I can’t

I hadn’t been blog posting rants or personal posts for quite some time now, because I was actually partially adulting.

No, I wasn’t adulting, I was simply coasting through the adult world for a brief period of time. As someone who dislikes most medication, and can’t ever seem to agree with one or the other, Effexor XR did wonders for my mood or whatever hole I was stuck in previously. I could my emotions again, and work through them rather then get entirely overwhelmed by them. It was a stabilizing moment in my life, now gone.

I got eight hours of sleep. Now I’m back to getting whatever the fuck THIS is. This 5:34 a.m clusterfuck of thoughts and no sleep.

The withdrawal, I will say, is fucking terrifying. At least, for me it was. I had to lay in bed for a couple days because every time I stood up to walk, the world tipped on its side and a shockwave ran from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I’m still getting the shockwave senstation a bit, and that’s convinced me 2016 is going to do what it does best, and kill the fuck out of me.

My head is killing me. The headaches were another bad withdrawal symptom. I got so dizzy and my head hurt so bad I was immobilized and crying for a good hour or two. At least I’ve got my kitten sleeping on my shoulder.

Because tonight the thoughts are going, going, going, gone into fucking outerspace. I can’t tell what I’m thinking half the time. I described it to someone as having a head full of thoughts crashing into each other–not racing thoughts, just a bunch of them–and because they crashed into each other so quickly, I can only capture snippets of what they want to say. So the conversation I had with this person consisted of me blurting as many snippets as I could to try and convey how I felt. I don’t think it worked. Shit got weird.

I’ve been away from this side of my brain, or at least this intensity of this side of my brain, for a good couple months. And now, because health insurance costs want to shove a lead pipe up my ass, I’m back to where I started. Too bad. I was making progress.

But, considering the withdrawals, to be honest, I wouldn’t want to stay any longer than a couple months on that shit. With the way my body reacted, me being on it for a year would get me stuck on it for life. And I’m not about that bullshit.

The emotions are all haywire again. I felt it the instant I woke up this afternoon and rushed through twenty emotions at once and confused myself so badly I forgot to eat. This was my problem before. My head gets so muddied up with random thoughts, anxieties, paranoias, pains, that I forget to do basic things like eating or I just don’t have the energy to take a shower or go out and buy necessary items. If I lived on my own, I wouldn’t survive more than a week.

That’s what impressed me about Effexor. It’s labeled as an Anti-depressant, and it sure did give me some energy back, but wholly hell were the thoughts calmed to a dull roar. I wasn’t so quick to convince myself of whatever it was I was going to type here because I type to slow for the thoughts in my brain. And I type pretty damn fast, ya’ll.

My plan going forward is to go talk to the dreaded county office. They can help set me up with Medi-cal. At least I can get healthcare that way. My hope was to get into system.

To get into “The System” you need to be labeled “severely mentally ill”, three words I never put together in one sentence. Ugg. It makes me cringe.

The truth is, I don’t have the capability, or the skills, to live independently. It doesn’t mean I can’t learn, it just means at this moment I don’t possess them. I get lost in my head and shit gets weird and I don’t leave this room, I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don’t do anything really but think and think and think. At this point it’s not even thinking really, more so as such my brain blurting random shit and then attempting to foil a theory from it, failing, then trying all over again.

Is that “severe” if I have an on-call position and a record of going to college? Probably fucking not. Severe means you’re in the streets babbling about the bastards you know and the hero you hate and scrubbing your feet with a dead squirrel because it contains the blood of Egor, the giant in the clouds who tells you to punch the kid on the red bicycle and shove a pine cone in the ass of the next skunk you see.


See, I babble about that kind of shit in my head or I babble about it out loud in the shower. I’ve only slipped up a couple times in public, and I yanked my dumbass self back down and shut my mouth. You can’t be seen loosing it in public man–reputation forever tarnished.

People don’t hear me talk to myself, or the images that get put in my head, or any voice I may hear, because, well, fuck me, I’m aware of stigma. Well, fuck me County, let me just disregard everything I’ve taught myself and let the crazy out JUST FOR YOU, let me do it JUST FOR YOU.

And they’ll still shove a steel pipe up my ass and kick me out their office.

I’ll repeat, I have not slept. I am tired. My teeth hurt from clenching them. The only reason I care so much about being part of “The System” is because you’re assigned a team dedicated to help you get along. They’re there whenever you need them. Sure, I could also use where I work as a support force, but the difference is I have to initiate it, and that’s something I’ve never been able to do. This “team” would be “assigned”. And as you all know, I prefer structured things over willy-nilly things.

So whatever. First things first–get Medi-cal insurance. Second: tell medi-cal I’m crazy. Third: take over the world. Fourth: finally, for once in my fucking life, actually get the services I need because I rule the fucking world, and if they don’t do as I say, I’ll just blast them away with the laser hidden in my third eye.

Now, I’m going to go ruminate on the third eye, all the powers it contains, and try to unleash Pandora’s box on the world. Cool.