Don’t Shoot Me Bro

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Thank you to everyone who shared their experiences and made me feel not so crazy and not so stupid over yesterday’s post. I feel a lot better now about the whole Christmas thing. When I mean I feel better, I just mean the thoughts aren’t circulating as much.

Besides, I’ve got some pretty good ideas of something special I want to do for my boyfriend. It requires I get some kind of job and save money, so there’s my other big motivation to keep job searching. I don’t know if I want to do it on a holiday or just because. I’ll probably do it just because and surprise the hell out of him.

I won’t say much more on that, because if he’s reading this, he just found out about it.

I kind of already let it slip anyway because I was so excited. I didn’t tell him what, just that I was planning something. So it could come at him and any time and he’ll never have expected it.

Ever.

EVER.

Everyone shhhhh!!!!! Don’t say anything to him.

Enough about that. I’m writing right now because of what I saw.

I take dreams very seriously. I don’t think they predict the future or anything slightly, ahem, *magical* or whatever it’s call in psychology. Odd beliefs? Whatever. All my thoughts are magical because I’m fairy bitch, so step on.

That’s what I’d tell a psychologist.

Watch, when I’m licensed someone is actually going to say something similar to that and I’m going to have to resist the urge to high-five the fuck out of them.

I’ll probably high-five the fuck out of them.

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Hmm. What was I talking about? This song I’m listening to is FIRE ya’ll.

DREAMS.

That’s right.

I had two separate dreams but they kind of merge into one in my awake brain right now. I was living on my own. I don’t know where my boyfriend lived, but it wasn’t with me, and yet we were shopping together–probably because I have trouble going into grocery stores by myself. I was having trouble deciding what I wanted to eat. He suggested tacos so I was running around getting lettuce and tomatoes and cheese. Americanized tacos, alright? I like my fucking cheese.

Then fast forward to something else.

I was not myself on the outside, but I was in the mind of whoever this was. They were in the library of a school trying to find a place to sit. I mean, it was packed too. People were sitting everywhere and the tables were set up to where you could get trapped behind them. In the back was a little cubby where you could take a nap if you needed to. I found a tiny desk that I could pick up and move towards the center of the room, a place where the desk could fit without disturbing people. The librarian was smiling and everyone was talking, and had I been able to sit down I think I would have done some homework.

Something popped outside. Once. Twice, three times. I stared at the people around me and they stared back and I knew what it was: a shooter.

happy-facemaskThree of them, I think. One was in some kind of Ronald McDonald’s mask, the other two were characters from some kind of movie. I forget which one. But it was very specific. Some of us headed for the gym before anyone had the chance to come after us and there we locked the doors. We could hear the screams and the shots and everything was muffled compared to the heart beating in my throat and ears and behind my eyes.

I couldn’t see the fear on everyone else’s face, not even the teachers who were cowering just as much as we all were, but I could feel their terror. It wasn’t a dream that I was floating above just observing, I was fully immersed in it. My muscles were aching even though I wasn’t moving, I was afraid to open my mouth in case there was someone outside of the doors, I was thinking “my God what if I don’t make it out alive? What if I get shot?” followed by the primal instinct thoughts of “don’t get shot, don’t get shot”

Everyone likes to think they’d be some kind of hero in these situations but the truth is you’re thinking about yourself. You have a right to. It’s about survival.

The people who do enact courageous acts are not all acting by choice, a lot of it is instinct, survival instinct, the kind of instinct that lets one lioness attack an intruder and another lioness join in on the fight. We’re all one in the same species, we have a desire to survive and survival means protecting ourselves and protecting others. In our eyes they’re heros. In Nature’s eyes, they’re doing their job.

So before you’re so quick to say “oh yeah, I’d help” or, “oh hell no, I’d get the fuck out of there”, know you can’t possibly know the answer until you’re in the situation.

Anyway, the McDonald’s looking motherfucker burst through the doors and I remember her voice–it sounded like a girl behind that mask–screaming at people something along the lines of “this is what you all wanted, how do you like me now, yada, yada, yada.” I can’t remember her exact words because I couldn’t hear them; her friends were outside shooting other people.

I got out of the gym. I don’t know who else did, but I got the fuck out. Outside bullets were flying and I was ducking with my head and trying to find a road or something to get off the school property. My thoughts were to alert other people in the area, if they didn’t already know. The school was targeted, we were already in the midst of the violence, I couldn’t do anything about that. But for the people on the outside who might be in their houses with sound proof walls or something, I think it would be fair for them to know there are three gunman with the mentality warped enough to burst down everyone’s door and make it a true massacre.

And, in case no one had a chance to call the authorities. Outside help would be perfect.

1678Then I woke up sweating and heart beating and heart deeply saddened. I don’t know if any other shootings have been going on, I don’t have cable and I don’t look up the news because I hate a lot of the news stations. Besides Russia Today. They’re pretty truthful. The Young Turks on YouTube often have some good news stories to spend a few minutes discussing.

Anyway, I don’t know what this dream was for. Was it because I’d temporarily forgotten about all the horror that’s been going on? Is it there to remind me to never forgot? Because that’s what seems to have happened. People say “that’s horrible, oh my Gosh”. Then another shooting happens. “Oh my, this is getting worse”. and then another and another and not one person in power has taken much initiative to dig deep in the soiled pit of American histories and futures and presents and pull out a good explanation for all of this. It’s not bullying, it’s not rap music, it’s not metal music, it’s not mental “illness”, it’s not any one thing.

It’s a lot of things.

It’s how we raise our kids. It’s what they learn from the world around them. It’s what we’ve done in our past and what we’re doing in the present. It’s that facade we have around us thinking “we’re so free, and we’re one of the wealthiest country in the world, we’ve got the biggest military, we’re living much better than other countries, especially those third world bitches, God Bless America . . .” It’s that idea that we’re not racist, we’re not sexist, we’re not anything but The Pursuit of Happiness and Freedom, as said by whatever sheep of a president we have in the white house.

I’ve always liked Obama, and not because he’s “black”. But every president is a sheep.

The point is, we like to project an idea of “we’re okay, we’re progressive and we’re doing good” but the reality of it is hidden in the shooters and the hate crimes and the police and all of it. That’s America at it’s finest right now. You’re only as good as your worst citizen. 

We have a lot of work to do. In policy, in truth, in education, with our Youth, with our elders, with everyone. Shooters aren’t going to magically disappear because you lock up everyone with mental health issues. Prison isn’t going to solve anything. Therapy isn’t going to solve anything. It has to be worked out as a whole.

Sometimes I wish this country wasn’t so large. It’s hard to get an entire nation of this size to come together. There’s just too many different opinions and ways of life and ingrained ideas of the world and the self.

Anyway, that dream was a reminder, I think. Never forget.

When someone shoots up a school I’m sad for the families who have to live with that forever, I’m sad for the kids whose life ended way too short, but mostly I’m depressed over the fact that we’ve done this to ourselves.

I’m a part of the shooter, a part of the victims, a part of the families and a part of the society which grieves for the behavior, shuns it, blames it on disturbed mental health and selfishness, and then forgets. I’m a part of it all and so is everyone else. But they don’t see that.

One day I’ll list some of the dreams I had. The robbery ones were crazy. And the guy I stabbed.

Anyway, just some thoughts for today.

Rant: END.

 

 

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A Classic Christmas Ending

You know that moment when you think Christmas is pretty much over and you’re alright with everything that went down? And then your boyfriend comes over and the PS4 he bought you and you get zapped into another dimension fighting alien bird things like what the fuck just happened?

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I did not expect that.

I love it. I mean, I didn’t know how to feel when I saw it.

That’s some money right there.

I spent well over a hundred on his but that’s nothing compared to the system brand new.  That’s one thing that’s hard about Christmas: when someone gives you a gift that’s worth a couple hundred more than yours and you’re like shit, I owe you a two hundred dollar gift now.

For someone like me, who’s inclined to believe she does everything wrong, it makes me feel like I’ve done something horribly wrong.

I know I haven’t. I know it’s the thought that counts. I know I have to personalize all my gifts and that’s why I spent eight hours working on the photos that went into the gift I got.

But it still feels like I didn’t do enough, not compared to a PS4.

I absolutely love this gift, it’s the best thing I’ve gotten for Christmas since I got my PS3.

But accepting it is hard. It’s hard for me to accept when people give me nice things. I don’t think there’s any way in hell I deserve any part of it. I end up thinking there’s nothing I can do to repay for my mistakes I mean . . . there just isn’t.

I get this from my dad and my depressive nature. He does the same things sometimes. He never buys anything for us during Christmas, mostly because he has no money, so when we give him things he sometimes goes into a rage. This Christmas he didn’t. No drinking, no anything, and when I presented him with the hand made drum I bought him he was ecstatic. At least I did one thing right today.

Of course I’m happy. Today has been amazing and it still is amazing.

But I feel so guilty. And like a complete idiot.

I mean obviously you can’t predict people’s gifts–well, I guess you can, every other year my mother buys me socks, but that’s besides the point.

This year was one of those years. I got a packet of socks. And this Chromebook.

But I can’t deny I needed socks. Every other year I’m completely out because I’ve lost them all. Where the hell do they go? I have no idea.

The point is, I’m an idiot who knows she’s not an idiot but feels like a complete jackass idiot.

I just suck at doing things right, I think. I don’t mean for this to be a whiny post, although I can feel a bit of a rant coming. I’m just trying to tell the truth. I try to do things right but then I end up fucking up and making myself look stupid and sometimes I wish I could read people’s minds just so I’m absolutely sure everyone’s talking shit about me and my stupidity.

At least then I’ll know for sure. I’d always rather know for sure than to have to teeter back and forth between “yes, they’re thinking good things!” to “no, oh my God, you made an ass of yourself, they’re laughing at you” every other minute.

I’m probably not going to be able to sleep tonight.

And it’s not going to be because I’m playing video games.

Alright, it might partially be because I’m playing video games.

But it’s also because I just suck. I do. Sometimes I feel like I act like such an idiot and do the most stupidest things that I should just stick a gun to my head for being so damn dumb. Like . . . that’s the punishment. You’re so stupid, you just need to shoot yourself. Your stupidity is overwhelming the rest of society.

That’s just how it feels when I convince myself I’m doing everything wrong.

Obviously if I was going to shoot myself in the head, I would have done it by now.

I don’t even know how to get a gun.

They got airsoft guns at Big 5 but I don’t think that’ll do the job.

It’s good to get this kind of stuff out of yourself before it mucks up your senses. I know I’m not a horrible person, even though I feel like it, and I know I’m not stupid, even though I feel like it. It’s just a feeling. And tomorrow it might still be here, and the next day and the next and it might even stay until I give him something of equal or more value.

But when you think about it, it really comes down to money. I put a lot of thought and time into my gift–so did the people who assembled it–so hopefully that makes up for the extra two hundred, three hundred dollars that he spent over me.

I just don’t think I deserve it, that’s the main problem. I mean, what have I done? What do I do besides sit behind my computer and fill out applications no one ever takes me serious on? I don’t leave my house because it’s hard, I don’t shop for myself because it’s hard, I don’t like to be around people because it’s hard (and exhausting). i mean really, what do I do to deserve anything decent at all? Literally nothing.

That’s why I think people call me a loser, because I kind of am one. It’s probably a subconscious thought floating around my head.

Then I think about shooting myself in the head because I feel like I’ve been a cheap jerk even though–hey, it wasn’t cheap alright. That was most of my budget. But regardless of the money, I feel cheap and stupid and it makes me want to shoot myself even though I’m so happy with what I’ve got and how today has went. I mean, that’s the hallmark of a loser, right?

Ugh.

Calling yourself a loser is something a loser does as well. So I mean, I prove my point pretty fiercely.

If anything, he deserves the whole world and a lot better than me. 

Tell me how much of a loser I am in the comments.

No, really, I’m not being sarcastic. I need to know it. Maybe it’ll motivate me to not be a loser.

Who am I kidding? HA!!!!!!!!!!! Once a loser, always a loser.

There are days and times I’m just overwhelmed with the amount of things that hold me back–the anxiety, the depression, the introverted nature that makes me want to ignore the real world and live in my head, and I know they come with disadvantages and I know those disadvantages are why I consider myself a loser. It all makes perfect sense. It’s a full circle.

I’m working on them but it’s not going to be instantaneous. It’s going to be months, years. Honest to God, even though I’m not religiously affiliated, I think–I know–my boyfriend deserves much better than me. It’s not because of tonight. It’s just because of everything.

I’m just a fuck-up.

I thought it was a lie when people said it’s hard to love someone else when you don’t love yourself. It really is. How are you supposed to accept them and love them and let them in when you can’t do any of that to yourself?

I don’t ever want to leave him. But I don’t know why he doesn’t want to leave me. What is so special about me? I’m funny yeah, but I’m a loser! I just don’t get it. I’m really, genuinely shocked.

On another note, at least I don’t fuck up on games. Speaking of which, this one looks fun as shit. I am the happiest, saddest girl on earth right now. I’m going to murder fools in this game like no fools have ever been murdered in a game before.

L.O.L at these downloads though. Had to do a system update, except, with the internet speed of my phone, it would have taken nine hours. So I download it for PC. With the internet speed from my phone it would have taken 4 hours. So I had to get another free hour of Gay ass Xfinity Wifi from Comcast to download the Ps4 update, put it on my flashdrive, upload the update to the PS4 through the flashdrive, and then let it restart.

Even my new toy is telling me I’m fucking up tonight.

I just can’t stand myself sometimes. I should probably change that since, you know, I have to live with myself for the rest of my life.

 

Christmas And The Internet

 

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Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate such things. Happy holidays to those who don’t, and happy Solstice to everyone. Yay, the sun is coming back.

I am now a proud owner of a ChromeBook.

I hated them when they first came out until I saw how useful it could be for school. Since my old laptop currefntly has two broken legs, a fractured wrist, and part of its brain is soft and squishy, I knew I’d need something a little more portable and practical than my 24in desktop. It’s 18 pounds. I refuse to be this person:

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I have a 10 inch, the size I wanted. It flips backwards with a touch screen to go into tablet mode and it’ll come in handy for my online class.

The irony of it all? I don’t have a stable internet connection. I just think it’s funny I get technology that relies on the internet I don’t have.

I’m using it to type this post and honestly I’m impressed with how smooth the keyboard is. Although the screen is smaller than your average laptop I can see things just as clearly. I don’t need giant screens.

One complaint I always had with my laptop was when I sat at desks in public places, I felt like everyone was staring at my screen. Not the people who glance and walk past, but like people set up chairs behind me just to watch.

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Exactly Like This

With this thing I can at least block the screen.

Hackers. They’re all hackers, I swear.

Enough paranoia. Here’s why you should get a Chromebook for this coming semester/quarter/year/for your kid you don’t want to buy a 500 dollar laptop for.

And that’s my main goal: it’s much cheaper. You don’t need to buy all the subscriptions that come with laptops. Do you remember the days you could walk into an electronic store and buy a computer pre-loaded with Microsoft office? Remember when you had to put a product key in your office account within thirty days before it expired so you could use word? Remember when you didn’t have to pay for annual subscriptions? Remember when things made fucking sense?

I don’t like that they raised the price on the electronics, took everything important off them, and then still make you buy subscriptions. I think it’s a joke, it’s a scam, and if I don’t need it for work purposes or school purposes, there’s no way in hell I’m going to pay 600$ for something worth 200.

I don’t care if I put the dollar sign on the wrong side. I type it how I say it. Six Hundred Dollars.

 

hqdefault2Why complain about not having Microsoft word installed on a Chromebook when there’s a little thing called Word Online. If you didn’t know, now you know. It’s not as fucking horrible as Google Docs and you can basically do everything word does, except for free. And save it online. Where it will never be a corrupted file. It might get stolen by internet hackers but dude, no one wants your fucking history notes.

If you have a dropbox, it’s even easier to transfer and edit documents online with Microsoft Word for free. 

Have kids? Have 12 year olds? Don’t want them watching a lot of porn? Get a Chromebook.

Have kids who like to play video games on their computer instead of doing homework? Get a Chromebook. Bitches won’t be playin’ no games. Not unless they can handle some serious lag.

Don’t think your ten year old needs electronics to live by? Already mad your brother bought her an Iphone? Does she need to be on Google Classroom for her school because apparently that’s a thing now? Get her a Chromebook. There’s an app for that.

6a00e5536443eb88330147e384504b970bWhy do little kids have Iphones? Don’t give me that “they need a way to get in contact with me” bullshit. Listen. When I was eleven we were homeless and lived in a different town–same county, different town. I went to school in my home town area and often had to walk places to meet my parents to pick me up or went to friends houses until I could get picked up. They bought me a phone so I could stay in contact with them. Sure, this was before fancy touch screens but I didn’t get no Motorola Razor, I got a prepaid cell phone where you had to buy minute cards from Valero.

Because that’s what you give to fucking kids. Phones that aren’t going to make deficits in their attention when they’re in high school.

“My kid is going to be made fun of if they don’t have a phone!”

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Just . . . shut . . . shut the fuck up and get off Earth. Get. Off. Don’t come back until you get a new brain.

Do people not realize what frame rates do to developing brains? You’re teaching them to multitask and not in a good way–too many fast things. Even I notice a difference in myself compared to people barely ten years older than me. I’m jumping around from topic to topic, I’m doing about ten different things on three different devices at once.

Imagine that in your thirteen year old, but ten times worse.

Whatever.

See, I went on a whole tangent and I was talking about fucking Chromebooks.

best-samsung-chromebook-2-11-inch-laptopChromebooks are slim and easily portable.

They take care of all your school needs without any subscriptions.

No, they will not be powerful like your laptop, so don’t post an online review complaining about it. If you don’t understand the specifications of 2ghz and such when you’re reading about them, either do some research or don’t buy it. Don’t consider it a bad product because you’re a fucking idiot.

Taking online classes? Perfect. That’s what I wanted mine for.

Easy access to dropbox/cloud documents. Edit and share documents anywhere.

Eye hackers who gawk at your screen will have to squint and that will give you time to block your screen and whip your head around at them and hiss.

There are some Chromebooks the size of laptops, but . . . that kind of defeats the purpose. Unless you need larger print and webpages for visual reasons.

If you go to school, these are a must. If you don’t think your child needs a piece of high tech technology (you’re absolutely right), this is the perfect beginning device for them. Don’t want them on it all night? Turn off the internet.

maxresdefault2There are simple ways to keep your kids from getting addicted to technology. You just have to be smart about how you buy. Chromebooks are stylish and cute so your kid won’t be made fun of, if you’re one of those superficial people, but they also keep their focus directed on one thing. And like I said, just turn off the modem if you don’t want them on it. They won’t be able to do jack shit.

That’s supposedly a lot of complaints is that it only runs on the internet but think about it . . .what do you do when you get on your desktop? Laptop? Probably Facebook. So . . . what are you complaining about?

Perfect for school. Need to save a bunch of pictures and documents and shit like that? Well, save up your money and buy a laptop. Need something cheaper and more practical because you’re a broke college student eating Ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Get a Chromebook.

Mine resembles a Macbook. So I mean, fool your friends.

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Except that it says Asus.

So I mean . . .

Fool people for .1 second.

Hope everyone is finding some way to enjoy their holidays.

Shout Out to all the ten year olds with Iphones this Christmas. Congratulations, your high school years will be hell when you realize books don’t have apps built into the pages.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree . . . Yo Lights Be Fucked Up Doe

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I guess I’ll jump on the band wagon. It’s rude not too, right?

Happy holidays, Merry Christmas–it’s getting close to Kwanzaa so happy early Kwanzaa and for those who celebrate Hanukkah, sorry I didn’t wish it earlier because I know it ended on the 14th, so Happy late Hanukkah. Just in case any of my followers are Jewish or African.

There’s probably so many more holidays, so happy every celebration ever to all cultures, even the ones content in the mountains void of Wifi and television and plumbing and Old Navy.

winter-solstice-greetings-cardsYo, happy Winter Solstice.

Is that a thing we wish? Happy Winter Solstice? It should be.

I guess this is why people say “happy holidays”.

People who say Happy Christmas make me giggle. To an American ear used to hearing “Merry”, “Happy” just sounds weird.

Holidays are usually rocky at my house. If you’re used to fighting and rampant alcoholism and drunken arguments and just a general dullness over the whole “holiday spirit” thing, just know you’re not alone. I prefer my holidays to be calm and boring. Presents are nice, chocolate are nice, but I don’t go out of my way to make people happy because it’s the holidays. Do that everyday.

If you’re used to giant parties and huge family get-togethers and wonderful time with the ones you love, I wish you all the best. I wish you days filled with happiness and peace and joy. Thank you to the people who kindly donated presents for kids in foster care and kids too poor to get jack shit (one holiday last year or the year before I got shampoo. I honestly wasn’t expecting anything, not being as broke as we were). Thank you to the people sending out your wishes to people who don’t have what you have, to all the kids with Cancer and terminal illness who might be experiencing their last Holiday season right now, to all the adults with Cancer and terminal illness who might be experiencing their last Holiday season as well.

Thank you for people who have the time and money to donate to hospitals and services that treat these kind of people since, you know, the government and other billionaires don’t give two shits.

amazon-smile-logoIf you haven’t already, sign up for smile.amazon.com if you shop online often. It doesn’t send very much of your money to the charities of your choosing, but it sends a little bit and every little bit counts. Hopefully this isn’t like Jared from Subway’s scam he had with the charities who just stole all the money. Hopefully Amazon is true to their word because I’ve been signed up for a year and spent ample amounts of money. I regret that I didn’t do with this last purchase.

Apparently a woman in my area got kicked out of a house she rented three or so months ago. Her son has Cerebral Palsy and requires medical equipment on the daily, particularly a breathing machine to help clear his lungs. They were living on a camp ground for a while and running it off a generator but some assholes in the camp ground were complaining about the noise the generator made (like seriously? Grow the fuck up. Get some ear plugs, the kid will die without that shit. People are complete idiots.) and the park rangers had to kick them out. A family looking to rent a vacation rental in my town heard of the woman, bought a house, and now rents it to her for a very low rate and told her she can live there as long as she wishes.

Beautiful holiday story, right?

I wonder if it wasn’t the holidays, if these people would have done that?

It’s conflicting feelings I get during these seasons. It seems everyone is happy and willing to give–it’s called the season of giving, right? Why? Why is that a season? Just do it every day. I don’t understand why that’s so hard.

I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.

But people are more likely to stop and help you with your car on the side of the road during the holidays than they are during “off-season”.

maxresdefault1That seems like a disconnect to me. Seems like people aren’t thinking clearly. It’s kind of like The Purge: get all of your giving and joy and happiness and kindness out within the next month so we can go back to living like assholes for another eleven months.

I know, I know, positivity down the drain. It’s not that I don’t get in the spirit completely–I like smiling at people and saying happy holidays and watching them smile back like I just gave them the greatest gift in the world. I like the everyone who can visit their family, visits their family and makes the best out of whatever situation they have to. It’s a nice feeling in the air. It’s a stressed feeling, but there are little pockets of joy too and those pockets are my favorite.

But that shit ain’t going to last, let’s be honest.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t have to not last with you, however. This New Year, try and keep the holiday spirit going not for the sake of the holidays but for the sake of everyone. Ask if someone needs help when they’re broken down on the side of the road. Don’t text and drive with your kids in the car (dumb people everywhere, I’m telling you).

134339-always-help-someoneIf you see something you can help with–well fucking help! Shit! The guy who drops the two boxes of chocolate bunnies in the market? Get your ass on the floor and help him pick them up. It shouldn’t even be an afterthought. It shouldn’t be because everyone else it doing it. It should be because he needs help.

Smile at the people who pass you on the sidewalk. It might be all they need. I’ve lugged this body around in depression during the day and one person smiles at me and I force a smile back and just that little moment of connection makes me feel apart of something again.

Say hello.

Wave.

When you cross the street, thank the driver who stopped for you. Even if they’re the last car on the road and they were fucking stupid.

When someone cuts you off in traffic, smile at them. This is advice I need to take. My road rage is a monster.

Don’t be nice because it’s polite to be nice. Be nice because you want to be nice, be nice because you may not know the person you’re interacting with. Maybe they were planning on shooting themselves in the head that night and your little joke and thirty second conversation with them made them rethink their decision.

I have social anxiety and I still find ways to try and be kind to strangers. Sometimes I come off rude because my anxiety makes me absent but I try my best. People don’t see that, but I do.

Being kind isn’t an obligation. It’s not about making yourself feel better–although for some people it is. But in reality it’s common decency and respect and it connects you with other humans. That’s something people are supposed to want . . .  right?

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I wouldn’t know.

My point is, why only be that connected to people during the holidays? Doesn’t that seem a little odd?

I do know through all my anger and depression and anxiety and panic and insomnia and fatigue and fear of failure and fear of success and weird fantasy worlds and characters in my head and all that good, yummy stuff, that giant mental goulash sloshing around in my brain, that I like making people smile. I like making them laugh and enjoy what they have around them. I like helping them even if they aren’t appreciative. I don’t do it to make myself look good–who the hell would notice anyway? I don’t know anyone to spread my good deeds on Facebook and make me sound like a saint–I don’t do it to please my parents or my friends or anyone really. I just do it because that’s what I do.

I might not have a job right now. I might look like a loser and a wimp and a straight up pussy. I might seem like a seven year old trapped in a 20 year old’s body. I might even just seem plain dumb. But I’m happy with myself and I’m happy with how I’m learning to treat others. Everyone else’s opinion of me can, quite honestly, fuck right off.

Remember: the holidays are a time for warm treats and hugs and songs and family. So is the rest of the year.

 

 

 

Put The Executive In Charge

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I won’t say that today has changed my perspective on holidays.

But I will say I enjoyed wrapping gifts and buying last minute ones. Wrapping paper on boxes requires a certain level of logical, structural thinking, kind of like building houses out of legos, and I think that’s what makes me enjoy it so much. It’s something concrete to do with my hands that makes me focus.

Then again, I see patterns in everything.

Here’s a tip: If you’re ever panicking or in the middle of a panic attack or anxiety attack, whip out the old math book and get to doing some problems. Works every time.

If you know a little bit about psychology, it makes sense.

If you don’t, this is how I developed this little trick:

When you’re panicking or you have high anxiety, where are your thoughts focused? What’s hijacked the entirety of your brain and body? Your amygdala, right? That old bean shaped geezer in the middle of your brain that you’ve had since your chimp-like ancestors birthed into existence.

We’re all monkeys. I don’t care if chimps aren’t monkeys or apes aren’t monkeys, they’re chimp-monkeys and ape-monkeys to me. They’re monkeys. Get out of here, anthropologists, I’ll believe what I want! Viva La Free Thought About Monkeys!!!!

My favorite are the Bonobos. Google them and you’ll know why.

Anyway, it takes control of your frontal lobe and therefore your rationality and suddenly your arms are going numb and your having a heart attack and you know you’re going to die so you just wait with your pulse throbbing behind your eyes for death to sneak up behind your back and crack his scythe against the back of your skull.

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Or He’s A Mouse

Did you know death played dirty like that? Everyone assumes he’s a skeleton but he’s really a pudgy middle aged, uni-sex being with soft skin and a nervous giggle. He never actually slices anyone’s soul out with that thing, he just sharpens it to be intimidating. He actually has a lot of social anxiety and hates meeting people face to face, especially when he has to, you know, take their life, so he wears black to blend into the shadows and bangs you on the back of the head. Why do you think people rarely see him coming?

Your frontal lobe is the executive. It’s the man–or woman–in the blueAfrican American Businesswoman Sitting On Office Chair - Isolate suit with his arms folded and a computer chip installed in his eye so he can make calculations near the speed of light or . . . or whatever. I don’t know. The dude–or chick–just makes decisions for you, alright? It’s good at judgement and problem solving and it’s supposedly highly evolved although . . . I don’t think many people use it to its full potential. I mean, if we are than . . . than shit.

I guess if you compare it to monkeys it’s highly evolved.

Although monkeys are some smart little bastards. So are dolphins. I’m pretty sure dolphins are smarter than us.

I was talking about the amygdala.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

21578Anyone ever try that “Cram” brain supplement they sell in natural food stores? It’s supposed to help you focus and “Cram” for finals. I saw them in an aisle once and grew perturbed. I’m pretty sure it’s either a stimulant prescription drug crushed up into little crystals you’re supposed to dissolve in water and definitely not snort, or it’s straight up crack cocaine that you are definitely supposed to snort.

I’ll probably become a victim of it in Medical school. I’m pretty sure all my peers will too. People be selling Ritalin left and right up in those joints.

Let me go to medical school to learn how to save lives while simultaneously putting a substance in my body that probably isn’t very good for me just so I can get an A on this test because that’s the kind of smarts that got me into Harvard Med.

Oops, did I say smarts? I meant thousands upon thousands of dollars for donation and a long history of family attendance.

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THE AMYGDALA.

I apologize. I talk to myself all the time and I’m starting to wonder if the conversations I have are completely incoherent.

The amygdala is your worst friend–so far. So far, according to biased research. So, you know, take it with a grain of salt here. It could be your best friend and we just don’t know it yet. It could kill you maybe, somehow, what the hell do we know?

But from what we know, yes, it has a lot to do with anxiety in an evolutionary standpoint and a current standpoint. So what do you need to do when it takes over?

article-2117722-0cf4a92000000578-69_468x399Think of it as a screaming toddler. You don’t curl on the floor and let the toddler scream at you. You don’t give up and let the toddler run your house. Some days you might be tired and be a little more lenient when the toddler screams but you know you can’t condition yourself to let the toddler do what it wants. It’s YOUR toddler.

You’re not going to stuff pill after pill into your toddler until it’s woozy and sick and puking in the bathroom and expect the magic pills to do all the work, are you?

No, you gain some control over the toddler. You enlist the executive for some help.

How do you enlist the executive? Why, simple math of course! Tasks,normal_angel_doing_math structural things, things that make your hands work. Take apart an electronic and put it back together. Do some algebra or trig or maybe first semester calculus. Something that doesn’t tax your entire brain, but makes you focus a little.

That’s putting the executive back in charge.

So you’re not punishing the toddler. You’re not fighting the toddler. You’re not screaming back at the toddler or physically subduing the toddler. You’re just showing the toddler that you’re not going to feed into it’s tantrum.

It’s a coping mechanism. One that doesn’t involve substances or physical pain or mental pain (unless you really, really hate math in which case, uh, stick to building legos or something, drawing patterns, taking things apart) or a meltdown. Once your executive is in charge you stop crying and your heart rate slows and you realize . . . what the fuck is going on?

And then you have clearer vision.  And then maybe you identify what caused the anxiety. Maybe you see nothing caused it. Maybe you see something large caused it. But you rationalize your reaction wasn’t right. Does it cure your anxiety? No. But it’s better than being up all night rocking yourself to sleep in a pool of your own tears or stumbling into the emergency room just so they can shoot some Ativan into your veins and send you home.

Don’t be a victim–there’s no need to be.

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Rely more so on yourself to control your life than something outside of yourself. Use all your resources. Use medication, use therapy, use coping mechanisms, use family and friends, use supportive programs, use blogging, use books, use art, use them all and use them well.

DO NOT use only one of them and expect your life to change. Do not use one of them and sit on your bed and cry about how horrible your life is. That’s being a victim. If you don’t put your all into your recovery what makes you think you’re going to recover? Magic? This weird, infectious idea that there are quick fixes for everything? What world do you live in? Obviously not planet earth.

That’s like giving you a computer monitor with no desktop and saying here, Photoshop my photos please.

That’s like expecting life on earth to proliferate with only an atmosphere of oxygen. No spinning rock, no O-Zone, no nothing, just . . . just oxygen.

You think your brain only uses one neurotransmitter to do all the amazing things it does for you?

Do you see how effected people are when they have a stroke and their left size is incapacitated?

By choosing one method for recovery and moping over it’s ineffectiveness, you’re incapacitating yourself in the same way.

I could just go to therapy once every two weeks and never step outside of my house or practice controlling my anxiety or combating depression or changing the way I think or socializing or speaking up. I could think that’s going to do something and I could lay on my bed and think, and think, and think about it and you know what? I’d probably kill myself.

That’s how you get stuck in a rut. You think more than you actually do.

So when you feel the urge to give up or you think a little pill or a couple sessions of therapy will solve your problems, remind yourself how much you appreciate your left side.

You can choose to be your biggest advocate or you can choose to be your biggest opposition. Doctors aren’t choosing it for you. Your friends aren’t, your family isn’t, your medication isn’t, your psychologist isn’t, your cat isn’t, your dog isn’t–you are. Those are catalysts for you, not cures.

That doesn’t mean don’t not struggle–that means embrace the struggle and understand it. Because you’re going to struggle. I do every day, you’ve heard me whine about it all the time.

But I’m still here, aren’t I?

Remember:

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DO WORK.

 

 

#GiveMeSomeWorkDamnit

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My nickname should be Serial Killer because I murdered the shit out of those applications!

No one?

Alright. It’s all good. Go laugh at someone else, someone funnier and richer and willing to stand on a stage at the risk of humiliation, it’s not like I’m going to hack your I.P address and GPS track your computer and find your house and light it on fire and laugh at it or anything.

I won’t, I promise; empty sarcastic threats are my specialty.

Even if I did find your address, I’d probably just steal your dog.

I’d leave a note too, saying “sorry I stole your dog; I left an Iguana in it’s place. His name is Dave. He hates people. Have fun!”

I did murder those applications though.

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What applications? What are you talking about? What’s going on!??!?! WHAT IS LIFE?!?!?!?

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Let Me Put Some Kush Up in It

Job applications ya’ll. They annoying.

But I be murdering ’em left and right trying to get me some income so I can stop being the broke ass I’ve always been. I’m clicking on “apply” to every single position that isn’t Cashier or sales floor representative or sales associate or anything that has me dealing with people’s problems all day long.

I know I can handle a few people, maybe team members who I have to see and interact with every day, people like that. But if you expect me to handle bitchy customers for six to eight hours a day and still go home sane, than you’ve got the wrong person.

I’m not even considering restaurants. Could you imagine me as a server? One of two things will happen:

  1. The people will be so intimidating I’ll have the same breakdown I had at my last retail job and just quit coming–the anxiety would keep me up all night and once this next semester starts up again I can’t have these kinds of distractions. I refuse to let my mental health hold me back from what I want to do with my life any longer. That includes working.
  2. I’m going to get so pissed off my face is going to go beet red even though it’s brown and a bitches head is going to get cut off.

I mean, it is what it is.

I have a mouth and I have anger issues. If you tickle that little spot–err, okay, that gigantic spot–my anxiety will literally poof out of existence. I might not even remember what I say, or even do. I’ll have a rage attack. Don’t underestimate girls man, we can go 0-100 real quick.

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At least, I can.

So I’m looking for jobs that either having me driving or in the backroom or stocking the floor or cleaning–anything with a limited amount of exposure to the public.

It’s interesting the situations where my anxiety seems to extinguish itself. In an argument the anger will prevail. The throbbing in my throat and chest is no longer fueled by fear but by pure adrenaline, angry adrenaline, and it honestly feels pretty good. I probably don’t get enough of my other emotions, that’s my theory. It’s nice to let it all out every once in a while. But how and where–that’s what I need to work on.

If I see someone getting assaulted or, when I was school bullied, I’ll be the first to step in or call the police or put myself in a situation a lot of other people tell me not to.

One night my boyfriend and I were walking out of CVS drug store and a man was shouting at the top of his lungs at some woman in a white car. There’s always security around this story because it’s open 24/7 but this time they were no where in sight. The four homeless men stood by the wall watching and customers were just strutting past hoping they wouldn’t be noticed.

An argument is personal but I didn’t get a good feeling from it. So I stood and watched. The man tried to yank open her car door and when he couldn’t he tried reaching through the window to grab her or punch her; it all happened so fast I couldn’t tell. She screamed for him to get away and I already had my phone out and backed towards the end of her car ready to read the license plate number to the police. My boyfriend kept telling me to come on but I know what it’s like to be attacked–how am I supposed to walk away from that? 

The man ran around the other side of her car and hopped in. Yes, they knew each other, this wasn’t some random robbery or something. They were screaming at each other louder now, loud enough for people to glance over but figure it was unnecessary to put themselves at jeopardy.

I hate the bystander effect. Never been a big fan.

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I’m not going to get myself in their business. I was, however, waiting for true physical confrontation–a reason to call the authorities. He tried yanking something from her, it might have been the car wheel, and I called to my boyfriend that I was about to call the police if he hit her. I Basically shouted it. Both people glanced up and the woman stared at me first. The man stared at me second and I glared and I dared him to say some shit because I’m not scared of cowards.

Sounds like I was putting myself in danger, but I wasn’t. There was enough space between us and enough people around to where neither of them would try anything stupid. She started up the car and sped off. Sure, maybe they went and argued some place else. Maybe she tossed him out her car on the freeway. Maybe he shot her. I couldn’t ever know, but I know at that moment I wasn’t going to stand there and watch someone get assaulted.

They were probably drug addicts, there’s a lot of them in that area, but a person is a person.

I wished I could have had reason to call the authorities. I really wish I did; I would have felt much better. My boyfriend told me I shouldn’t get involved but I grew up around that kind of violence. I’m obviously not going to sit around while it happens right in front of my face, not if I have a small window to intervene.

7388786858851959_cpqabkvz_cThose are the moments I’m not really anxious, but the skills I’ve learned through anxiety come in handy. The ability to assess the danger level of a situation, the ability to skim through a million bad options that could happen in a matter of seconds and assess whether it’s worth it or not.

I’m not saying I’m super man here, but shit, if you’re with me in a tough situation you’ll swear up and down I’m the calmest person you’ve met. By the time you realize what’s going on, I’ll have thought of every possibility that could go wrong and every type of solution for those possibilities. I’m always primed and ready for disaster.

I think that would make me a valuable asset to a workforce. If something horrid happens I’m not going to be the one at the desk breathing heavy, distressed, ripping my hair out or the one kicking walls and getting blinded by panic. I’ll be the one zipping through a million solutions I already on reserve, and I’ll keep zipping through them until one of them works.

Those of us with mental health issues are valuable members of society, society just doesn’t know that yet. And I have to admit, many of us who struggle like that don’t even know it yet. But we are. We see the world in an entirely different light. We can come up with ideas and solutions and options unique from the average person.

We’re applied artists and good workers and intelligence people; we’re college students and Ph.D’s and writers and comedians and actors and band geeks. We make up a substantial part of the population and we have an insight on the world no one else does. Be proud of that. 

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But also be proud of the fact that you’re not that different from everyone else. We all struggle with something, whether it’s mental health, physical health, emotional health, money, housing, whatever; we all struggle. We’re not very different from each other and I think the more we divide ourselves up into categories, the more stigma is perpetuated–not just for mental health but for all sorts of other issues.

We focus on our differences rather than our similarities. How does that make sense?

That’s why, a while back, I bashed the #StopTheStigma twitter sensations with their cardboard signs and medications. We’re different, but we’re not that different. Not so different that we should separate ourselves from the rest of the population. We all struggle. I think that’s what people fail to notice, that mental health issues cause a struggle.

We’re all so used to feeling our own struggle that we invalidate other’s struggles. I’ve done it before. We’ve all done it.

That’s the real problem here. Fuck not understanding the disorders, fuck not understanding the brain or classical conditioning, fuck Political Correctness like the difference between having a disorder or being a disorder, fuck having a disorder vs a disease vs an illness. This runs deeper than that. 

You don’t have to identify with my anxiety or have lived with anxiety to understand how hard it is to simply struggle. You should intrinsically know that tight knot in your stomach and negative thoughts and how hard it is to get out of bed some days. Because we all do it over different things. Because we’re all humans.

I think. Except maybe Ben Carson. I think he’s an alien Ya’ll.

The point is, I’d be a good worker so fucking call me back already. Shit.

If titling this post #GiveMeSomeWorkDamnit actually gets me work, I will take back all the bullshit I talk about # campaigns.

Thug Life And The Holidays

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Note to self:

Don’t go to sleep at 8pm; you’ll wake up at 12 am.

And lay in bed staring at the ceiling until your eyes bleed.

Or you get hungry enough and crawl out to the kitchen sniffing for food.

Which is exactly what I did.

And I’m still hungry, damnit.

Holiday’s are stressful. Have I said this already? Have I made it perfectly clear yet that I love winter and simultaneously hate the season of it? The “holiday spirit?” Because I hate it.

Oh, I haven’t said it enough?

I HATE IT.

I sound like a horrible person right now, a partially loony insomniac sipping Orange Juice and water at 4:06 am staring at an empty blog page wondering why she’s a partially loony insomniac sipping Orange Juice and water at 4:06 am.

Then she stares into the orange goodness in the flower cup and wonders about the validity of her existence, the reality of her existence, and then figures none of it matters if Iheart Radio plays the shitty song it’s currently playing.

I switched it. For God’s sake my ears were on the ledge ready to jump screaming “I never wanted to go out this way!”

What the fuck was I talking about?

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Does anyone who reads these things follow my rambles half the time? Because I don’t.

The holidays, that’s right, how could I forget that bullshit. Out of all the things in the world, how could I forget that.

Like I said, it’s stressful. There are people giving you gifts who expect the same in return even when you haven’t had the seven years needed to connect with them, and drivers on the street don’t give two shits about their lives if they can’t get to Toys R Us before they close so they can get their daughter a collection of overrated Monster High dolls and their son an overrated collection of WWE action figures (that are really just dolls) so their entire family can perpetuate gender stereotypes and then wonders why their daughter is scared to speak up in class and does horrible on math tests and wonders why their son doesn’t have any friends because, little do they know, he has to hide the fact that he prefers to sit in a garden and sniff flowers than be with the other boys shoving and tackling each other on the concrete.

Are you happy with yourselves?

You don’t get your mail until 9 pm. 

Traffic becomes the bane of your existence.

Everything is green. I hate green. That is my least favorite color.

Red is my second least favorite color.

Parties are my least favorite thing.

People are my second least favorite thing. 

Chocolate, however, is one of my favorite things. I get a lot of that during chocolate-food-meltingthe Holidays, it’s what keeps my brain from exploding and my tongue from mouthing off to people it shouldn’t. Who could let scornful words fly from their tongue if their tongue is slathered in creamy, cocoa goodness?

A serial murderer, that’s who.

And that’s not me.

Although, the money’s probably good if you’re working for someone. I heard Kidneys sell really well on the Black Market. But you didn’t hear it from me. 

I’m a very sensitive person, you guys. Stress is in the air during holidays, I can’t take it. I can’t take all the expectation and societal responsibility and people smiling at you saying happy holidays when you know damn well if it was any other week they could give two shits about you.

18k2f6fh7cxz8jpgI always stress out about the gifts I’ve chosen. I never have very much money, so obviously I’m not presenting a new car to anyone, but I try and do the best I can with what I have. I know it’s the thought that counts, or whatever people say, but then you wonder if anyone even gives a real shit about that. How do you know they’re not using your gift to wipe their ass with? And that’s why you never see it hanging in their house or sitting on their table when you come over? And that’s why their pipes are always clogged? Because that’s how shitty your gifts are? Or what if they just shove it in the closet and that’s why they want you to call them before you come over, so they can set it somewhere obvious in the house for when you arrive?

I’m a sensitive person. 

Today in Big Five there weren’t many people but the feeling–it was overwhelming for me. I heard the woman ringing up the customers and saying “thank you, happy holidays” every five seconds and the workers who kept rushing past me and talking and chatting about random things and helping customers find products and the old dude next to use buying the air soft gun that he wanted to look like the real nine millimeter that he had at home and the two associates that sold their products like pros hoping to hook, line, and sinker him on some 129 dollar gun. I heard each one of their conversations individually and they were all screaming in my ears.

I heard each of their voices individually, I should say, but as a whole they coweringwere meshed together, one big clusterfuck of conversation and people were walking to close to me, standing too close to me–I don’t like that–and even though everyone was lost in their own little world it felt like they were all talking so loudly about nothing just to overwhelm my senses, just to make me out to be the outcast. Their actions were purposeful, I felt it, and as I stood there like a deer in the face of a rifle, I spaced out to avoid it all.

I’m sensitive to sensory overload. I don’t like loud noises of any kind. I hate cars on the street and motorcycles and vacuums. I don’t like yelling or loud laughing or bangs and although I like looking at fireworks their sound physics put my nerves on edge. I don’t like voices or banging of kitchen dishes or loud televisions. If the noise isn’t consistent, like an alarm beep, or if the noise isn’t music, than it puts me on edge. It’s why I walk around with ear phones in my ear–it mutes a lot of that shit. It mutes conversation and cars and loud noises and things that would make me more nervous than I already am.

When I don’t have music, which is rare and usually a mistake, I have a little space in my mind I go to in these kinds of situations where time no longer passes in the linear fashion we’re all used to thinking about it in. In fact, time there doesn’t exist, only nothingness, and the nothingness isn’t really nothingness, it’s just a black divide, a place that separates me from my physical self which is trapped in the realm of physical life. I no longer hear the conversations or read the words on the packages nor do I pay attention to my own thoughts. I, for a moment, float elsewhere until I’m prompted back into reality by whoever is with me.

Did I mention I struggle immensely with going into public establishments by myself? Well, that’s why.

I also haven’t mentioned that I experience both depersonalization and dissociation. They’ve never bothered me personally. Sometimes I get creeped out when I start having to ask myself if I’m in reality, but it never lasts longer than a few seconds or a minute. Rarely longer than that.

Once I blacked out and wandered into the middle of the street in front of on coming traffic. My high school friends were running after me screaming my name apparently and I made it to the other side untouched and woke up like what’s wrong? They gave me this look:

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I was confused at first then searched my memory: I remembered walking up the hill with everyone, listening to my music and their conversations but keeping quiet because that’s what I needed after a long day. I stood at the corner with them. Then everything went black, like I was asleep. Then I opened my eyes and I was on the other side of the street. I laughed my ass off.

Anyway, today the Dollar Store was worse. There were more people but it wasn’t the numbers that bothered me, it was the feeling. Everyone was stressed. It’s like a bubble expanding, waiting to burst. Everyone was moving quickly and talking quickly and I hate that. Their feelings transferred into my feelings and I was stressed and getting smothered by the bubble they didn’t seem aware of.

I also confirmed the dollar store is run by the mafia. An old, white haired dude with bags under his eyes and a face shaped like Marlon Brando and dressed in a black button up shirt with black pants and a golden cross dangling between the two un-buttoned buttons near his collar walked slowly up and down the aisle next to the cash registers listening to his employees spew their “Happy Holiday” bullshit they probably wouldn’t say to you if his gaze wasn’t screaming “horse head in your bed” at them.

He smiled at me and nodded and I nodded and smiled back and I think I’m a gangster now.

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Is that how it works?

The guy in line in front of us bought maybe eleven or twelve items and was staring around wide eyed with a “GOOGLE” beanie on and a meth-look in his eyes and gave the cashier a hundred dollar bill.

A hundred dollar bill. In the dollar store.

Who the fuck . . .?

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Anyway, Holidays. NOT my favorite time of year. I don’t like expectation, I don’t like doing things for others because I never know if I’m doing it right. I saw a thing about people with anxiety and the fact that we often spend a ridiculous amount of time wondering if we’re doing the right thing rather than doing anything at all. And it’s true.

That’s going to be my hardest obstacle, being a perfectionist and all.

I’m sure everyone appreciates what I can do but I never feel like I do enough or do enough of it right.

I can’t act “normal”, you know? Does anyone appreciate abnormality anymore? 

Maybe I was out too much this weekend.

Back into my room I retreat. Safe and sound.