Kanye, Toss Me 50 Mill, Let’s Change The World Together

d39146bc8bc845478890583accb3f0bf*Ahem*

I’ve been writing on this blog since July 2015, periodically at best, fragmented at best, turned it into a domain I could own, lost the domain because I couldn’t afford it, and now here I am, back to square one, reintroducing myself to the world of rants, vents, and sarcastic musings.

I realized how good of an outlet this place is, and I miss the interactions between new people, old people, and people in general. Fuck building an empire, fuck pleasing people, and fuck everything, in general. I think that’s a good way to start off this post.

In reading back a lot of my old posts, I laughed at my own jokes, humored myself with my own sarcasm, and cherished my vulnerable moments: essentially it was a huge ego trip. Isn’t that wonderful? How conceited can I sound? I could probably be worse if I tried. But what’s life without having a bit of an inflated self-esteem? What’s life without trying to convince the world you’re a god among men? Kanye knows what I’m talking about, right? No? No one? Okay.

Love Kanye. What he say in his new song, Yikes?

“Shit could get/menacing/frightening/find help/ sometimes / I scare/ myself.”

And

“I can feel the spirits all around me/ I think Prince and Mike is trynna to warn me/ they know they got demons all on me/ devil been trynna make an army/ they been strategizing to harm me/ they don’t know they dealin with a zombie. ”

I resonate with that on a spiritual level. That’s not sarcasm.

And, of course, the most influential line of his musical career:

“Scoopity Whoop.”

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That song took me to higher levels of consciousness. I sat at the computer listening to Lift Yourself, nodding to an average beat, but that next verse? That NEXT VERSE THOUGH? Damn, I just didn’t really realize, I guess. I don’t think I’ll ever find another set of bars that chills my veins like “Poopity Scoop, scoopty whoopty poop”. Or, whatever.

In 2015 I was twenty years old, barely out of the terrible teens, and in 7 days I will be twenty three, still barely out of the terrible teens I guess, and in my own apartment free of the reign of terror that has been my parents’ apartment. I have good memories and bad memories. The good memories are pretty good, the bad memories are pretty bad. Read previous posts for more info. I’ve basically put the last three to four years of my life in a chronological order on this blog.

I remember writing a post about my predictions for the 2016 election, and how if that base head neurosurgeon Ben Carson dropped out of the race, Trump would win. Well, what happened? Without Ben there to cancel out Trump’s stupidity with his own, nothing could stop Trump. Don’t agree with me? No one’s asking you to, but I basically predicted the future, so . . .

Now what I’m trying to predict is when I will find a competent psychiatrist. I’ve sort of come to the conclusion that it’s impossible. I had a good two months with a county-funded psychiatrist who listened to what I said and, for the first time in my life, found a set of medications that worked well with me, but when they kicked me out of the Mental Health building K because I didn’t want to actively kill myself anymore, because I still had a job, I got stuck with a regular county psychiatrist who, when I told her I’d stopped hearing voices, told me I was lying and sent out a prescription for a higher dose of my medication.

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If you’re wondering, I stopped seeing her.

If you’re reading this and are really confused, I’d suggest reading through a couple previous posts. I would also like to remind my audience that not everyone who hears voices hears them all the time, and not everyone who hears voices has/or identifies with schizophrenia–two common misconceptions. And not everyone with schizophrenia hears voices.

The fucking point is, if I tell you I’m not hearing voices, I’m not hearing voices. If I tell you I’m not seeing shit, I’m not seeing shit. If you don’t believe me, go to the back room, take your head out of your ass, and breathe the fresh air of reality, because you’ve been missing from it for too long.

If I don’t want my medication dosage raised, don’t fucking raise it. 

Now, here’s the tricky thing. In leaving that shitty psychiatrist and stopping all my medication, I not only put myself through some serious mental hell, I also lost the ability to find a psychiatrist or therapist at all.

*For global readers, insurance is what the United States scams it’s citizens with to get more money.*

With my propensity to freeze up talking to doctors, psychiatrists, and therapists, I often get help calling for new appointments because the anxiety paralyzes me. So I’ve pushed my family to help me call. We’ve been calling for two months now.

One psychiatrist has gotten back to us, after a week of him leaving voicemails, us leaving voicemails, and both of us missing each other. He asks how old I am, and what’s going on with me. My mother takes the call, and explains what I’ve described, and he suddenly has too many patients.

Liar rubber stamp. Part of a series of stamp concepts.

Every other mental health professional we’ve called and who has called us back and left a voicemail always, always said “I’m sorry, I’ve got too many patients right now” without needing to know any information about me.

This motherfucker said that after he learned what I was going through. What does that make me think? That he can’t take on a challenge. And, if that’s the case, at least have the balls to tell it to my face. Tell me you don’t want to deal with me. Tell me you can’t handle it. If you can’t admit that, fuck you, you’re a coward.

And most importantly, don’t ever waste my fucking time again.

If you’re wondering, most recently I’ve breezed through 5 new diagnoses (not counting the ones I had as a teenager) after seeing 4 psychiatrists and a few therapists since December 2017 (six months total) , and I only found out the most recent one because I sat in my psychiatrist’s seat and read her notes on her computer while she went to go talk to a colleague. If they won’t tell you what they write, read it yourself–a tip for anyone new to the mental health system. Just don’t get caught.

The diagnoses have been: GAD, PTSD, Depression, Bipolar 1, Psychosis NOS from oldest to newest.

Some psychiatrists haven’t agreed with the PTSD–how is that something to refute, anyway? They ruled out schizophrenia and depression with psychotic features. The psychiatrists in the hospital were bent on Bipolar 1 even though I’ve never been manic in my life, the one I saw immediately after my hospitalization wasn’t sure at all what I was dealing with (finally, an honest fucking response). The last one is hell bent on psychosis NOS. They all agree on the depression and the anxiety.

So, what have I learned over these last six months besides the fact that if I’m not actively suicidal and/or psychotic I won’t be taken seriously as a candidate for steam-lined mental health care? Other than, if I’m still working I don’t actually need any real help?

Absolutely nothing.

If I didn’t love my job, I would have quit just to add the dramatics they obviously want.

I welcome myself back into the blogsphere.

Headaches and Rough Days

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

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

At least pot heads can be generally honest.

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

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*COUGH COUGH*

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

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

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

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

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Sentences started looking like this

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get it yet?

Rant: END.

Learning To Live

Recognition is everything.

What I’ve learned through this peer support position is that there’s a difference between “accepting” your “illness” and recognizing the way you think. I would even be daring enough to say that it’s simpler to accept your “sick” than it is to recognize how you think and constantly challenge it.

I do not mean fight it. I do not mean the day to day fight we all endure with anxiety or depression or voices or mood swings. What I mean by constantly challenging it is learning to live with some discomfort.

That’s the line that was in the description of the job position listed online. They didn’t call out for “mentally ill” people. They didn’t request “sick” people. They didn’t request “people who have accepted they are crazy”. They requested for people who have learned to live with some discomfort.

While exercising my right as a student against the financial aid department today, I felt the anger bubbling and the paranoia joining in: I was sure the woman at the counter, the one who I’d had trouble with in the past, was a racist woman who had messed up my account on purpose . I was sure she had entered the wrong information into the system on purpose a month and a half ago when I turned in all my paper work. She wanted to see me squirm. She didn’t like that I wasn’t someone like her, so she didn’t care whether or not I got my money. She wanted to keep me poor like the rest of the non-white, non-hispanic students at my college–all 26 of us.

I stormed out of the office shouting about their B.S. I slammed my car into the wrong gear and sped off down the street. I sent a very discontented email to the heads of the financial aid department and, as I suspected, I was in the right: they’ve fixed all the trouble and I will be getting my money soon.

But while all of this was going down, the woman was in the back of my mind. So was all of the other people in the recent past who I’ve felt were purposefully conspiring against me, whether it be whole organizations, peers and guests at work, students, professors, e.t.c.

It’s one thing to be aware of the paranoia. It’s another thing to sit in a seat, breathe, and realize even if the woman did plot against me, everything worked out in the end. It’s another thing to sit in a seat, breathe, and be okay with the reality my brain created because in the end whether it was real or not, neither truth really mattered. What mattered was the outcome.

I don’t have all the answers. All I can possibly know is what I experience. Perhaps that woman has been conspiring against me this entire semester. Perhaps she does have some hagish vendetta against me: what does that matter? She hasn’t prevented me from doing anything. She hasn’t physically attacked me or telepathically attacked me.

And as my kitten stretches out on my lap and gives me quick little kisses with her tongue on my cheek, her simplicity makes me see how meaningless trivial experiences like this are. The bond we’ve created this last week will outlast any conspiracy against me. It will outlast any anxiety, any depression, and any physical part of life. There’s so much more in the world that we can’t see, that we can’t manipulate with our hands, that we can’t tear down with our words–things in the air, things in the soul, things in the heart, that should be the focus of our lives.

So what if you experience something better or worse than your neighbor. It doesn’t make you better or worse or sick or sane or ill or healthy or wrong or right. All of it just makes you human. Let the bad days exist. You couldn’t possibly know what’s coming tomorrow.

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Andromeda Says Hi.

. . . And Life Goes On

Life goes on and the unreality of the eighth falls prey to the angry, hungry lion that is daily reality. And in daily reality inquires are made and solutions are dished out and some people work a 9 to 5.

Then there are those of us who don’t. Then there are some of us who have to awkwardly explain to their non-peer professor that she feels the entire class has conspired against her since her return from the hospital but that she’s been keeping up with the work at home and will be back the following week. Then there are some of us who disappear from math class without warning and have to, once again, awkwardly email the non-peer professor and hope he will be understanding.

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That’s what’s been keeping me from going to my creative writing class by the way: the same thing that kept me from going to my Native American Literature class those years back.

Let me say I love this professor. She is hilarious and open and an eloquent writer. Although she is more interested in poetry rather than fiction, she and I understand each other as writers. Her class is very open. Everyone talks among each other, and I was once in a little group. Then I shipped away.

Returning back to class felt wrong. And once I told my professor why I’d been gone, I got this nagging feeling she’s told the entire class who I am, what happened, and why I was gone. Then when I return I’m noticing someone who used to sit next to me, sat a seat away, and while another person used to ask me questions she now asks the guy next to me. I’m sure she told them all to ignore me and hate me. I’ve tried to reason myself into believing it’s because they have all had time to get to know each other better, but that other voice in my head has invalidated and battered reason to the floor.

Driving home one night I realized something significant. First, I realized that this level of paranoia can go fuck itself.

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The Only Image Of Hello Kitty I’ve Found Even Remotely Interesting

Secondly, I asked myself what someone would say to me at  Second Story if I were to explain my thoughts. I asked myself what I would say to someone were I to explain the thoughts to myself. And while I can’t remember the full conversation I had with myself in my head, I do remember the conclusion.

Feeling violated by my professors purported confidentiality disrespect, feeling like an outcast among people with stigma as rampant as it is, is the root of this paranoia. My own insecurity of being seen as “crazy” or “sick” on the outside is the root of this paranoia. And while that doesn’t make me feel any less paranoid, it made me sigh in relief. It made me sigh because it makes me remember all the people I’ve spoken to who struggle in the same way. I sighed because it only confirms there are reasons for thoughts, no matter how “deluded” they could be considered. My interpretation of my environments may be different from yours, but if you’re insecure about the way you look, and I’m insecure about how my mentality is perceived, aren’t we both sharing in the same struggle but seeing it differently?

Crisis averted.

And that got me thinking about the future, about transferring, about digging deep into my career. And all that bone crushing anxiety got me thinking about questions I hear and have been asked often:

What kind of jobs are there for the “mentally ill”?

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Preferably Ones That Don’t Drive Us To Ring Our Necks With A Tie

You all know I refrain from using terms like “mental illness” or “mental disorder” and instead call them experiences or struggles or interpretations. But that is how the question is often phrased.

And one obvious thing comes to mind and it isn’t office job, it isn’t an online position, it isn’t reclusive writer, and it isn’t backroom stocking associate, all of which I’ve tried.

Well, I’m still a reclusive writer, but . . .

I smacked myself on the forehead at the realization: peers.

And with the rise in peer support sweeping, literally, the nation, there’s a huge need for it.

I will be transferring over the hill next year. I refuse to live on campus unless it will be paid for by financial aid and I can have a dorm to myself: those are rather harsh and specific requirements, so I’m not counting on it. Therefore I will need income. I smacked myself again on the forehead before searching for peer support in the county I will be moving too.

Yes, it exists there as well. In fact, it exists in many, many more places and cities and towns than I thought. Second Story may be peer run, but even within health centers there are peer programs. A lot of them. This gave me the hope for humanity Trump tried stealing away.

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To Be Clear, Trump is Mocking Him, Not Me

If connecting with people who also struggle is something of interest to you, I encourage you to search programs, I really do. It may sound like a huge step, and it is,  but let me tell you, you’ll be way better off being nervous around people who understand how that effects you personally, than being in an office where a boss snorts at you and says “tough shit”.

My point is, there are jobs out there for people who struggle in the way we do. I’m not talking people with just Anxiety or depression. I’m talking those who hear voices or bounce up and down with their moods. Self Harm. OCD. WhatEVER it is, we need you.

You don’t need a degree, all you need is your experience with mental health.

The transformation I saw in the woman I met from the hospital who happened to show up a week after I told her about Second Story . . .the difference I saw in her from the time we were in the hospital together to the first week she was with us . . .tremendous. She used to not speak above a whisper. She didn’t make much eye contact and was really stuck in her struggle. The last time I saw her she spoke confidently, she made eye contact, she saw all of the problems she had to go through in terms of housing and such as things she could accomplish: she told me that many times. She said it would be hard, but that they are do-able.

That was the first positive thing I’d heard from her.

She and I cooked a feast that night. I asked her if she was any good at cooking chicken and we were off. We made stuffing and baked chicken and mashed potatoes and a salad and some green beans and sliced some bread. Some of us sat down and ate at the dinner table and joked about Mariah Carey and the 7 million dollar engagement ring her (ex??) fiance gave her.

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*Rolls Eyes Tremendously*

I remember when I left the hospital she whispered good luck to me. Before I left my shift for that night I told her good luck. The last I heard, she’s signed up to Volunteer with us.

You make a difference in people’s lives, and they make a difference in yours. That’s what peer support is about. These are real positions in this life and real places have implemented these types of programs.

There are people out there that understand. And there are people out there you can use your experience to connect with. If you’re curious, I implore you, please, research it. If you have questions about what I do as a peer support counselor, email me or leave a comment, I’ll be happy to explain in more detail.

You might go in hoping to change someone else’s life and come out the one who is changed. That’s when you know you made a good choice.

We need you.

 

Brain Block

You ever listen to Erykah Badu’s “Danger” and just find yourself rocking out like you’re a bad ass ready to “flush the Yayo” before the cops bust through your door and nip your gangsta’ ass in the bud?

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On Tuesday I am seeing this psychiatrist for the second time. On Wednesday I am seeing my psychologist. On Friday I’m working a shift.

It’s amazing how different being at work can make me feel. Although my anxiety rises during check in’s and check out’s and interviews and I try to avoid them because of it, being among familiar faces really creates a safe space for me. The guests I’ve all got a great rapport with. My social struggles are there when speaking, but the anxiety is generally erased.

I’ve thought about confessing, not only to this new psychiatrist who I’m paying a pretty penny, but also to my coworkers, perhaps my supervisor during supervisions this week . . . or next week . . . or whenever we can get to it. Supervisions are basically a period in time where I meet with my supervisor and we talk about how I’m doing work wise and mental health wise.

What in the world could I possibly have to confess? Am I a malingerer? Am I a murderer? Did I #FuckTrumpInTheAss?  Well, we all know the latter is out of the question, I don’t want an STD. I also couldn’t be within ten feet of the moron without the homicidal thoughts racing.

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I would like to confess my deepest, darkest secret, of which I’ve probably revealed on here many times in terms of thought process. All the things I share on here are nothing about what I share to the others.

I think it’s gotten to the point where school is so effected, where my daily life is so affected, that I don’t have time to mess around anymore.

I also believe this is a problem for many. We wait until we’re at a breaking point, or until we break, to reach out. Not necessarily to a professional, but to anyone. It’s like we deny ourselves the right to struggle and not feel lesser for it. Obviously there are a lot of environmental factors that play into that mindset, and perhaps even some personal beliefs or mindsets and, understandably, some anxiety.

Being around people so willing to be open, and not so willing to be open, has held a large mirror in front of my eyes.

I’ll speak more on this later. Or I’ll speak more later, in general. To be honest, I just can’t fucking think. I really can’t. It’s like pushing words the size of a horse’s cock through a sieve the size of an ant’s urethra. It’s like shoving a kid against a brick wall and continually pushing their face into the bricks, shouting at them go forward and stop being a nutty little bastard. It’s like that itch on the middle of your back you can’t reach. It’s like someone cut one of your neurons so all the electrical signals that make up thoughts fall off the axon like a derailed train.

I’m sorry to the sensitive viewers. I’m really dissatisfied with my brain at this moment. Good-fucking-night.

When Life Gives You Anger . . .

. . . make some really angry lemonade.

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This is going to be a very, very weird question.

But, I must ask my fellow bloggers, my blogsters, all you blogging bloggers of the blogsphere:

Have you ever felt the need to really hurt someone? Either physically or mentally?

If you have, was there something within you that urged you along? Did you despise yourself or your life in someway? How much of your anger towards others has ever been a reflection of your own anger directed inward that perhaps you never noticed?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about bullies, about manipulators, about those parents who go on day time talk shows and swear to the God they put their knees on the filthy floor for that one day their child will grow up and be the next Columbine Shooters or the next creepy old guy down the street who secretly severs the heads of corpses in his basement.

There’s a difference between the columbine shooters, or the kid that brings a gun to school, or the bullies in the hall, and people in terrorist groups like ISIS who are brainwashed into believing what they are doing for a divine power–if we consider the divine power their own arrogance and delusional pride in their country.

The kid that brings a gun to school is not brainwashed, and they’re not always bullied. Something else is going on.

People spend enormous amounts of time trying to figure out just why these kids seemingly flip a switch.

tumblr_inline_mjksn3cctm1qz4rgpI was never a child who fantasized about shooting up the school. I was, however, a master manipulator. Although I stayed silent, I’m very good at mimicking behavior and observing how others interact with each other. I didn’t understand how friendships were made, or how they were maintained, or why I never felt like a human among all the other humans, but I did form a sort of algorithm in my head. It essentially mapped out words, expressions, and personalities.

I could smell bullshit from a mile away.

I could smell a genuine soul from a mile away.

I couldn’t talk to you, and sometimes I couldn’t understand what you asked me, but if you wanted a personality profile, I could whip it up in five seconds easily.

I gained a sort of arrogance from this, because suddenly I had a power. Suddenly I knew more about these people then they knew that I knew. Suddenly I could sniff out the quiet kids in class, the ones that were easiest for me to talk to because their personalities were often hidden under anxiety or general disinterest, and snatch them.

I had teachers eating out of my hand, so when I got in a fight on campus with a girl faker than a stick-on tattoo, the teacher blamed her and let me walk away. I dealt and smoked drugs under their noses, I passed classes without ever turning in homework. I had some kids afraid of me, others wanting to, quite literally “follow” me.

Suddenly I had another power, all based on beating others down. And that, to someone consistently emotionally neglected at home, someone who had no real place to fit in other than in her head, someone who ached so terribly inside that shoving that on others created this weird “confidence”, was priceless.

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Many people with anxiety, or trouble speaking up, get bullied. Most people are surprised when I tell them I never did. I never did because I was the bully. And I will admit I’ve often had trouble understanding people’s pain of being bullied. My response was, very unemotionally: “well, fight back”.

But I know it’s not that easy for some. I didn’t learn to respect that until I was around nineteen years old.

I often went after people who could not, or would not, stand up to me. They were the easiest to feed off. The lower they sunk to the ground, the better I felt. I was like that snake in the grass you can’t see, so when you creep around with your back turned, I sink my teeth in your fleshy ass globes.

There were a few times I attacked some people making fun of special needs students, and those special needs students ended up becoming my friends throughout the years. I still consider those justified.

Anxiety is a beast:

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Anger is a behemoth:

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I see red when enraged, and I black out. I’m one of those kind of people.

So when people got an idea that they would try and talk down to me or argue with me, I would be in their face in a split second, fist ready. And yes, I’m a girl. I didn’t put up with bullshit because I had to put up with bullshit at home.

But what I find most interesting about all these experiences is that . . . you know how you find someone and feel such a strong love or adoration for them, that it spreads from person to person? Now that I’m older, and much less prone to be ignorant (although perhaps still a little manipulative, I’m not proud of it), I find it very ironic that inner pain works in very much the same way. If you’re pained inside, it spreads. If you have much love inside, it spreads.

Often, the pain on the inside, if it’s strong enough, overshadows that love and as a result, you have someone willing to hurt others for the sake of feeling paid attention to, for the sake of having an outlet, for the sake of having a moment of power in a world, or environment, that makes you feel powerless.

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That seems obvious. But I think it’s often overlooked when it comes to bullies, mass shootings, or fighting in general. If this is how our kids and our world reacts to each other, what does that say about the vibes we’re spreading? 

This isn’t a behavioral problem. This isn’t a mental health problem. This is an inner peace problem. This is a power struggle problem. This is a competitive problem. This is a problem of people feeling like they need to better than the next person, so that next person feels they need to be better than the next person, and so on when in reality none of it matters once you’re lowered in the ground.

This post was inspired by some thoughts I left on another blog, and my own urges tonight. Often I get uncontrollable urges (that I usually manage to control) to fight someone. I just want to grab someone by the hair and smash their teeth into the ground and kick their throat in, or I want to tell someone to come toke a bowl or two with me. I want to feel that power of being in control as I drown in an environment and head of mine that is so utterly out of control.

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Not Going To Argue

The first step to rationalizing your feelings is understanding them on a logical level. Anger is something I’ve struggled with for many, many years. This helps.

Counting Sheep

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Warning! Warning! On coming rant! Buckle your seatbelts, kiddos, I haven’t done one of these in a long time and my blood is just boiling for one.

Firstly.

FIRSTLY.

Everyone has their own opinion on the subject I’m about to speak on. I will say this forthright: I don’t care which side you are on. I don’t care if you agree with anything I say, or anything this other person has said. You know what you prefer, I know what I prefer. If you would like to argue with me about it, send an email to dontsendmeafuckingemail@gmail.com.

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SECONDLY.

Yes, I am on an SNRI. No, this does not make me a hypocrite about what I’m about to say, and I’ll explain why in a moment.

So tonight, I had a conversation with someone that really, really shoved a metal pipe up my ass.

I was speaking to someone who is studying psychology. When I said I was studying psychiatry, they said psychiatry was too hard for them. I don’t know what that means. They probably can’t do math. They also can’t think, judging by the conversation we had. A lot of their life must be “too hard”.

I started speaking about some recent things I’ve been going through, not including how I’ve sprained a tendon in my wrist and was literally dying for four days, and I happened to mention the list of medication that psychiatrist tried putting me on (Effexor, Seroquel, Propanol, Ativan, Praoxin). I mentioned how I chose only effexor and told the psychiatrist to fuck off with the rest.

This chick has the audacity to ignore everything I said about how much I struggle socially, and say “well, why don’t you just get on what she suggested though?”

*Bitch Face Ignited*

I explained that for me, medication isn’t something I can consciously eat like food. I just prefer to find alternatives. I explained that they are not built for long term use, that they go through 8 week trials of a couple hundred people, sometimes less. I said I had nothing against medication, as she mentioned she also takes medication, but that I feel they are often overused.

Her response? “Don’t over use them, then.”

My response?

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Realizing perhaps I wasn’t clear enough, or perhaps she had some medication stuck in her ears, I said “I mean they’re over-prescribed.” I told her about where I work and about how we accept all world views. I told her I’m someone who often experiences odd things, and that I’ve gotten along just fine without medication, as have many people do. I made the mistake of mentioning that chemical imbalance is just a theory that’s hardly got enough evidence to consider proof.

She replied with “aw, but it is proven though.”

Motherfucker, are you this fucking dumb? Are you? Have you never read a fucking research paper in your life? Is your brain a potato? There are countless numbers of studies supporting the complete publication bias scandals between the pharmaceutical companies and the research companies out of places like Harvard, Stanford, and several other universities. I’ve read studies of research companies being caught hiding the fact that they found absolutely no correlation between their medication and the “imbalance” they claimed existed when, in fact it didn’t. Many articles written by professors also expose things on the inside. Have you not heard of homeostasis?

Do you know how many days I spent as a fifteen year old forcing the people I knew in college to give me access to the online research and archive databases so I could get a hold of these scientific journals? Do you know how many hours I spent reading them? More hours than I spent doing my high school homework, that’s for damn sure.

Here, here, I’ll break it down for you honey, my honey bunches of shut the fuck up.

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Say you have a brain with more serotonin in the synapse than the brain next to that person. Say that person with more serotonin often experiences more anxiety than the brain next to them.

Companies call this an “imbalance” so they can say this medication “balances” you. Unfortunately, what’s perceived as an “imbalance” is entirely relative to what you’re comparing it to and every human brain is like a fingerprint. What does that mean? It means you’re comparing it to levels and behavior that vary per person. Anyone who has ever been any level of scientific or logical in their life should understand you can’t compare something to something else if that something else isn’t a consistent control.

Unfortunately, correlation is not causation–what does that mean? It means just because you have anxiety doesn’t mean your levels of serotonin are high. It means just because your serotonin levels are high, doesn’t mean you experience anxiety. And if anyone ever tries to tell you there is definitive proof for either, punch them in the throat.

The real imbalance comes when you try getting off the bullshit and you get brain zaps and hallucinations and fatigue and nausea and tremors as your brain tries to adjust back to its NORMAL levels. That’s often almost unbearable if you’re on several medications and what happens? You get STUCK on them. 

It’s ironic a simple thought can dramatically change the level of chemicals in your brain just as easily.

I lied. It’s not ironic. It’s fucking obvious.

I wasn’t this rude to this person, although I wanted to be. I said in my opinion medication isn’t what’s best for me, not when they’re meant to fix something that doesn’t need fixing. Her response was: “Some are placebos, not all. Why don’t you just try the medication and see how it goes?” That was her response over and over again. “Just try the medication, just try the medication, I’m just trying to help you.”

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At this point I’m laughing like Satan because this bitch is clueless to anything I’m saying. I have a right to my choice to NOT go on fifty different medication for something I believe isn’t necessary. I’m not a lab rat. If she wants to be one, that’s fine. I could give two flying fucks if she eats Prozac for breakfast, Haldol for lunch, and Seroquel for dinner with some Lexapro and Lithium for snacks. It’s probably a deadly combination, but her doctor recommended it, so that’s what she should do, RIGHT?

Fucking sheep. Some people are such fucking sheep.

If you feel the medication helps you, by all means, I support you 100%. If you feel differently, hey, guess what? I support you 100%. You know why? Because YOU know YOU better than I know YOU.

The real reason I got angry isn’t because she doesn’t believe as I do. I got angry because she kept ignoring what I was saying and pressuring me to take something I stated multiple times I didn’t feel was best for me. She judged me on the condition she felt I was in (I should have never mentioned antipsychotics), rather than listening to the words I was saying. And THIS, my friends, is what you FUCKING learn when you get into this industry.

You learn that if someone is non-compliant with advice, they have a problem.

You learn that medication is a first resort. 

You learn that alternatives are for the “delusional” and the “stubborn”.

And when I said, “hey, you know honestly, I’m getting offended by the way you keep ignoring what I’m saying and just telling me to take medication when I’ve stated I don’t feel it’s best for me”.

Her response?

“I understand.”

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No bitch, You don’t “understand”. You fucking apologize is what you do. Holly Christ, if someone like me, someone as bad at social interaction as I am, is telling you how to respond to someone, you are incompetent. A deadly level of incompetent.

And thus I ended the conversation. I don’t care if she never reads the research and cases like I have. I don’t care if she endorses medication for the rest of her life. I care that she’s going into counseling and psychology and all she did the entire time was judge my beliefs because I didn’t agree with a licensed professional, because I’m the “sick” one that needs help, right?

I have a fucking headache.

Small Positives

Instead of burning under the fires of negativity, I’ll mention one of the small positives of this week:

I managed to get down to the Accessibility Support Center at my college to ask how to register. My boyfriend had to come with me of course, but I made it. I asked the woman what I would need to do in order to register for services from the center. She seemed nice and very receptive. She said the first step would be to attend one of the orientations that gives us a small overview of the services and a tour of the HUB station (that’s where the support/tutor services are).

The second step, the one I dreaded the most, was to then bring in documentation. She said it could be an IEP, a 504, family doctor records, anything like that. I knew it was coming and the anxiety still took over.

She set me up for an orientation on the 31st at 9:30 in the morning. That day I also have to be at my psych appointment at 11 am. She said it would be finished before then certainly. Then I have to drive back to the school for class at 12:40. That’s a busy day.

I walked from the center rather disappointed. An IEP? A 504? Two things you usually get when you get diagnosed with something as a child? You know, like ADHD?

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Unfortunately for me, when I wasn’t talking, when I refused to interact with children, they send me to a counselor who concluded I was “shy” and would “grow out of it”. I couldn’t even get an ADHD diagnosis for fucks sake.

If I would have known the system, I would have opened my mouth and expressed everything I felt. Instead I sat there, said not a word to the counselor woman, and still somehow got a certificate of completion for it. How does that even work?

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At this point this blog has become one large contradiction. I speak so often about how diagnosis doesn’t matter, how it doesn’t define you, how I feel it’s much less damaging to consider “symptoms” as “experiences”, and yet I’m here kicking myself over the fact that I’ve never gotten a sincere diagnosis past “social anxiety”. If you ask me, it makes me look like one of those preachers who reiterate the Bible, then go out and murder people.

I still believe in experiences over symptoms. I still believe in “this is how I am” over “this is what I have”.

I also know the world is a business and a label maker. And I’m going to milk every last drop of it, because if there are ways to get help out there for school, for housing, for finances, for whatever the case may be at any point in my life, than I think I deserve that.

When she said “family doctor” I cringed. Because I have no doctor any longer. Because I have no health insurance. My doctors never had any part of my mental health record anyway. Fucks sake.

The anxiety part of all of this is that I will be walking into that orientation at 9:30 without a complete record confirming what I experience and be surrounded by people who do. People with perhaps more severe mental/physical struggles than my own. It’s like I’m sitting myself down in a wheel chair with full knowledge that both my legs work, and signing up for a wheel chair basketball team with people who actually have lost function of their legs.

It’s another way for my brain to invalidate my own experiences.

shutterstock_106645070I think my main issue is that I’m very confused. Ever since I started this job it’s made me take a different look at behavior and experiences in different people and in myself. It’s made me realize I have so much more to work on than I thought. It makes doing janitor work ten times more appealing than it had before, and even then it had looked appealing.

Depending on what happens with full evaluations and a complete diagnosis, I may or may not continue working here. I love their concept, I love the “fight the system . . . but it’s really about the people” vibe that they give off. I want to always stay in contact with them and maybe even attend the groups. But working is something I’m not sure I’m ready for yet. I should have learned this lesson after my third job in four months.

Functioning and adulting isn’t easy for anyone, I’m aware of that as well.

Today I went into a hardware supply store and a Rite Aid, in the company of my mother. Both stores are pretty quiet and large and don’t have many crowds.

Three more days until the orientation.

 

 

Seriously

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I’m rather irritated at this moment.

Getting out of bed on a timely manner, taking a shower, and making sure I look halfway presentable to the creatures of the outside world just to save myself some ridiculing stares takes a lot more effort out of me than it does most people.

Walking the three minutes to the library down the street from my house is even worse, particularly at rush hour.

So instead I drove. It’s cold and dark and I didn’t have a clean sweater so I got in my car with my bag and I took the long way around to the library to avoid a very annoying left turn across a lane of bumper to bumper traffic.

Walking up the sidewalk my first thought was: watch, their printer won’t have any paper.

I get into the library and the silence hits me like an orgasm. I love silence. It’s one of my best friends. It’s even better when I can relax in an area void of people with my music on the lowest possible volume and my thoughts swarming my consciousness, wispy and elusive like steam from a coffee.

I sit at one of the computers, proud I’ve made it this far. I glance over at the printer.

OUT OF ORDER.

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I hang my head. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. SON OF A BITCH.

You see, with my tendency to forget even the most important of things, I’ve completely neglected the chemistry book I’d rented from Amazon for $30.

A few days ago they charged my college card $125 and said they’ll give it back to me if I can return the book before the 18th. I’ve been procrastinating printing the shipping and return labels because I hate going out during the day when all the noise and bustle of people overwhelms me. And now that I’ve finally built up the courage to do so, they’ve shut down their piece of shit, eighty year old printer.

Tomorrow will the be the 11th. I need that label NOW.

I just checked the ceiling of the area I’m sitting to make sure their cameras aren’t staring at my screen and watching me talk shit.

Do they even have cameras? I don’t know. They’re probably mounted in the spackle of the ceiling, camouflaged.

“Go to a different library”.

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That would be the death of me, are you kidding? I’ve been coming to this library for three or four years, however long we’ve been living next to it. Seven years? Seven years sounds more accurate. I come to it for everything. I come to it for my printing, for my books, for an internet connection, for silence, for studying . . . everything. I’ve seen employees come and go. I have my favorite spots to sit. I can’t just stroll into some foreign library like I’m some happy go-lucky freak “normie” because I won’t know the people, I won’t know how their printing system works–at this library you don’t have to talk to the clerks to get your paper–and it will take me another seven years to gather up enough courage to ask anyone about all those specifics.

Routine, routine, routine.

“Step outside your comfort zone”.

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I just did. My fucking house. I stepped outside of it. That’s enough stepping outside of things for one day.

Everyone gets nervous trying new things. I understand that better than anyone. However, there are some new things I can suck it up and try: like hoping to integrate myself into small group of two other people. I give it all I have and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Most of the time I’m completely uncomfortable and just testing my limits. Besides, I’m always uncomfortable around people so it’s not as if I’m actually stepping outside of my comfort zone. There was no comfort zone to begin with.

But when it comes to things like this, big things, I will shut down. Don’t fuck with my routine. You don’t want me agitated because I will throw an adult tantrum.

My tantrums consist of very loud sarcasm, defensive responses, lots of insults, occasional violence (not towards anyone usually, mostly towards objects), followed by a three to four hours of silence. I will not talk and if I do it will be brief words or fragments, monotonous and without care.

Then once I’ve calmed down I think about how ridiculous I’ve acted and go through a few minutes of shame.

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Then once that’s over I’ll consider stepping out of my routine this one special time.

I haven’t had a very large tantrum in a while since my parents have given up trying to force me to do things. I’m 20 years old after all, they don’t need to be on my ass twenty-four seven.

Friends have pushed me into situations I hate but I don’t like offending people who have never seen that side of me so I swallow it and transform into a statue. If they ever saw how offended I really get over small routine changes, they wouldn’t want to be around me, I promise you that. I’m only talking about, what, three people here?

I won’t want to talk and half of my mask falls off. I’ll appear irritated if I keep getting messed with or talked to but I won’t cuss at them or get defensive or loud, nothing like how I get with my parents.

Sometimes if I have to go some place out of my routine and I’m have a particularly anxious day, I ask someone to come with me. Even though they don’t know it, it’s a form of mental support.

I wouldn’t know how to communicate how grateful I am for that kind of stuff, not verbally at least, and people don’t like getting letters anymore.

As of now, I’m sitting on a cushion in this stupid fucking library hoping they’ve got it up and working tomorrow. I really need that 125 bucks back.

At least the wifi is fast.

 

WARNING: Nasty Ass Rant

Warning: If you don’t like bad language I’d suggest you don’t look at this.

This is not going to be one of my normal posts

I’ve been posting often and they’ve been long because I can’t shut my mouth up–err, the mouth in my head–and here comes another one so bare with me through this week people.

This one won’t be as long as the one earlier today or the one before that or the one before that, because I’ve only got a few things to say.

I don’t know what I’ve been rambling about the last few days–I mean I know the content but did I really have a revelation about myself, I don’t think so.

I can’t distinguish the emotion I’m feeling at the moment–I haven’t been able to for the last four days. But tonight is especially bad. I’m pissed off, I’m sad, I’m frustrated, I’m happy, I’m anxious, and I want to be social but I want to be in my little corner and I don’t know how to juggle it all.

People. Don’t. Get. It.

It’s not a joke. I’m not sitting here trying to sound dramatic and loopy and stupid. It’s fucking hard.

I want to cry and laugh at the same time and how the fuck does that make sense?

If I could leave the stupid fucking house without someone screaming about it (it’s 11:22pm) I would, but I can’t. I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. A drive maybe, but then I’d need to put gas in the car. I can’t walk down the street at this time of night, I’d be paranoid of shadows and the last fucking emotion I need right now is paranoia. 

I’m listening to music now. I was watching some funny YouTube videos because sometimes the laughter helps, but it hasn’t this time.

So now I’m ranting because maybe this will help. Feel free to completely ignore this post.

But all my other ones you better fucking read.

Just kidding.

Then I get into arguments with people about society and the value (or non-value) of money and the concept of human nature and how I need to get out of the house and explore the world or whatever the fuck. Wrong time to pick a goddamn argument with me. It’s only frustrating me more.

I want to talk to someone about it but what’s the point when no one understands it anyway? We’ve all been emotional right? That’s what they suppose it feels like.

This doesn’t feel like I’m emotional. This is like a trap. It’s a fucking trap. The slightest noise makes my heart race and my skin flinch and my mother smiling at me and telling me there’s food on the stove pisses me off because I want to be alone and no one fucking gets it but at the same time I don’t want to be left alone but I do because . . .

I don’t fucking get it. I don’t! I don’t get it.

In the middle of my text argument my phone keeps freezing and I can’t fucking take it and I want to throw the piece of shit out the window but I’m the one with the expert mask who probably shouldn’t loose her shit and wake the whole house up because I’m normal, I’m fine, there’s nothing wrong with me.

So I suppress it.

If it was day light I would have launched it into the closet door and punched something already.

The videos are so funny and I was enjoying them but not really. They kept me distracted.

I want to cry. About what? I have no idea. Everything is painful. I think about everything I’ve wasted this semester and all the time that’s passed and how fucking stupid I am and the depression hits–but only for a few seconds, then I’m back to seething anger and arguments and frustration because I can’t control it. I can suppress it, but it’s not controlled. It builds and builds and I know I won’t get to sleep early tonight.

Then I feel a little better. And I think maybe it’s passed. And then it starts all over again and I say FUCK!

NO IT’S NOT PMS. I WOULD KNOW.

I just don’t give a shit right now. I’m done answering messages on my phone. I don’t give a shit about money being necessary for the economy, I don’t give a shit about the economy, I could give a flying fuck about society right now and I don’t even remember what my argument was and I honestly don’t care what it was. I’m thirsty as fuck and there’s nothing to drink and no I don’t give a shit if any of this makes sense to you right now.

Yes I have a history of self-harm and yes, these are the moments I revert into that mindset. I don’t want to “punish myself” or “Get attention” or “feel something because I’m numb”. I’m the exact opposite of numb.

No, I need it to focus on just to bring me back down to earth.

I don’t do that anymore because it’s too noticeable and I’m the perfect one, right? I’ve got my shit together, right? I’ve got to make it look like I just have a little bit of social anxiety and maybe a little bit of occasional depression just so my parents don’t freak out. My father doesn’t even know I go to therapy–he wouldn’t remember anyway.

So instead I sit here bathing in whatever the fuck I’m bathing in wishing I could bang my head against the wall or slice open some skin or burn my skin or at least burn something–or fight. Fighting would be nice. I’d stab a motherfucker right now, I’m not in the mood for bullshit.

How do I hide this? I’ve become an expert at it because I tuck myself away in my room and no one questions it. My parents can go days without seeing me out of my room other than for food and the bathroom and they won’t question it–they’ll just wait until I emerge on my own. No one questions it. That’s how I get away with it. It’s not as if I have friends who would notice something different about me. Like I’ve said over the last few days, I don’t even want friends! 

Someone to vent to? Maybe. Friends? No. You can keep them. They fucking annoying me and that’s the truth. No one is true to their word and I don’t need to deal with that drama. They don’t give two shits if I leap off a cliff and blame them in this suicide note–they probably wouldn’t even believe it.

I don’t trust people. I don’t care if that’s not good, I don’t trust them. I think they’re motives are wrong, I don’t think they believe a word I say and in turn I don’t believe a word they say.

Everyone can stay the hell away from me for all I care.

I have a fucking headache.

I said this wouldn’t be long and it is.

I’m trying to breathe but my mind is spinning in circles thinking about how petty I must look in that argument on my phone, about how angry I am at my anger, about how I need to finish (start) my essay, how I need to stop being fucking stupid, how I need to cry, how I don’t want to cry, how I’m not depressed, how it doesn’t make sense that I feel depressed but I’m not depressed, how I’m going to go eat even though I’m not hungry, how I just wish I could punch someone, anyone, right in the face and just take them to the ground and keep hitting and hitting and hitting until maybe I loose feeling in my hands and then I’ll have something to focus on other than this shit in my head.

Music keeps me in reality right now.

I’ll always love music.

How do I hide this from people? I must be a fucking mastermind.

Jotting that down helped a little. I don’t think I’m going to murder anyone anymore. But damn am I fed up with this shit.

I said I was going to be more truthful to myself and this is about as truthful as it gets. I can’t take this shit. There’s the fucking truth.

That helped a little tiny bit. It did. For the time being.

Nope. Fucking WordPress froze as I was adding tags. Pissed off again. Thanks stupid motherfucker.

I swear to God. I swear. If this computer wasn’t 600 dollars I’d fucking smash it to the ground and jump on it and punch it and then throw it out the window and into someone’s car just so I could have justification to fuck up their car too. If WordPress was a person, they’d be fucked right now.