The Qualms Of Existence

I just want to give a big thank you to everyone who reads, comments, likes, or follows this blog. It means more to me than you can really imagine, knowing that 1) there are people I can actually, coherently communicate with, that 2)there are people out there who understand what I’m saying, and that 3) you all have a sense of humor and laugh at the horrendous jokes I make.

That’s a real treat.

One day I’ll hit 500 followers and I probably won’t know what to do with myself, seeing as I’m a loner (on purpose, usually) and the idea of even twenty of those people taking the time to read and like things that I put out is just astonishing.

It’s like when you wake up in the morning and your house is on fire but you make it out alive. It’s that kind of thrilling.

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That being said, a few weeks ago I removed the “social anxiety” and “depression” from the subtitle of my blog. This is now simply me and the qualms of existence. Because the qualms of existence include, very obviously, anxieties and depressions.

I also removed them because this blog has become much more than a couple of labels, of which I don’t even identify myself by any longer. While I do still struggle with social anxiety, it’s stepped on the back burner compared to the other things I’ve been dealing with. As for the depression  . . . well, I don’t know what to think about that anymore.

I don’t know what to think about it because I’ve never been as in denial about it as I have been this last month and a half. It’s the most frustrating thing to sit in front of three different professionals, say very blatantly I am not depressed, and have them even more adamantly say “you’re depressed”.

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I clearly outlined the differences for them, you all. I did it extremely vividly. When I am depressed, I feel worthless. I hate myself, my life, and everyone around me. I’m ten times more sensitive than I usually am (which makes me extra-hypersensitive), and I don’t feel like I’m worth the effort people put into me. Everything I do is wrong, and everything someone says to me is a criticism. I am tired and trudge through my school work like I were a slave. I overeat. I don’t lose interest in things because I’m only interested in perhaps two things–writing and videos. If anything, I write more in my depression.

These few months I have been excruciatingly exhausted. I have missed so many days of classes I’m surprised the professors haven’t dropped me from their rosters yet.

I also can’t think. Which is frustrating. The words come and vanish into thin air. It feels like Trump has stationed himself in my head and built a wall to keep my own thoughts from me. They just run into the bricks and crumple in a heap and I never see them again.

Picture yourself walking ten leashed, untrained, six month old pit bull puppies. Picture the way the leashes would branch out from your hands and how much it would hurt when five tugged you one way, and the other five tugged you the other way, or each puppy tugged you in a different direction.

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These Aren’t Pitbulls, But You Get The Point

That is what happens to my brain when I step outside of my room.

On an average day, I can maybe yank a few puppies back beside me or pull them all just slightly enough to where I’m not in a full mad dash forward, but instead I’m only jogging ferociously to keep up with them. Regardless, that’s me maintaining a bit of control.

Right now they’re all pulling in separate directions and my hands are getting burned from the friction of the ropes. Going into class would be like letting loose some birds in front of the puppies. We all know what puppies like to do when birds are around: make a mad dash.

Sensory overload, they call it. I’ve struggled with it since I was a toddler and it’s only exemplified when my brain can’t focus and my energy is depleted.

I’ve been sleeping 9-12 hours a night: that’s what set off the “depression” ideas in these professionals’ heads. You sleep 3-4 hours, you’re manic. You sleep 9-12 hours, you’re depressed. They all think the same way.

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Regardless of the amount of hours I get, it’s not restful. Firstly, I’m sinking into the floor because my bed is two mattresses on my carpet. One mattress is a good 15-20 years old, the other mattress came out of a camper on the back of a truck from the 60’s. I doubt the mattress is from the 60’s, but it’s definitely older than 2006.

Secondly, the dreams. Oh the dreams, the dreams, the dreams.

I’ve been dreaming every night this week. They haven’t been the usual nightmares, just simple dreams. But many of them. One dream after another after another. Last night I had a dream of myself sleeping in my bed (I wasn’t seeing myself from outside of my body, I was just dreaming of laying in my bed) and I basically just laid there in the dream with five disembodied voices screeching full sentences at me. Something about me needing to build something or something, dude, I don’t fucking know, I can barely handle a conversation with one other person; like I could handle five people at once.

So that was an odd dream. Then I went on to have another one, and another one, all different.

I awoke frustrated and drained of more energy.

I am someone who has had few auditory hallucinations in my lifetime, including voices every now and then.

Every NOW and THEN. Like months and months apart.

Having a dream of being berated and screamed at by things in my head was too much for me. For those of you who deal with that on a daily basis: props to you all. You have my deepest respect. 

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I’m dead serious. I’m getting a headache just thinking about it. That dream seemed so real, I woke up thinking it had been real and that I hadn’t been sleeping. But I had.

Going to work today was hard. But being forced to be around people kept my mind off of how weird things have been lately. That gave me a much needed break. This is the first time I will probably ever say “work helped me”.

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