, a little motivation. The best thing about curiosity is you don’t have to be the brightest mind in the history of bright minds to embrace it.

There’s this odd phenomena across the globe causing people to think intelligence is truly quantifiable. It’s leaking into neuroscience as well, as they attempt to quantify consciousness.

How do you see yourself, anyway? Do you see yourself as someone who is curious? Who is playful? Who is open-minded? Smart? Unfortunate? Disturbed? Dumb? How much of how you see yourself does the world see?

I didn’t know I was smart until I knew I was smart. And I knew I was smart when I gave myself a chance to show myself what I could do.

shutterstock_56110372It’s a shame, I think, that we often get caught up in the idea of competition. It fuels our ego when we win and (for some) motivates better from us when we lose. Sometimes it motivates us to the point of self destruction. Sometimes we get so busy scrambling up a ladder that we don’t realize the top disappears into the clouds. And then we pause our thoughts and see the others climbing up their ladders ahead of us, all around us, and we see their success as a reflection of our failure. Then we start climbing down and we hide. We hide and we look up at the others and we remind ourselves we’re not them.

We get the sense that our struggle is also a reflection of failure. We get the sense that because we can’t compete with them, we have no right to compete at all. We miss the fact that we haven’t been competing with anyone but ourselves.

I speak on this as a smart person, formally labeled dumb. I speak on this as a person with so many ideas, so much curiosity, who wasted so much time ignoring both of those things trying to find a logical reason for why I failed in so many areas of life. Putting an algorithm on life is like trying to capture a wasp in flight on the tip of a sewing needle.

About 50 people, online and in the real world, have asked me over these last few months why in the peanuts-lucy-psychiatristworld I would ever want to go into something like Psychiatry. Some people call it a pseudoscience, some people call it corruption, some people say it kills, some people say it saves, some people call it medicine. I disagree with no one and I agree with no one. It’s whatever you want it to be.

It’s man attempting to fix what doesn’t need to be fixed.

It’s, in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s words, “the sad confession, and continual exemplification of the short-comings of the composite man–the spirit burthened with clay and working in matter–and of the despair that assails the higher nature, at finding itself so miserably thwarted by the earthly part”.

It’s this consistent belief that we can one day have a power over nature that nature could never fathom to have over us. It’s the idea that because we have this incredible gift to wonder, to be curious, to create, to calculate, to consider, that we should separate ourselves from something as simple as natural simplicity. It’s a portion of the arrogance of man.

If anyone was wondering, that’s my definition of Psychiatry.

You don’t have to be smart to be a psychiatrist. It would help, but it’s not necessary. Hell, you don’t even have to know anything about neuroscience or psychology to be a psychiatrist.

We have this weird impression in society that because someone obtains something like a medical degree, they are smart. Because we have this impression of them, we trust their advice more often than we would trust the advice of someone off the street. Sometimes we even refrain from asking questions because we might feel stupid, or because we’re not sure if it’s the “right” thing to ask.

That disturbs me. It disturbs me because that’s squandering curiosity. And to squander curiosity, especially when it involves your own health, your own body, your own mind, and your own future, should be a hate crime.

I would hate to perpetuate fear and suspiciousness. But I would hate more so to perpetuate submissiveness. 

quantum_mechanicsLittle known fact: before I chose this career path, I had my eyes set on a doctorate in physics. Theoretical and particle physics blew my mind; they always will. I spent countless hours in high school reading books about entanglement, and dark matter, and light, and gravity, and multiverse theory, and string theory, and although I hadn’t the slightly clue what the math equations in the quantum mechanics books meant, I knew it was something generations of curious people had been working on for some time now and that, to me, was something to admire much more than Justin Beiber, Bieber, Beaver, whatever.

I recognized that much of the math was only proving what hundreds of Native and indigenous people all over the place, including China, had been saying since they had the ability to tell stories. That, to me, was something else to admire: the merge between spiritual and scientific.

There are so many things in this world and so many more things outside of this world. It’s a crime to lock yourself inside of a box in your mind and focus so much on hurt, and pain, and struggle, that you keep yourself from looking up at the sky at night. It’s a shame that we trap our minds on Earth with our bodies.

Wonder! Create! Be curious! If someone calls you crazy for it, take it as a compliment: it seems only the crazy ones find meaning in the meaningless, and that’s pretty impressive.

Why psychiatry then? To remind people there are so many things in life to wonder about, to worry about, to obsessive about, and your sanity shouldn’t be one of them. 

 

Counting Sheep

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Warning! Warning! On coming rant! Buckle your seatbelts, kiddos, I haven’t done one of these in a long time and my blood is just boiling for one.

Firstly.

FIRSTLY.

Everyone has their own opinion on the subject I’m about to speak on. I will say this forthright: I don’t care which side you are on. I don’t care if you agree with anything I say, or anything this other person has said. You know what you prefer, I know what I prefer. If you would like to argue with me about it, send an email to dontsendmeafuckingemail@gmail.com.

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SECONDLY.

Yes, I am on an SNRI. No, this does not make me a hypocrite about what I’m about to say, and I’ll explain why in a moment.

So tonight, I had a conversation with someone that really, really shoved a metal pipe up my ass.

I was speaking to someone who is studying psychology. When I said I was studying psychiatry, they said psychiatry was too hard for them. I don’t know what that means. They probably can’t do math. They also can’t think, judging by the conversation we had. A lot of their life must be “too hard”.

I started speaking about some recent things I’ve been going through, not including how I’ve sprained a tendon in my wrist and was literally dying for four days, and I happened to mention the list of medication that psychiatrist tried putting me on (Effexor, Seroquel, Propanol, Ativan, Praoxin). I mentioned how I chose only effexor and told the psychiatrist to fuck off with the rest.

This chick has the audacity to ignore everything I said about how much I struggle socially, and say “well, why don’t you just get on what she suggested though?”

*Bitch Face Ignited*

I explained that for me, medication isn’t something I can consciously eat like food. I just prefer to find alternatives. I explained that they are not built for long term use, that they go through 8 week trials of a couple hundred people, sometimes less. I said I had nothing against medication, as she mentioned she also takes medication, but that I feel they are often overused.

Her response? “Don’t over use them, then.”

My response?

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Realizing perhaps I wasn’t clear enough, or perhaps she had some medication stuck in her ears, I said “I mean they’re over-prescribed.” I told her about where I work and about how we accept all world views. I told her I’m someone who often experiences odd things, and that I’ve gotten along just fine without medication, as have many people do. I made the mistake of mentioning that chemical imbalance is just a theory that’s hardly got enough evidence to consider proof.

She replied with “aw, but it is proven though.”

Motherfucker, are you this fucking dumb? Are you? Have you never read a fucking research paper in your life? Is your brain a potato? There are countless numbers of studies supporting the complete publication bias scandals between the pharmaceutical companies and the research companies out of places like Harvard, Stanford, and several other universities. I’ve read studies of research companies being caught hiding the fact that they found absolutely no correlation between their medication and the “imbalance” they claimed existed when, in fact it didn’t. Many articles written by professors also expose things on the inside. Have you not heard of homeostasis?

Do you know how many days I spent as a fifteen year old forcing the people I knew in college to give me access to the online research and archive databases so I could get a hold of these scientific journals? Do you know how many hours I spent reading them? More hours than I spent doing my high school homework, that’s for damn sure.

Here, here, I’ll break it down for you honey, my honey bunches of shut the fuck up.

Businessman with worried expression

Say you have a brain with more serotonin in the synapse than the brain next to that person. Say that person with more serotonin often experiences more anxiety than the brain next to them.

Companies call this an “imbalance” so they can say this medication “balances” you. Unfortunately, what’s perceived as an “imbalance” is entirely relative to what you’re comparing it to and every human brain is like a fingerprint. What does that mean? It means you’re comparing it to levels and behavior that vary per person. Anyone who has ever been any level of scientific or logical in their life should understand you can’t compare something to something else if that something else isn’t a consistent control.

Unfortunately, correlation is not causation–what does that mean? It means just because you have anxiety doesn’t mean your levels of serotonin are high. It means just because your serotonin levels are high, doesn’t mean you experience anxiety. And if anyone ever tries to tell you there is definitive proof for either, punch them in the throat.

The real imbalance comes when you try getting off the bullshit and you get brain zaps and hallucinations and fatigue and nausea and tremors as your brain tries to adjust back to its NORMAL levels. That’s often almost unbearable if you’re on several medications and what happens? You get STUCK on them. 

It’s ironic a simple thought can dramatically change the level of chemicals in your brain just as easily.

I lied. It’s not ironic. It’s fucking obvious.

I wasn’t this rude to this person, although I wanted to be. I said in my opinion medication isn’t what’s best for me, not when they’re meant to fix something that doesn’t need fixing. Her response was: “Some are placebos, not all. Why don’t you just try the medication and see how it goes?” That was her response over and over again. “Just try the medication, just try the medication, I’m just trying to help you.”

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At this point I’m laughing like Satan because this bitch is clueless to anything I’m saying. I have a right to my choice to NOT go on fifty different medication for something I believe isn’t necessary. I’m not a lab rat. If she wants to be one, that’s fine. I could give two flying fucks if she eats Prozac for breakfast, Haldol for lunch, and Seroquel for dinner with some Lexapro and Lithium for snacks. It’s probably a deadly combination, but her doctor recommended it, so that’s what she should do, RIGHT?

Fucking sheep. Some people are such fucking sheep.

If you feel the medication helps you, by all means, I support you 100%. If you feel differently, hey, guess what? I support you 100%. You know why? Because YOU know YOU better than I know YOU.

The real reason I got angry isn’t because she doesn’t believe as I do. I got angry because she kept ignoring what I was saying and pressuring me to take something I stated multiple times I didn’t feel was best for me. She judged me on the condition she felt I was in (I should have never mentioned antipsychotics), rather than listening to the words I was saying. And THIS, my friends, is what you FUCKING learn when you get into this industry.

You learn that if someone is non-compliant with advice, they have a problem.

You learn that medication is a first resort. 

You learn that alternatives are for the “delusional” and the “stubborn”.

And when I said, “hey, you know honestly, I’m getting offended by the way you keep ignoring what I’m saying and just telling me to take medication when I’ve stated I don’t feel it’s best for me”.

Her response?

“I understand.”

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No bitch, You don’t “understand”. You fucking apologize is what you do. Holly Christ, if someone like me, someone as bad at social interaction as I am, is telling you how to respond to someone, you are incompetent. A deadly level of incompetent.

And thus I ended the conversation. I don’t care if she never reads the research and cases like I have. I don’t care if she endorses medication for the rest of her life. I care that she’s going into counseling and psychology and all she did the entire time was judge my beliefs because I didn’t agree with a licensed professional, because I’m the “sick” one that needs help, right?

I have a fucking headache.

Adaptation Proclamation

Well, hello, hello, hello.

As you can see, my internet is working better, I have finished the play I was writing, I’m still swamped in math homework, and I’ve started a new medication.

*Life*

I’m sure everyone is wondering “since when were you writing a play?”

And many more who know what I stand for and how I conduct myself online are probably thinking “you’re on a medication?”

To both I say: expect the unexpected.

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This all happened upon my decision to visit that psychiatrist. Despite the fact that it felt like I should have been wearing Gandhi’s flip-flops and a Togo in the office, despite the fact that she played some Mozart-like shit from a ten year old stereo, it was a serene environment.

She’s a nice person. She asked me several questions, of which I stumbled through answers. I told myself I’d be completely honest, and for the most part I was. I didn’t get to say everything, but I said many things. To add to the list of things people think I have, PTSD and agoraphobia has now joined that list.

Now.

You’re probably thinking, “You went to a psychiatrist; I thought you were anti-psychiatry?”

No, no, no. I’ve never been anti-psychiatry. I’ve been anti-stupidity. I’ve been anti-ignorance. That doesn’t stop this recent experience of starting on a medication again feeling like a failure. I’m supposed to interpret mental health issues as experiences in life, things that can be interpreted separately from the medical model, and leaving that office I felt I had broken my own morality.

4ymp3I’ve given it a couple days and I’ve decided I haven’t broken my own morality. No where in my morality was I ever against medication. I’m against over-medication; I’m against the idea that medication is a better life-long treatment than skills and emotional support. What I’ve always advocated is that whatever you feel is best for you in the moment, I will support, whether that’s medication or DBT or CBT or mindfulness and yoga. What I’ve advocated is what medication is tested for: short, temporary use.

It’s not tested over a period of five, ten, or fifteen years. Most are tested for six to eight weeks, perhaps a few months. Rarely, a year or two or three. Those on the medication for an extended period of time are the test subjects. The only difference is they’re not paid for clinical study.

That being said, after explaining things I was given a list of medications she recommended: seroquel, effexor, propanol, praoxin, and Ativan for panic attacks.

Let me. . .

*breathes slowly*

Let me reiterate: I am not against medication: I am against over-medication. And that, to me, seemed odd and extensive. Propanol? The beta-blocker blood-pressure medication? I understand it’s used for Anxiety, but anything that targets my blood and my heart puts me on edge. Praoxin? Yes, I have nightmares. Really I just wanted to express them as a way to prove I’ve been more stressed; I don’t really need something to suppress them. Ativan? Addictive and not necessary. I said I have panic attacks every once in a while, and while they are severe, I feel I have my ways to control them. Seroquel? 

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I don’t think so.

That leaves us with Effexor.

First of all, there are some reactions known if you combine Seroquel and Effexor, if I’m not mistaken.

Second of all, I said yes to the Effexor to try and control this recent flow of anxiety. It’s been tearing me down harder than it ever has before, in more ways than one, with the excessive thoughts and paranoia and the rumination and–you all know. The feelings of loosing control. So I will use this (if my body responds alright) for a brief period of time to get myself sorted out. Then I will taper off like I always do and use the skills I’ve learned to carry on. That’s what I’ve always used medication for, and using it again now isn’t a failure. Instead I take it as a sign that I’ve done so well these last four years managing things on my own that my brain had to come up with more ways to test me.

So what do I have to do? I have to adapt.

I’ve never been on an SNRI before. I chose it because I don’t respond well to SSRIs. I’ve heard about as much negative of Effexor as I’ve heard positive, which is about how every drug works. This week I haven’t had any side effects aside from a bit of nausea the first two days, and drowsiness. Will she try and up the dosage the next visit? Probably, because that’s how this works. Will I go for it? Probably not. It’s my choice, remember?

Do I look like someone willing to chug down 300 mg of this shit? HAHAHAHA bitch please. My liver and my kidneys and my heart aren’t interested in that and they can’t speak for themselves; I have to speak for them.

Not to mention I have zero health insurance, so this is getting paid out of pocket.

ae7f0db617309be92059bd9f058e111fe2d6ae85639985ad2b2b2711d51f766eSo my plan this week is to get started adapting. I want to stop missing phone calls just because I don’t know what’s going to be said on the other end.

My plan this week is to figure out something I can do to help me learn social skills. Perhaps something DBT related or a group of some kind. I need something beyond just interaction in class, beyond interaction at work, that can help me learn how to better navigate the social world.  I just need to learn how to talk.

It’s just like math. You have to start from your basic information and build it up, because what you learn in the basics will follow you throughout the rest of your math career. If you don’t have that solid foundation, you can kiss something like Calculus goodbye. Considering that calculus is undergraduate math, you might as well just kiss your entire college career goodbye, because it’s just going to get worse after that.

And that’s what I need. I need to learn the basics of conversation and interaction and get used to being in a territory that I’ve never really understood. I’ll approach this with the brain of a mathematician, come up with an algorithm, and spend the next year of my life drawing calculations on my window until finally that fateful day arrives when I can say yes! This is the equation to social interactions. Then I’ll win a prize and go on to quantify consciousness.

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It’s Fucking Raw!

I’m about 300% done.

With what, you ask?

With the internet. Not the trolls (South park is taking care of that for me), not the idiots who start rants on social media about things they don’t understand, and certainly not the eleven year olds posting sexy pictures of themselves captioned “ftw, keep it 100, stfu biatches, snort weed hoe”.

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She’s not 12, calm the fuck down.

I’m simply done with internet connections.

It took about twenty minutes for me to load this page. I paid seven dollars for this day of wifi connectivity and this is the result I get?

“Just sign up with an internet company.”

Easy for you to say, you probably have enough money to pay an internet company. I’m about to get fifty frappe’s from Starbucks and start my ass on some Nikola Tesla shit. Resurrect Wardenclyffe for some free Wifi and energy.

I mean, does anyone ever think about this? How can they claim dibs on wifi if it’s everywhere? How can you claim dibs on energy when it is literally everywhere? It can’t be created or destroyed, only transformed. Don’t tell me PG&E is the only way you can power a fucking light bulb because I’ll slap you so hard with some science you’ll be dropping chemistry test tubes out your ass for a month.

There has to be a way you can create something that receives a signal without you having to saw off your leg and fuck the manager of Comcast while pretending he’s “Daddy” and you’re his “little girl”.

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Fuck Comcast with a capital F.

Could this rant be a result of my nerves over my psychiatrist appointment on Monday or the mountain of math homework I’ve been staring at but not touching, or the frustration I feel over my tendency to avoid every single thing that overwhelms me (which turns out to be everything)? You tell me, smart guy.

Oh God, I just assumed your gender, oh fuck me, send out the killer clowns and put on your metal chastity belts before Donald Trump grabs your cooch and Clinton breaks into your house and deletes your entire gmail history.

2016 in one sentence.

Fuck off.

My goal in life is to be the Gordon Ramsay of the psychiatric world. Picture this:

[Enter]: three residents, two with goofy grins on their faces and one with a patented “I’m going to be a doctor next year” flat-line face. They all have their clipboards clutched to their chest like it’s the first day of class and they don’t want anyone to see how much they suck at math. I am wheeled in on a throne made of previous resident’s broken dreams and souls with four angels with wings of solid gold pushing me along. The wheels of the throne are translucent and easily visible is the bubbling blood of my enemies; my source of energy. I puff generously on a Cuban cigar  I made a resident crawl through Cuban jungles to get.

Me: Repeat my motto!

Them: People not products.

Me: Again!

Them: People not products

Me: WITH ENTHUSIASM!

Them (visibly shaken): People not products!

Me: Good. Better than yesterday; yesterday you were shit.

Resident 1: That’s a little harsh.

Me: What? What did you say? Hey–hey! Listen you fucking donkey, don’t tell me I’m harsh when you’re shit!

Resident 2 (under breath): a compliment would be nice once in a while

Me: You want a fucking compliment? I haven’t had to take your clipboard and shove it up your ass sideways yet! There’s your compliment. Hey–hey, did that hurt? Fucking sue me!

I’m sorry, I had to pause and ask myself what the fuck do I write about these days?  This is my personality, people. I should be on T.V making millions of dollars for insulting people. Think about how self-fulfilling that would be to know you are the one person with such great comebacks about dry camel asses and raw food that people hate you so much that they tune in and watch you every week. What a wonderful source of fuel for my shattered ego and what a wonderful cure for my crippling depression.

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My nerves are running rampant about this appointment. Meeting new people is one thing: meeting a new psychologist is another; meeting a new psychiatrist is ten times worse than both of the above. I’ve been fighting with myself over whether I would ever, ever, ever again in my life consider medication and although the dominant screech in my head is “what the fuck are you thinking you fucking psychopath, No!”, there’s a tiny voice somewhere hidden in the crevices of my brain matter saying “let’s get legally high”.

No, really it’s saying “do it.”

My problem is getting stuck in a cycle. My problem is 1) finding the words to explain myself and 2) explaining myself so well I went up getting thrown down the rabbit hole.

I have special names for things in psychology. Hospitals are called the Lions den because once you’re in there, you go by their rules.

aliceinwonderland-downtherabbithole-011The rabbit hole is the cycle of treatment people get stuck in, that I almost got stuck in once. The “take this medication, but it causes this so take this medication, but those side effects suck so take this one but now you can’t get off of them without horrible withdrawal or a psychotic break so I’ll just tell you that you might as well stay on them for the rest of your life” cycle.

I’m acutely aware that taking medication would mean my brain is forced to fight itself . Doctors call it “adjusting”. I don’t. Because it’s not your brain “adjusting”, it’s your brain constantly sending out more neurotransmitters to keep itself in homeostasis against the synthetic chemicals; that’s why you develop a tolerance–your brain finally reaches homeostasis once again and you don’t feel the effects of the medication anymore.

Until you quit it and suddenly your brain, which has started sending out huge amounts of transmitters to compensate and balance the other transmitters, sends out more than it needs because the chemical is now gone. That’s why you get withdrawal. That’s why alcoholics have seizures. That’s why many people who stop their medications have bad mental side effects.

I don’t have health insurance so what does any of this matter? Even if I wanted medication I wouldn’t get it. So, I guess . . .

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Internet is working now.

Halfway To Jupiter

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Today the skies are grey and I’m okay with that. Less traffic, less people, less noise. Inside of my room I only have on my air filter that sounds like a fan because it’s so old. Some people have white noise machines, I have an air filter that sounds like a fan. There are two kinds of people in this world.

My window is cracked open just enough to let the breeze through and collectively it reacts with the breeze from the living room and they open and shut my door periodically. After years of living in this room, I’ve learned all it’s secrets. When I have my ear phones on and my music on full blast, all I need to feel is the air brush lightly past my ankle to know my door has opened which usually means someone has opened the door to the house. That’s how I judge when my parents are outside smoking and when they aren’t.

Today would be a good day to get, as the crazy kids these days call it, “lit af”.

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Sadly, getting “lit af” isn’t as easy as it used to be. Not for my brain, at least. Not for a brain that takes a bucket load of Ativan just to slow it down an inch.

I should call back my supervisor because she has questions about my time card. I probably fucked up somewhere and either put a time I didn’t work, or didn’t put in a lunch. We didn’t use to have to put in a lunch, but now we do, and that’s probably what I forgot. Either way, it looks like I’m trying to jack money from them. At least, that’s what my brain is telling me they’re thinking. I’m a mind reader now, apparently.

I hate talking on the phone. Why can’t people just text? Why is it necessary to hear each other’s voices? Don’t you people understand how hard it is keep up with words? It’s fucking hard.

This has been weighing on my mind for about three hours now.

In order to make a phone call, I must take several preemptive steps:

1) I must listen to the voice mail. If there is no voicemail, I never, ever call back: if you didn’t have a reason to call me, you shouldn’t have called me.

2) I must decide whether the news is good, bad, or somewhere in between. Depending on which it is, I decide whether or not I should give two flying fucks.

3) I must feel the anxiety of it. Anxiety seems like a distant partner buried underneath the sand compared to everything else I’ve been dealing with, but it never fails to poke its head out of the soil at the sight of a phone call.

4) I must mull it over for two or three or twenty four hours. This allows the majority of my energy to go into building up the courage to dial back the number.

5) I must make the phone call in my car, in silence, away from my room. I hate talking on the phone in my room. It feels like both the neighbors and my parents can hear me and that shit ain’t cool.

That being said, let me take a brief hiatus and go call her back before I lose my mind over this bullshit.

Here are some photos to keep you entertained while I’m gone.

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Well, she was not there. Brilliant.

However, my manager was. And although he had no clue what she was talking about regarding my time card–I probably screwed up, I swear I did, I’m shit with those kind of things, always have been–he did ask bluntly the exact question I was terrified of: What happened?

It’s hard for me to tell someone I legit wanted to end my life, so I told him I felt the people I was talking with overreacted. And in a sense, that wasn’t a lie. I felt like they really did overreact at the time. 

I didn’t tell him everything about the hospital or how I call it the Lion’s Den and that I had to turn on the Antisocial Personality manipulative portion of me to get the fuck out, but I did say that I’m doing better. And that’s not a lie. I am doing a little better. Freezing, apathetic, and tired, but better. 

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He told me to always feel open to call him or anyone in the house if something’s going on, if I need to talk, and even though I kind of already knew that was an option, hearing it specifically was helpful. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m allowed to do and what I’m not allowed to do around people, so I need a guide. It was also nice to hear that he said he was just about to call me and ask how things were going.

I feel like I could have spilled a lot more. But spilling things to people is hard. Even though I know these particular people out of all people will 100% understand, it’s still hard. I have to always keep up that “I’m doing fine” face. You all know what face I’m talking about:

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And perhaps that’s why this breakdown over this last week has happened. My subconscious is sick of playing pretend.

I don’t pretend to be “happy”. Despite what every single person in this world seems to think, I am not depressed right now. How many times do I have to say that?

I pretend to be a sponge or rubber. I pretend to absorb things on impact. But in reality my attention is shit, my thoughts are shit, my fucks are gone. In five days I have an appointment with a psychiatrist and in five days my thoughts will still be shit, my attention will still be shit, and my fucks will be halfway to Jupiter.

I scold myself internally for not being an open person. But to be vulnerable is difficult, particularly after being raised in an environment where being vulnerable means you’re weak.

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I’m still learning. I think he knows that, given how young I am.

So I feel bad for not telling the complete story and hurrying to get over the subject. At the same time, I know he probably knows that anyway also, probably sensed it (these people are good at that kind of thing I’ve noticed), and rather pester me for all of the story, he just told me that everyone there was always willing to talk. I think that was a better jester than the majority of the reactions I’ve received from people.

Besides my one English professor. He’s the real OG in all of this: he’s letting me turn his class into an online one so I don’t need to go to class. I can take the midterm when I want. He said he struggles with some anxiety disorder and depression, e.t.c, e.t.c, and he completely understood without even knowing why I was in the hospital. That’s an OG son. Shout out to him for being a straight loc.

Life is strange.

Dreams–Not The Influential Kind

And it begins.

You all didn’t know me when I struggled with nightmares inside of nightmares every night. In fact, I started this blog at the tail end of my nightmare tirade.

It’s been a good eight months since I’ve had a good, vivid scare in my sleep. That streak has ended this morning.

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Ever since I was young, I’ve had dreams more vivid than reality and they’ve always been extravagant. I remember a dream I had at the age of six–at least, I’m pretty sure it was a dream. The refrigerator danced from the kitchen into the bedroom/living room where my family slept. The door opened and all the condiments and items in the door were dancing too. You think, as a six year old, I would be entertained but I was fucking terrified. Then a 2 x 4 piece of plywood got puked out of the middle of the refrigerator and a snail the size of three humans heads slugged across it, and in its mouth were two sharp sabretooth-looking fangs, about the size of my forearm. It hissed and opened it’s mouth to devour my head and I woke up.

That is the first vivid nightmare I can remember. And it hasn’t stopped since then. Weird things happened with the clocks, with the house, e.t.c; sometimes thinking back on them I can’t discern whether they were indeed dreams or if my brain was playing tricks on me in waking reality.

In high school the streak really took hold of my sleep. Every night was one of three dreams: a tsunami, a robbery, or an alien invasion. The themes never deviated and that has not changed.

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The tsunami ones scared me the worst because I didn’t have any control of it (#symbolism), and woke up drenched in sweat.

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The robbery ones were extremely tense, but I never awoke scared of them, only shaken. In fact, they often bled into each other. One robbery would relate to the next, and then to the next–even if the dreams were not had consecutive nights.

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The alien invasion ones always woke me up feeling like I had actually left earth. In some of them I talked with my subconscious and woke up feeling freed, in others I was dissected. Sometimes I was just running and hiding like everyone else.

Once I dreamt of me killing myself and once I dreamt of me killing someone else; those were the only deviations from the themes.

I remember the majority of them like I experienced them in real life. They aren’t just dreams to me, but experiences, and I remember them like memories.

I’m someone who does not pay attention to my sleep pattern because it deviates ridiculous amounts. It’s like a kid walking down a sidewalk licking their ice cream on a cone and out of nowhere some jackass on a bike smacks the ice cream to the concrete.

But the weeks leading up to the hospital and the last four days afterwards, I’d been sleeping anywhere from nine hours to thirteen hours. Three days ago I woke up after five hours of sleep on the dot. The next day, five hours on the dot. Last night; five hours on the dot.

Last night the dream was a combination. It was a dream inside of a dream (another reoccurring theme of mine), with an alien invasion of sorts and a robbery. That’s new as well.

I remember waking up (in the first dream) to an alien creature with legs like an Orb Weaver spider and the body of a shrieker out of Resident Evil 6 (picture the two above combined together). The face was circular and the mouth elongated across the diameter of it’s spherical head. Underneath it was a body. The alien was ripping apart the body and tossing around the gore and gorging itself on intestines whilst simultaneously raping the shit out of the mangled corpse.

It noticed I was awake and drenched in sweat and I could not move. It went to engulf my head and I woke up (in the dream) in a cold sweat. I woke up my mother who was sleeping next to me (as a child, my parents and I had to sleep in the same bed because we only have a living room and a bathroom and a kitchen), just to make sure that she wasn’t an alien. She woke up and I sighed and realized it was a dream and went back to sleep . . . still in a dream.

Then my mother and I were driving to Safeway. I saw a shopping cart that was wheeling itself around in the parking lot and doing donuts and I knew there was some kind of paranormal force around us.

bloody-screamer_largeThen we were shopping when shots rang outside in the parking lot. Windows broke, people screamed, and blood sprayed. People were looting cash registers and grocery items for whatever reason and my mother and I were outside (suddenly), crouched on the ground by my mom’s car, face to face with a cop who was so distressed he almost shot the both of us. He pointed a gun at me and screamed “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I have to! I have to!” and I told him “you don’t have to do this.”

That freaked him out and he ran to the other side of the car to point the gun at my mom and he screamed something similar. She said “you just have to calm down.”

That freaked him out and he ran back to my side of the car and pointed the gun back at me.

This went on for about ten or fifteen dream minutes. I remember watching his little footsteps pitter patter back and forth underneath the car.

Finally, he ran off. My mother and I went into the store and put on store aprons and started helping put items back where they were supposed to be. People were dead, hanging through the broken windows and dripping blood on the produce. I told my mother “I think the reason we got to stay alive was that we were so calm when he wasn’t”.

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And that was when I woke up, heart pounding. The force that was in my dream was the force I felt in my face that moment. I have no doorknob in my door (courtesy of me and my father fighting) and through the hole I swear something was staring at me. I was too paralyzed to leave my bed because I feared if I got up whatever force was keeping me captive would strangle me. I looked at the time and it was 4:00 a.m exactly.

I wasn’t going back to sleep.

I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t want this string of nightmare bullshit to start again, not as vigorously as it used to be. I can’t handle them every night, it’s like waking up in the middle of a panic attack but instead of waking up it’s prolonged through the night and you have no choice but to deal with it.

For those wondering, yes, I can lucid dream.So I often realize I’m in a dream. But what that results in is me fighting against my brain through different layers of dream (literally crawling from sleep layer to sleep layer) until I break through the surface and open my eyes in this reality. Then I’m more exhausted than I was before I went to sleep.

Remember how I was writing about the different forces I felt on one of my walks? The one with the monarchs and the ripped squirrel tails? I feel that force that ripped those squirrel tails and bird wings are trying to get to me yet again; invading my dreams and my room and my reality.

Whatever. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I have math in two hours.

Apathetic Annie Ate Four Awesome Apples.

Ignore that title.

Sometimes people get this mixed up, so I decided to give a little explanation.

Apathy does not always accompany depression.

Contrary to what people have been believing these last five days, I am not depressed. I do not feel sad. I don’t feel like my life is horrible. That is not why I was pushed towards suicide.

There is a difference between being fed up and being depressed. I was fed up and hollow. Not depressed.

Contrary to what the LCSW said, I do not have low self-esteem. I’m actually a pretty arrogant prick, and in some respects to certain talents, I have a reason for it.

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And no I’m not arrogant to make up for my low self esteem. Because I don’t have low self esteem. I’m confident in what I can accomplish. I’m aware of the things I suck at. And I’m okay with both.

This indifference has been following me around for a couple weeks now and it’s what has been putting a damper on all of my school work, I know this now. I was not crying in front of the damn social worker and sheriff because I was sad, but because I was incredibly, incredibly angry. I was angry I don’t have an explanation or answer for all of this. I’m usually pretty good at having answers. I stopped crying pretty quickly, within about two minutes of starting. I arrived in the intake place monotone. I think that’s why the LCSW started throwing out all her feelers trying to break me for 45 minutes. Didn’t work.

This really puts a damper on shit. I’m used to this shit lasting a few days because I decide to say “fuck it all, I’m too stressed!”. I’m not used to it not being spearheaded by me consciously.

I just don’t care. I can’t be bothered to take a shower or eat or get out of bed and make it to class. If I do make it to class, I couldn’t be bothered to give two shits. My anxiety can’t even break through these walls: I’ve been wandering outside and into stores in leggings, socks, and a sweater with the uncombed rats nest that is my hair, and I just don’t care that my neighbors cut quick glances in my direction.

I don’t care that Walgreens calls a code into the speaker after I make eye contact with the clerk and then suddenly I’m looking for soap and another employee peers around the corner at me and smiles and leaves. Yeah Walgreens, I’m really going to steal soap.

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I don’t care if people think I’m rude for not making eye contact with them. I don’t care if I don’t laugh at your shit joke. Maybe if it weren’t so shitty, I would laugh. Ever think of that?

I’m usually a hypersensitive person, and that’s no different when I’m depressed. When I’m depressed, I’m crying a lot but I’m feigning a smile. When I’m depressed, I’m listening to sad music and thinking about how shit everything is. When I’m depressed, I feel like a failure. When I’m depressed, I tell myself I’m worthless. When I’m depressed, I want someone to hug me and tell me everything is alright. When I’m depressed, sometimes keeping busy actually helps keep myself out of my head and makes me feel better.I have a lot of experience with depression.

Granted, I still can’t get out of bed, I still sleep a lot, and get to class or keep up on work, but it’s because of the overwhelming feeling. That’s the key point in all of this.

I’m not crying; I’m not sad. I’m not happy, but I’m not sad. I’m nothing. I’m not feigning a smile, I could care less to appease anyone at this point. I’m listening to Michael Jackson and dancing a bit in my seat. I don’t feel like a failure. I don’t want anyone to hug me for fucks sake; in fact, I’d prefer it if people stayed away from me. Keeping busy hasn’t changed anything. I actually went to work. I went to work hoping a couple of specific people were there but turns out I decided to go insane the week none of them were.

It was worse the days leading up to the hospital, and the days after. It wasn’t until today that I feel a little break in the fog: I laughed at Kim Jong Un banning sarcasm is North Korea. That’s huge. A laugh is huge.

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I guess I laughed at the hospital once, at the guy who crawled like a spider across the floor. But that was more sad and disturbing than funny. And I laughed a little uncontrollably for about five minutes. The girl next to me kept staring at me. I should have said bitch turn around, you in the same place I am, don’t act like you ain’t never seen someone laugh for no reason for five minutes straight. 

 

 

As I walked through the mist tonight in my same sweater, same leggings, same socks, I have been for the last five days, I was taking a look around. I think briefly I’ve talked about my disassociative experiences. They’ve been flaring up again. And as I walked I was trying to figure out why the world looked so different to me now. I was looking for some fascinating, descriptive words to make me sound like an exquisite asshole–I mean exquisite writer–but all I could come up with is “video games”.

Life feels like a video game now. Everything around me doesn’t seem like real life, it seems controlled. Things look different, people seem different. Like they’re all players, or puppets maybe.

You know the way GTA 5 has real looking facial features and nature features, but you can obviously tell it’s not reality? That’s what the world looks like to me: really good graphics that aren’t good enough to fool me.

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Trevor was by far one of my favorite video game characters by the way. The black people in these games are always way too stereotypical though.

For those followers who have been with me for a couple months, do you remember when I said as a joke that this blog has steadily become a diary of my descent into madness? I think the madness is here.