Headaches and Rough Days

The worst of the storm has passed, but we do live in a world where the climate circulates, so although I’m not sure when the next storm will be, I am quite sure it will be back. So here I have composed a rambling rant of the most rantiest.

Per advice from the internet, I’ve been using Cannabis to help with the Effexor withdrawal. This has done wonders. I can at least think clearly. Everyone has their opinion on Marijuana, and I understand the government classifies it as “a drug”. But at least those of us who regularly use and smoke Marijuana don’t hide the effects. Last time I checked, Scientific American, multiple medical journals, and I all agree that the companies “researching” psychotropic medication leave out a good 40-70% of the results of their studies–and publish only what you want to hear.

At least pot heads can be generally honest.

Those research executives must be snortin’ snow or smokin’ crank or tar, or something to make them deceitful devils. Or a hardcore case of Antisocial Personality Disorder. I have a feeling it’s a mix of both.


Well, I got a little something to tell you–anything that passes the blood brain barrier and is mind-altering and mood altering, is a drug–your coffee is a drug, your nicotine is a drug. Let’s not all jump on the “bash the marijuana users” bandwagon.

Let thee who has not sinned cast the first stone, son. I don’t see no stones being thrown. ‘Ight then.

Today has been a rough day, hence the attitude. I went down to the county office today to apply for health insurance, the free kind, and that office will be the death of me. It’s bright, the seats are too close to each other, everyone could hear me when I spoke one word, and it felt like they could hear what I was thinking too, so I tried not to think and that doesn’t ever work. That office always brings the worst out of my mental health.

They gave me a fat stack of papers to fill out. There were a bunch of little symbols next to the questions indicating which ones you were supposed to answer. The ambulances were the questions I were supposed to answer. The other options were for general assistance (i.e, money) and food stamps( I guess called SNAP now). They were defined as questions with either a money sign, or shopping carts.

Sentences started looking like this

There were a lot of words. A lot of them. Combined with the lights, the other people staring at me and me feeling their brains all up in my thought space, their little thumbing through my thoughts (like that alliteration?) action, I couldn’t focus on the words and kept having to read the sentences over and over again. Then I’d get more flustered, then I’d get extremely embarrassed, because everyone in that room knew–the dude across from me was staring at me writing like I was a circus act. Then I got up to the counter and gave the woman the paperwork and she tossed three back at me that I missed. She asked me nicely, see seemed nice, but I was so frustrated I couldn’t respond to her kindness.

She pointed at the paperwork and I couldn’t even focus on the words at this point. She had to point to each place I needed to sign and read, which only further frustrated me. Then she asked me if I wanted to set up an appointment to have an interview, or if I just wanted to submit the application and wait. I couldn’t handle any questions and looked at my mother wildly and the woman behind the desk said it’s my decision which only made me more embarrassed. I made a decision once she explained things a little more.

This took a few hours and I came home and I slept. I didn’t answer any calls or emails or messages today because spending those few hours with that level of stimulation really fucked my entire day over. It’s still fucking my night over.

I’m frustrated because this is another problem of mine: being overwhelmed by something like a piece of paper or sitting in a waiting room. I tried to leave three times while waiting because I couldn’t take the pressure in my head. Rocking back and forth, which is what I usually do when I’m stressed or anxious, looks fucking crazy in public, kind of like talking to yourself which I also try not to do, so I resorted to blinking away tears and shaking my legs up and down fifty miles an hour which also looks a bit crazy if you picture it. Which I felt only brought more attention to me, which only intensified all of my original thoughts. I kept having to ask my mom what to do next (i.e, what to answer, where to take the paper afterwards) and if she hadn’t have been there, I would have been fucked.


The last woman who spoke with me was older. She spoke quieter, slower, and showed me where everything on the paperwork was. She circled and labeled things on the papers for me and my appointment. I think they made me see her because they thought I was mentally challenged. That’s what they were thinking, I could fuckingĀ hear them. The last woman was pure, though, I think she heard them too and she knew. Now that I see her smile in my head again, I’m pretty convinced. So she was being nice.

Sometimes I wonder how I’d live without someone with me. Not because I’m a dependent little weasel, but because my support system is a broken one. I don’t want someone having to be over my shoulders 24/7 helping me with daily things outside of my walls . . . but I need something similar. At least until I learn, through that kind of support, how to help manage myself. It’s not that I want to be a lazy asshole on disability, or whatever people think, it’s that I’ve never acquired the skills to manage my mental health and independence.

I can cook, I can clean, I’m not very good at organizing though. I can drive. I can get dressed–although showering sometimes is a problem, and eating I forget to do. I have an on-call position, so that’s something. I can drive to class, sit in class, leave class and come home. I can go into a grocery store provided I have someone with me who I can follow around so I can focus on them and not get overwhelmed. I never realized following someone’s heels in a store wasn’t something everyone did until people I used to hang out with kept asking me why I followed them and never looked at anything in the stores.

I go into the same stores for the same thing: The big Safeway I can go to in mid-afternoon or evening or early morning (2 or 3 a.m). I get vegetarian sushi because I hate raw fish, chips, a drink, and a chocolate snack.


I go into Walgreens for necessities like soap, face care, e.t.c. Only after 8p.m if I’m by myself. Safeway I can’t go into by myself. If I’m with someone, I can go into Walgreens any time of the day.

I do not go into the grocery store Luckys. It is always loud, bright, and there are too many people. I refuse to go, even if someone is with me. I can’t handle it.

I can go into Trader Joe’s with my boyfriend, but not with anyone else. We go in for a specific reason:sandwich wraps and a salad. They’re always located in the same place. We’re in and out in ten minutes or less. With my mother, she goes there to grocery shop. It’s always loud and crowded and small and the longer we take the louder and more crowded it gets. So I can’t go in with her.

I am comfortable with restaurants because most of the time I go to one, the lights are dim. There’s been a few occasions where there’s a lot of people talking and a lot of light, but that happens rarely.

“Oh you say you have all these problems, why do you go to amusement parks and this and that and blah blah blah”.

Fuck off with that. I go because I like rollercoasters and being scared. I go maybe what, once a goddamn year? Within a half an hour of being there, my anxiety has already traveled so far into space I can’t see it anymore, and the level with which I’m done is over 9000. I don’t trust the people in lines, I can’t think clearly, i feel like people are reading my brain like a book.

But, you see, as someone who has dealt with this since they were 4, I’m relatively good at realizing I don’t want to be the Debbie downer of the group, although I’m sure I have been many times. If I go silent, than I’ve been pushed to my limit and that’s that.

I have my routine. It’s very rigid. From the outside it looks like I do a variety of things, but I don’t. Most things I can’t handle doing by myself because I’m either overwhelmed with the surroundings or overwhelmed with the thing itself.

I’ll repeat: I’m not being a mooching, dependent asshole. I just need some goddamn support. Some people are really good at it. Some kids get jobs and maintain them and do well and they learn and move on with their life. I’m not one of those people who can do that. I’d be homeless in the gutter eating clumps of moss from the sewer and scurrying away with the rats at the sound of footsteps if I didn’t live at home and I wasn’t able to be as reclusive as I am.

Doesn’t mean I want to be dependent like this forever.

Support. It would be cool to have a group of local supporters, professionals or not, who check up on me every now and then, or help me get techniques for when I’m shopping somewhere or out somewhere so that I don’t start crying and run away or get lost to heavily in thoughts. The last time I went into Walgreens by myself–many weeks ago–I had to run get out as quick as possible because they were watching me on the goddamn cameras and calling out their little employees over the intercom to follow me around the store. What the fuck am I going to steal from Walgreens, some toothbrushes and a fucking Klondike bar? Fuck out of here with that shit.

I don’t even remember why I was there. When I got in my car I didn’t even remember what I went in there for.

Get it yet?

Rant: END.