That “Kicking A Dog” Sound

I’m back from the dead, motherfuckers!

Sorry, that was rude of me.


What I meant to say was . . . good evening (or morning) and what a lovely day it has been (or is)!

Well, it hasn’t been completely lovely, but I came home, took a nap, and feel almost 100%. It’s as if the last six days don’t even exist. They’re hard to remember, really. Which, in some weird, twisted way, is good. I think?

I just never thought Chemistry of all things would help push me those few last steps out of my depression. I failed that shit in high school. I’m talking I ended the year with a 13%. That’s an F, just in case you need a letter grade for clarification. So I’m retaking it in college (oh JOY) and my professor (envision a shorter, younger, Michael J. Fox minus Parkinson’s) is just a speedy little bullet of knowledge. I mean the guy can’t slow down. He’s classically inattentive and hyperactive. He interrupts himself and he interrupts students when they’re asking a question and then gets confused when the student says “uh, you didn’t answer my question dude”. He can’t answer a question he didn’t hear.

We talk about heat capacity and specific heat and all these basic introductory chemistry terms, but he’ll go off on a tangent balancing equations and talking about reactants and products when most of the students in this class barely know what 9.342 + 4.32 is to the correct number of significant figures. He doesn’t have a lesson plan, he just walks in, starts playing YouTube videos and his playlist on Pandora, then does some demo with fire to get our attention. Once he has our attention, he loses his.

The other day we were talking about density, butane, and sulfer hexafloride. You know, dense gases that do this to your voice:

He lit a candle, sprayed a can of butane into a beaker, tipped the beaker over, and a blanket of fire spread across the table and tipped over the edges like water. The next lecture he and a student “volunteer” (really just a kid who was sitting in the front who happened to wear his safety glasses that day) boiled butane until it sent a snake of bubbles towards the ceiling. The professor lit a wick at the end of a metal pole which he gave to the student. A portion of the bubble snake separated and floated up to the ceiling. Another portion did the same and he instructed the kid to touch the flame to it. Obviously it erupted into flames and blanketed across the ceiling. But the professor didn’t want to stop there and the student, already standing awkward in front of 100 people as “that weird nerd who brings his safety goggles to lecture”, was bouncing in his shoes. My professor grabbed some of the bubbles with his hands in an attempt to toss them into the air. The kid didn’t understand what “light the bubbles when I toss them up” meant, and he lit them while they were resting in the professors hand. The fire wrapped around his wrist and fingers until the butane burned off.

I laughed my ass off.

As did the rest of the class.

And here’s the kicker:

He did it AGAIN.

The professor is trying to toss the bubbles into the air and this kid just lights him on fire again. This time the bubble sample was large and it wrapped around half his arm.

Anxiety is a bitch, especially when it makes you nearly responsible for the demise of your chemistry professor.

Today, he lit a stick with fire and grabbed the same kid from the lecture (this professor is suicidal I think) and had him hold the stick. He filled a test tube with hydrogen, shoved it over the burning stick, and scared the shit out of the girl beside me with a high pitched pop. She jumped a mile in her seat. My professor referred to it as “that kicking a dog sound”. I forgot to mention he makes several animal abuse jokes. They’re hilariously awkward.

Who Could Kick This Cutie Pie??

You meet so many characters in college and half of them are the professors.

Sometimes being around people helps me. It takes my mind off myself most importantly, and sometimes kicks me out of my downer moods. But the switch is always bitter sweet because it makes me feel as if I”m going crazy. Flip-flopping around from one extreme to the other like a fish in a tub of sand. I forget all about this feeling when I’m flying high and it’s those times I convince myself I’ll never be depressed again, that I’ve finally conquered it, that i’ll do big things with my life within this next week, this next month, and become a YouTube star with a gaming channel and make 7.4 million dollars a year like PewDiePie.

Or there’s that weird feeling of being depressed but feeling . . . good. I don’t know how to describe it other than those words.

I just not going to think about it. Tomorrow is a new day. I may wake up different, I may wake up the same, but one thing is for certain: I will wake up with that image of my professor catching on fire. It might help me get out of bed in the morning. It’s always good to start off the day with a laugh.


I Think I’m Moving But I Go Nowhere.

I can’t stop the tears today.

I wrote a poem last night, an ode to the last year of my life.

I never write poetry, I suck at poetry, but the words seemed fit only for such a genre.

I tried opening up a little more to my psychologist but it didn’t work. It completely backfired. I fell back into my obsessive habit of appearing under control on the outside and expressing trivial issues I feel would only advocate that appearance of control. There’s no rhyme or reason to why I do this.

The only thing in control here is depression and he’s a bastard of a boss.

Giving up isn’t an option until it is.

404: Life Not Found

Even in depression I search for something to alleviate the pain. I can’t tolerate suffering. The only one who can ease the torture is me. The affection of others pierces no holes in the black shroud around my shoulders, their embraces don’t register along my skin, their words hit the four titanium walls surrounding me, their smiles only evoke a reflexive grin, one that knows it’s only purpose in life is to convince others I’m okay.

I know this will be over soon.

I try and think of pleasurable things to lift my mood for a split second. I think about the paid internship opportunity in biochemistry I have this summer. I try not to think of the one reference I need to list on the application of which I don’t have. I think about the coming weekend, I think about food, I think about how nice it will feel to lay my head on my pillow and erase the last few days from my mind. At least, until my eyes open again.

I sit on this computer and I play those video games until my eyes are watering and my brain is slightly damaged. Anything to keep me from pondering how much I crave release from this nightmare. I try surfing the web: can’t; ads on websites make me tear up, commercials meant to bring about smiles on faces urge streams of water down my cheeks.

And yet I feel nothing. How can this be? How can such a sensitivity sit, eager, at the very edge of my tear ducts, willing to spray Niagara Falls down my face and send chills up my spine when I know my voice, my expressions, are nothing more than monotonous unless forced?

I’m hanging by a thread.

I feel I’ve been fighting for a million years under the ruse of a pacifist.

Here, I’m trapped between whether or not I believe these symptoms to be true. They’ve been worsening for a year and it’s only recently I’ve become aware of their effect on my life. But how do I know I’m not faking? How do I know any of this is real? Are they severe enough for someone to take seriously? No one takes my anxiety seriously, who’s to say this is any different? I need to be open about them, tomorrow. I only get a session once every two weeks. At 125 dollars a pop, I don’t know how we’re affording this. I hate having people support me, I hate it. I’m more of a financial burden than the alcoholic of the house. I’m addicted to being a fucking failure.

P.S: I didn’t know 25,000 dollars a year was a lot of money. Did you know the government considers it as such? My mother is reaping these last few years of my early twenties to claim me on her taxes (I’m her only child) and because of it, I can’t get the “free” health care services Covered California offers. She makes too much money. I can’t hold a job because I’m a loser. My father’s health is poor and can’t work. She works three jobs. They want to charge us 800 dollars a month for insurance.

Fuck your insurance. If I have an emergency and I go in the hospital, you’ll fucking treat it. And you know what? Bill me when I get out. Take the five dollars out of my bank account, I really don’t give a shit. You think I’m just going to start paying you because you threaten me with a thirteen, fourteen, fifteen thousand dollar bill? No. I got my services. You can take the tree you fucking wasted on printing that shit and shove it up your ass right next to that fat stick of greed. And I dare you to haunt me with debt. You think I give a flying fuck? I’m a college student. I LIVE, BREATHE, EAT, and SHIT DEBT, FUCKER.

I’m not mad because I’m poor financially, I’m mad because I hate stupidity. And the very nature of the government in terms of handling their lower class is pure ignorance.

I don’t give a shit if the NSA put me on a black list for saying that. Do it. Scan my emails while you’re at it. Scan my text messages, my voicemails, do whatever you want. And I hope you sleep well at night on your satin fucking pillows in your fucking mansion with your fake wife who’s probably been sleeping behind your back with that one tall, clean shaven black dude who cleans your pool.

Fucking crooks.

Rant: END.


Here I am at the bottom of the pit. My pile of unfinished homework broke my fall.

Who am I kidding, I can barely focus on a video at this point, how can I even make an attempt at this work? I’m feeling utterly worthless, broken, hopeless, a failure and the only thing loud enough to distract me from my pain is a pixelated hand digging tunnels underneath stone houses to block out creepers. I’ve been playing Minecraft for windows 10 for three days straight. My motivation, my willingness, my hope for the future, all my projects, my determination now lies buried beneath me in this pit with nothing but a straw to keep from suffocating.

I don’t deserve anything I have or anyone around me and at this moment I know this is true. I keep dropping things, I can’t think straight, I’m so tired, I have classes tomorrow and I just crave freedom. That’s all I want. I don’t want any responsibility, I’m not cut out for life, I’m completely and utterly useless as a citizen, as a daughter, as a girlfriend, as a friend. I don’t want to talk with crisis intervention again, those fucking people probably have dates marked on their calendar when to expect me. They probably have my mood swings graphed like a science.

It’s not an easy thing for me to express what I’m experiencing. Usually I let people tell me about themselves so I can give them advice and help them never feel like I do. This writing is very uncomfortable.

I’ll try and do some work right now but I know if I screw up on one problem I’m going to break down into more tears.

I don’t want medication. I really don’t. But I don’t know if I can accomplish what I want if I have to stop every few weeks, every month, every couple hours, every couple days to resist the urge to put a gun to my temple.

I had so many plans, so much happiness, the facade of stability again these last two weeks. I don’t know why I do that. I don’t know how I can convince myself EVERY. TIME. that I’m doing fine, that maybe I won’t fuck up again, that maybe all I need to focus on improving is my anxiety. Well here I am fucking up again. I can’t think straight. There’s a mental block. Every ounce of positivity is squandered by this unknown force and no matter how hard I dig to reach it, it keeps falling farther and farther until it’s glint fades to blackness and I’m left surrounded by the laughter of demons at my pathetic desperation.

On an average day, in an average mood, not too elevated not too depressed, I can give myself all sorts of pep talks, all sorts of positive comments on how well I’ve been doing, how well I can still do, how bright my future is. I can finish work, I can handle stress, I can do things on time.

Down here all I can do is watch. And that’s when I realize my life is just cycles of preparing for this moment. I get caught up on work, caught up on friendships, caught up on activities so when this monster hits and I’m chained in a pit, I can observe it tearing apart all my hard work, leaving behind futile scraps of what once was so I’ll always remember he’s in control of me.



So maybe I’m a little behind times but . . . uh, why is there an energy drink named 51Fifty?

I got this image on my kik this afternoon:


Today is the last day I feel like seeing some stupid shit like this. Are you 51Fifty? I’ll show them a real 51Fifty by shoving 51 of their cans up their asses. Their slogan is “Live The Madness”. Thanks for adding insult to injury.

Here’s the irony of it all: on their Facebook page they promote things like the 7th annual “Rock N’ Ride for Autism”. If I were promoting or involved with any autism awareness groups with an offer to be sponsored by this disgrace of a business, I’d send a ripe ole’ “fuck you” straight to the head of their department. The last thing people struggling with autism need is another label of crazy or mad tagged onto their already infamous labels of unsociable, weird, awkward, and retarded.

What dumbass in their meeting room suggested that name? And who’s the dumber dumbass who came up with that slogan? I’m dead serious, I want names. You can tell no one on that team of marketers has ever experienced the severity of mental illness.

And just what the actual fuck:

So smooth it’s crazy.

That commercial doesn’t even make sense. They don’t they show the reality of their label. Why not have someone running down the streets with a knife in their hand threatening to cut the chip out of their head if the government doesn’t stop reading their thoughts? Or, better yet, tell the story of the man who drove to the cliffs four minutes from my house a month or so ago, put a revolver to his temple, and blew his brains all over the cab of his truck. Put that in your fucking commercial and tell me it increases sex drive and energy.

I’ve taken statistics and I really hate bringing them into a conversation, or even thinking about them really, but 1 in 4 people live with some form of mental illness and there’s no doubt in my mind most all of them have been called “mad” or “Crazy” by someone with little understanding of what mental illness means or the mental anguish we endure just to live through another day. I know I have. I’m sick of products and people desensitizing and glorifying our reality. It’s not a joke. I laugh at some stupid shit, but I find nothing about this product entertaining.

People in their fifties don’t drink energy drinks. Teens, people in their twenties, drink energy drinks, the one group of people we need in this fight against stigma. They’re the ones who can take the stereotypes of old, disprove them, and spread the word of our reality. Thank God Girl Scouts can earn a mental health awareness badge and Thank God the International Bipolar foundation created such a thing. We need kids aware of the truth before they can walk into a gas station by themselves and buy this filthy drink. I hope it fucking tastes like the blood of a thousand suicides and a years worth of psychosis.

Carlos Vieria. Found him. He’s some race car driver who used the term 51Fifty because everyone always called him crazy. What a dumbfuck. All over the foundation website: “Race for Autism! Race for Autism!” God, does he even know how stupid he looks? Does he know what irony is? Can he spell irony? Or is that too hard of a word for him?

51fifty bs

Maybe Carlos is a nice guy. He’s just too stupid for my liking, though.

From my understanding it doesn’t have the success of Monster or Rockstar, and it shouldn’t.

I may just visit and be one of probably many who will slash their name to pieces in their face. I’m one of those people who spam emails until I get an answer. You don’t insult me without getting insulted back. Maybe that’s a bad track of mind, maybe an eye for an eye does make the whole world blind, but there are too many stupid people with the opportunity to be stupid for me to let them take both of my eyes without me taking one of theirs.

I’m tired, It’s late, and She’s Loud

Addiction runs pretty deep in my family. I’m surprised I wasn’t born with a bottle in my left hand, a meth pipe in my right, and a cigarette behind my ear.

So it’s not a shocker I’m either on or thinking about technology twenty four hours a day. I suppose it’s better than inventing a creative way to kill myself or worrying that the slight ache in my calf is a blood clot or the thumping behind my eyes is a brain tumor. I don’t even like typing this shit.

Technology is a good escape. I find connections with technology more satisfying than connections with people. If I’m on my desktop, I need to have my phone playing a video on YouTube as background noise to drown out my wandering thoughts. It’s like I never stop thinking. As good as it is for school, it sucks ass when I’m trying to relax. I don’t even know the definition of relax. My shoulders are always tense, my teeth are always clenched, my muscles are always twitching.

I wish I could be comfortable in my mind, but I can’t. And now that my moods fallen south all I can  look forward to is the berating little voices in my head. Maybe it’s wrong to want to hear degrading comments about yourself, but it’s what i’m familiar with, it’s what lulls me to sleep at night, it’s one of life’s bittersweet pleasures.

I don’t hear voices externally, I just recognize them as the little people in my head. Well . . .little person. I always see a woman with straight hair and an angry face and she’s the one shouting insults at me all the time. She doesn’t sound like me, or look like me but she comes around when I’m depressed to make sure I stay depressed. My own thoughts are drowned by the volume of hers and it only gets worse at night when I’m tired. To her, I’m a fake, a piece of shit, a fucking this, a fucking that, a failure, a bunch of things I already knew about. She’s only echoing my thoughts, I know, but these are the moments I feel myself cowering in the back corners of my mind waiting for someone to save me. I’m sick of saving myself because I always end up in the same situation.

To think, all this triggered by a few simple words in a phone conversation, words that weren’t even offensive.

I try to be positive for other people’s sake but it’s not always feasible.

Healing is a road, not a destination. And I think I’ve sunk into another pot hole from hell.

Beached Whale

I woke up like Death wakes up from a night of slamming back Jagerbombs. I mean everything ached. My phone battery died over night so my morning routine of turning off my alarms and navigating through any notifications was thwarted and I just knew today was going to be bad.

Thinking back on it, it’s that type of thinking that sends us spiraling downward. I sat through lecture on graphing and integrating Cylindrical Shells, I snickered each time the professor didn’t know how to respond to the kid behind me who blurts out random stories and tries making jokes. He seems to have some kind of high functioning autism, perhaps Aspergers. Regardless, he’s incredibly smart and he tries his best to not seem awkward (although he undoubtedly does). He was in my Calc class the previous semester as well, and our former professor knew how to keep him laughing, knew how to keep him interested, and was always clever enough to come back with a creative answer and still keep the class on track. This professor . . . not so much. It’s sad really.

I blame it on the fact that he’s actually a physicist, not a mathematician. He takes everything so literal, and then makes corny ass jokes and expects us to laugh with him.

So I’m not as “up” or happy as I have been these last few weeks, and I’m not sure why. The emptiness just crept back into my life after vacationing in the Bahamas or something. See, even my jokes are going south.

All my energy went into a paper for my Native American Literature class, knowing I’d have to speak about it to a group. Instead, we were instructed to read it. It was in groups of four, my limit of people before I get truly uncomfortable and keep my eyes to floor and barely prove I’m alive or breathing. Now, I’m fully aware that I have a skill for writing. I understand how to integrate ideas, I understand word placement, smooth diction, creative syntax, proper punctuation (most of the time) especially in an educational environment or in fiction, and I understand that others struggle with it. But I have to say, their struggle is my gain . . . in self confidence, that is.

My thoughts aren’t scattered on paper. Once they’re plotted on the printer paper or penciled in, they can’t go anywhere. I have to take my time on things. I can’t sit in the third row of class like that random guy, blurt jokes about cheese, tell stories about being in the forest, and then just watch as the professor writes things on the board and never have to take notes. I have to go over the notes several times before I can envision a washer rotating around the y-axis. I mean, shit, they could have put a warning on the description of the class that you need a masters degree in 3D rendering or else your up shit creek with no paddle.

Are you kidding me? That cone is like three years of art school for me.

I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. That shit got me fucked up. That’s what the hip people of today say, right? I don’t know, I’m an outsider. I’m the one sitting on the corner with her knees to her chest and her head on her knee caps with her eyes closed, lost in the vastness of her own mind. Oh, and she twitches occasionally. I twitch.

For anyone suffering under stress or mental health, I think the most important thing they could do for themselves is find an outlet. Running, hiking, reading, writing, singing, painting, screaming, whatever. I think it’s essential. When I was on medication I spent days crying because I couldn’t form a single creative thought in my mind. Everything was dulled. Fuck that shit. I’d rather be running through the streets naked with a squirrel skin on my head screaming “eht dne si raen!” than have the vivid imagination in my head be stolen from me like that ever again.

But writing, I have a voice. I have an opinion and it’s valid. I can’t stumble over words already smooth on a page. If I stumble in my speech, oh well, the words are there to guide me. And tonight when the professor stood by our group listening to my entire paper, the only one he took the time to listen to fully and compliment (yes, I’m tooting my own horn, fucking deal with it) it helped me see my voice does have a place in society. I don’t read my work out loud very often because the words feel foreign on my tongue. When I speak freestyle, my words are choppy, my face is read, my confidence dwindles, my thoughts scatter and I crumble, so hearing such coherent words come from my mouth is an odd experience. A good kind of odd. A kind of odd that says, yes, you have a tiny bit of intelligence there.

The group got a little intimidated and the one girl didn’t want to read her paper after mine, but I’m used to that response by now. I was reading 8th grade level in elementary, 12th grade level in 8th grade, and my writing accompanied in the success. It’s one of my talents. I actually have a talent.

For someone with social anxiety, writing was always my way of communication. It’s how I asked teachers questions, it’s how they asked me questions, it’s how they learned I wasn’t some mentally challenged mute with the I.Q of a left foot.

I’m too tired to think. This post probably has the attractiveness of a beached whale. I feel a wave of negative emotions washing over me tonight. I think I’m going to numb myself with some computer games. It’s more socially acceptable than punching someone in the face.

Although punching sounds nice.

At least flick someone’s cheek.

I know, too much violence, I really need to quit.

You’re Insane

“You’re so Bipolar!”

I can’t believe people still say that. Is that still an “in” thing? Is saying “in thing” still an “in” thing?

It’s a little offensive, not that that’s stopped anyone before. It’s offensive because it simplifies something complicated, something that actually consumes people’s lives. It’s not a meme that circulates the internet for a few weeks then disappears into the black hole of the Deep Web.

In High School I tried confiding in a few close friends of some issues I’d been having (#mistake) and from then on whenever I said something random or laughed at something they didn’t find funny or hid in the bushes and scared the shit out of them they’d call me “schizo”. The main problem with that is I’m not schizophrenic. I kept telling them to quit it but come on, teenagers aren’t going to listen to other teenagers’ logic, especially when they barely listen to adults. It wasn’t offensive to me, they could call me whatever they wanted I didn’t care, but it was offensive to the unseen masses who actually suffer from it on a day to day basis. When I asked them what schizophrenia was they couldn’t give an answer. But then again, most teenagers probably couldn’t even spell it.

I still get it from time to time if something I do or say seems odd to them and I’ve been out of high school for three years. I guess that’s not very long. Regardless, it seems like it’s plenty of time for people to get educated on the words flying out of their mouth.

I think what bothers me the most is that they associate frightening or confusing or odd behavior (as according to them) with mental disorders. It bothers me even more so that the majority of the information we hear about mental health on the television is either in crime or . . . crime. “Hey you hear about that guy who killed those women and hid them in his basement?” “Oh yeah, the schizo guy right?”

Come on people, you really need a scapegoat that bad? You can’t fathom that someone without mental illness could commit a crime? Anyone could. You’re capable of murder. You are. Just accept it.

Not saying killing women and stuffing them in a basement is “normal”, but it’s definitely not a characteristic of schizophrenia. Not many people with schizophrenia are violent. If they are it’s usually because they think they’re being persecuted and they’re legitimately frightened. Are you telling me if you knew absolutely that someone was trying to kill you that you’re just going to lay on your back and smile as they hammer your face in? Get real people.

Someone’s going to kill me. Cool.

That’s the problem. It’s not stressed enough to the public that what sounds irrational to the public, is real to them. The same goes for anxiety, depression, bipolar, everything. I legitimately feel that people are talking about me when I walk into a room. I get anxious. I want to leave. I sweat. I fidget. I forget English and instead speak a mix of Russian, German, Icelandic and Dog. People tell me I overreact and that’s true, my body and my brain does overreact. But it’s real nonetheless. People, in this country particularly need to get over the individualistic manifesto stuck in their subconscious; it makes them feel the world revolves around them. If it’s not real in their eyes it’s not real to anyone. “If I’m not homeless there’s no reason that man should be homeless, he’s just lazy.” “I get depressed too, just get over it”.

Sorry to say you’re not a God. Other people actually experience things outside of you, hardships even. A shocker, right? It’s just so insane.

It’s like no matter which way you turn you’re fucked. If you have anxiety or depression you’re going to be ignored or seen as lazy. If you experience psychosis, you’re a killer. I could spend hours and hours talking about the sociological contributions to stigma, about self-stigma, about stigma as a whole and the president of the united states could read it and make a law against stigma and it still wouldn’t matter. It’s ingrained in our society. Humans judge all the time, we’ll never get around that. So why try and change what they think? Saying to them “it’s offensive to say crazy and here’s why:” has about the same effect on them as them saying “stop being so depressed” to us.

Focus on yourself, that’s my advice. There is such a thing as self-stigma. When you get a diagnosis your subconscious understands what society thinks about that diagnosis and you know what? It’ll make your symptoms worse. It will. You’ll think you’re more depressed after the diagnosis than before the diagnosis and all of a sudden you can’t force yourself out of bed like you used to try. Because what’s the point. You have depression. You’re ill, right? The pills are supposed to get you up, aren’t they?

All this coming from someone whose medication never worked. So my opinion is mildly biased.

What ever happened to psychologists focusing on symptoms mainly? (*cough*Insurance companies happened *cough*). Who cares about the category it’s placed into; focus on how to treat the individual symptoms, the things the client complains about. The things that are actually disturbing their life.

I’m not completely against diagnosis. I mean . . . it’s good for communication between doctors. You know, helps them separate the schizos from the manics from the depressives, from the self-harmers from all the normies.

If stigma effects the public this bad, think how the doctors respond. Yep, you guessed right, their views change after diagnosis as well. No one is immune. It’s a disease. A contagious disease. I call it . . . Stigbola. It’s not from the jungles of Africa though. It nestles in the human body, welds itself to words, and rides from person to person, building its own little personal army. It can’t kill you, but it can kill whoever you come in contact with. It has a life-long incubation period. They’ll never see it coming. They’ll never even know it’s there. It’s the arachnid of human behavior. It’ll be sitting right by your face, it’ll crawl right in your ear, it’ll nestle in your mouth while you’re sleeping and you’ll never know.

So I say to my present, past, and future psychologists and doctors what I said to my friends when I was fifteen: You can call me whatever you want, I don’t care, just don’t fuck me over.

I Am NOT Whatever You Say I Am

There are those little moments in time where you go somewhere, or something happens to you, or someone says something to you where you know it’s just changed your life. Good or bad, the fact remains that you’ll never be the same.

I don’t know much about my Cherokee heritage which is really sad when you think about it. The blood comes from my father’s side of the family and they live miles from me. My anxiety keeps me from communicating with them so I’ve never had to chance to ask about the woman holding me as a child with the two long braids and the drooping face and the flawless brown skin. All I know is that she’d my great-grandmother.

There were times throughout my childhood I met other people with native blood and they’d live in the hills with their dogs and their wolf skins on the walls and their sacred music and sacred prayers. I was fascinated by it. So I’m in the one Native American Literature class on my college campus (you know, amid the several dozens of Hispanic history, Chinese history, and american history classes) and so far it’s great.

Now, let’s get one thing straight. I’m of mixed race and when I say it pisses me off that there’s nothing geared towards African American’s or Native Americans (both a part of me) and that most of the attention goes towards Hispanics or male engineers, would you call me racist and sexist?

Most people would.

But let’s be honest. It’s not racism, it’s a fucking fact. I live in a town with a high population of Hispanics. My boyfriend is Mexican. I don’t have a problem with that. I have a problem with being ignored and disrespected.

Because I never knew much about my culture, I never celebrated anything, never learned about it, never instilled a pride in myself for not being like everyone else and it’s never been publicized that I should have pride in it. People say “hey, you might as well be Mexican” since I have the same skin tone and you know what? Fuck that. It’s offensive. Don’t walk up to me and start speaking Spanish like you know who I am, like you know where my family is from, like you know anything at ALL about me. I’m not being RACIST, I have no PREJUDICE against these people, I absolutely ADORE their culture, I adore ALL cultures, but you walking up to me and not bothering to be polite in questioning my ethnicity or respecting my culture is fucking disgusting. The fact that I have never paid respects to my own culture is also disgusting.

I have social anxiety disorder as part of my diagnosis and a lot of it is contributed to the fact that I never thought of myself as important, even as a child. In pre-school and kindergarten who were the ones in my classes? Hispanics and Whites. There were no mixed races, there was no one to tell me hey, you’re included too, you’re important, join us! I knew from a very young age I didn’t belong.

So, to Donald Trump I say get the fuck off my land. Go back to where you came from. No one wants you here. How dare you tell someone from Mexico to leave, how dare you claim they “rape our women” when your people had your way with my people’s women. Native people hold their women high with respect. Elder women watch over the chiefs. Society ran smoothly; no one was better than anyone. It’s people like him (PEOPLE not WHITES) who contribute to the reason why a lot of women are depressed, why a lot of women feel their PLACE is to be in a home. If you love being at home, if that’s where you feel comfortable that’s wonderful, but if you feel like you HAVE to be, that’s what I call a social constriction.

You think depression is 100% due to a chemical imbalance? Open a history book. There’s a reason anti-depressants aren’t a cure. And it’s not just because the brain is “complicated”. It’s not a friends-with-benefits relationship.

I’m still learning to accept myself. And tonight, when my professor said “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk in the groups, listening is an excellent form of communication. We need good listeners” I knew I’d landed myself in yet another class that I would come out from as a different person. No one’s ever told me that who I am is okay. I’ve told myself that but half of the time I don’t give a shit what I say, especially to myself. But to hear it out in the open, to hear that I’m an important part of society BECAUSE of who I am, not because of who I’m trying to be or who other people think I am, really hit home.

I have no desire to make friends. I really don’t. I want to be able to communicate with people in society because I know I need to have the skills. But I like myself as I am, I always have. I just didn’t know that was okay.

To everyone struggling with anxiety, depression, schizophrenia, bipolar, borderline personality, whatever; WE NEED YOU. We need that hyper-awareness in generalized anxiety; you could save someone’s life someday noticing something they don’t. How many of the world’s most brilliant writers, visual artists, and actors have depression, schizophrenia or bipolar? We NEED these creative minds in our world. They show us true human genius. And I’m not saying we need you because of your “disorder”, I’m saying we need you because of who you ARE. Who the hell decided these things are illnesses? I didn’t tell myself I was ill, someone else told me. In fact, I’ve never told myself I have mental illnesses. Because that’s subjective. What I define illness as might be entirely different than my doctor’s textbook definition of illness. And that’s fine. You know why? Words change over time and so do their definitions. In fifty years ADHD won’t be in the DSM, it’ll be the new normal. If your kid is too quiet, if they don’t like staring at multiple screens or jumping out of their seat in school, if they can only focus on one thing at a time then, then there will be something wrong with them.

It’ll be called Non-Disruptive Disorder.

I’m not ill. There are things I could improve for my own personal gain and that’s all I’m focused on. Fuck your medication, fuck your labels (except for insurance purposes, I’d like my treatment to be paid for please) and fuck your idea of normal.

I’ve never really declared who I am because I thought it never mattered. But it does. I’m a Polish, Cherokee, African American woman with fluffy ass poodle hair, a loud laugh, odd beliefs, crazy anxieties, awkward mood swings, and still I’m okay with me. Are you okay with you?

Best Buy, You Sneaky Bastard!

You’re supposed to give praise to the good things in your life and accept the bad things. But I swear to God Best Buy has it out for me. When I was sixteen and was offered a television for my birthday, I found the perfect 32 inch in Best Buy: it wasn’t in stock. Whenever I find the perfect deal online, they’re suddenly sold out. And now that I had finally, successfully, completed a $653.83 purchase for a new computer for school (sale price was 599) I get an email today saying my order is canceled because my credit card didn’t go through. Two days before it was supposed to be delivered.

Now, before I called bullshit and stormed my ass all the way down to Best Buy to have a little chat with their store manager who was probably sitting up in the top booth overlooking the store, licking his lips and readying his lotion bottle, just waiting someone to pay $1999.99 for a MacBook so he could get off on their frivolous spending, I called customer service. And here’s a little secret: if you want everything to work out in your favor, be POLITE. I know, such a foreign word these days. But a little patience pays off. Those people are stressed so much during the day, they deal with so much bullshit and people blaming them for things they didn’t do that sometimes it’s refreshing to get a caller who says “thank you” whenever they do a service or speaks to them like another human being.

They were supposed to send the email out much sooner–I ordered six days ago and only received the email today at 1:29 pm. I responded at seven pm and that was when I learned my order got cancelled. All I have to say to that bullshit is . . . you know Best Buy, it’s one thing to not have something in stock, it’s a whole other thing not to wine and dine a person before they get FUCKED.

Now, I can’t blame them entirely. My college bank got all paranoid on me, put a hold on my card, and were the ones to cancel the order. I barely got the call today and lifted the hold as soon as I learned. It was too late, I guess. The two women I spoke to were very helpful. They found out I was also charged for an item that was supposed to be free, so they refunded me the $30 and the $653 which should both be back in my account by Monday. They gave me a case number so that when I decide to order again, I’ll be able to get the computer for the sales price. I think that was very gracious of them and I couldn’t thank them enough. I wrote down every word they said, the time, screenshotted the email’s on my phone and have the case number all ready so when I call back and some stuck up motherfucker answers saying “we can’t do that” i’ll say both the women’s names, tell him what they said, send him a screenshot if necessary, and get my fucking money’s worth.

I just need to breathe. I’m a computer fanatic and was so looking forward to unwinding this weekend with a brand new device and just enjoying life. But that won’t fucking happen.

But it’s all going to be okay. I’ll get the computer, I’ll pay with a different card if I must, and I’ll get what I need regardless.

The best part of my day was seeing my new psychologist. She’s absolutely amazing. I mean, I was thoroughly surprised. As soon as she rolled her eyes and said she doesn’t give out “homework” and make you practice “coping skills” with a sheet, I knew she was the one for me. I hated that shit, it never worked. And although I’m not quite sure I conveyed my actual issues with her just yet, it is just the first session, so maybe the next one I can dive a little further into the darker portions of my mind and get her opinion on it. Maybe by then I’ll have my fucking computer.

I guess I could spend my time doing homework this weekend. That’s . . . that’s probably a good idea.

This was a rant. I’m still majorly pissed.