Tell ’em

What are some of the strangest reactions you’ve had when you’ve told someone your mental health story?

Do you tell people your story? I know plenty who do not, and for good reason: we’re not exactly the most understood people out there.

But see, I like shocking people. I like making them uncomfortable, watching them squirm. And so I often tell my story to strangers, especially if they approach me on the street trying to hit on me. How do I do it? Well, here’s the way it usually goes.

“Hi, I’m Dave, can I ask your name?”

“Hi Dave, I’m Alishia, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too. What are you up to today? Any plans for tonight?”

“No real plans, just some relaxation. It’s my day off today.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you work?”

*Insert Cheshire Cat smile in my head*

“I work at a peer respite house.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, you see we support people who are apart of the county mental health system.”

“That sounds nice. Did you go to school for that?”

“You have to have lived mental health experiences. We do get trained, but we also have to have lived with some mental health challenges ourselves.”

And if that doesn’t make them uncomfortable, if they don’t glance away or squirm or do any of the body language symbols that means I’ve got them by the neck I mention my psychosis. That usually gets them.

What are the benefits and disadvantages to doing this? I don’t see many disadvantages. I of course wouldn’t do this in a professional setting were I applying for some big time job that isn’t mental health related, I’m aware most people have some serious misconceptions of who someone with mental health issues is. But I do it to people I meet or people I’m meeting because I’m not someone who sees my mental health as a disadvantage or something to hide. I see it as something to embrace, something to be fully, wholly comfortable with.

I don’t run down the street screaming I’m crazy, even if that’s what it sounds like. But if the topic comes up in conversation, I casually mention my struggles, and if people struggle with accepting them, that’s not really my problem.

How did I become comfortable with this? I wasn’t in high school. I didn’t like telling people I had anxiety around people because I thought it was a weakness and I didn’t want to expose my weakness for people to play target practice with. I didn’t start getting comfortable until I turned twenty and was forced to tell my boss at the amusement park I was working at so that I could get accommodations. The way he responded was very understanding, and I regret leaving that job without really giving any proper notice.

Sometimes all it takes is one moment in time.

Sometimes all it takes is a little risk.

People will react badly. And if you already know that, you’re already 10 steps ahead of everyone else. And that’s today’s Mental Truth.



Well, hello, hello, hello.

It’s been a while.

How have you all been? Good? Bad? Horrendous?

I’ve been incredibly busy. Work is picking up and I’m getting a little better at the procedures. The bosses are a little stressed about all the new people still having to be trained and not being fully independent yet, but we’re all managing.

I never imagined to be part of a business at this level before. The thing about having consistent anxiety since before social development (4 yrs old or so), is that we grow up in the position of a dependent. We need constant reassurance before we are comfortable doing something, to the point where it develops into a very timid type of perfectionism. And that, left untouched, develops into procrastination perfectionism: you only do it if you can do it perfectly, and if you can’t do it perfectly well then it necessarily follows that you won’t do it.


That’s what always gets me about working.

Within the first two months of any job, any volunteer position, I’m ready to give up. The pressure grows. I’m expected to function smoothly on my own and I’m expected to solve problems without the eye of a trainer or partner over my shoulder checking my every move.

I don’t know how I feel about independence. I crave it, I fantasize about it, but whenever it’s placed in my hands I left it slip through my fingers. It’s a painful, repetitive process.

So I want to push myself past the two month mark. I want to fill out my full seasonal position and at least work throughout the summer and then make a decision on whether or not I can continue to handle it. I want to prove to myself that my anxieties and depression will no longer hold me back from doing something I need to or want to. I want to prove that to the staff and to my boyfriend as well, but mostly to myself. Because none of them could know what I go through and how much I push myself just to get along every day.

gahan-wilson-grim-reaperBecause getting back on prescription medication just sounds like I’m signing my death warrant, I’ve decided I’ve got to start doing this naturally. I want to get back on a healthy diet, I want to continue exercising, and in the mean time I’ve taken up Passion Flower. It’s a supplement that works well to calm anxiety, particularly if you take it regularly. It’s non-habit forming, it’s prescription strength (for the majority of people) and it’s . . . well, a flower. It’s literally dried petals in a digestible pill capsule.

What makes me laugh is how health websites stress how dangerous supplements are, how they haven’t been studied extensively, how they could cause bad side effects, and yet they fail  to mention how their prescription medications haven’t been studied as extensively as they tell the public, how they also cause bad side effects and fatal ones like Serotonin Syndrome or Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome.

If they put as much effort into studying synthetic and natural medication as they did lying and turning the medical profession into a business, we’d have cures up the ass by now. 


That being said, if you don’t know things about grams/milligrams, half lifes, supplements and other such drug related things, I don’t suggest going to your local drug store and picking up a supplement just because I’m sitting here telling you Passion Flower works well for anxiety from my experience so far. Because, as I said, there can be side effects. The only difference is they’re not listed for you on a perfect little slip of pharmacy paper for you to reference.

And for God’s sake, stay away from Kava Kava.

I’m very fond of alternative medicines. I like reading the studies on them, I like doing research on them, and most importantly I enjoy trying them. Passion Flower is my favorite thus far. It acts on GABA: basically it’s a Benzo without the zombie feeling, without the total knock out, without the addiction, without the worry of serious withdrawal after years of use. It slows my mind down just enough to stop the consuming thoughts of work, of school, of how I’m not normal, of this, of that, of blah blah, all those negative thoughts you tell yourself over and over again that you eventually begin to believe.


I don’t want something to “Stop” my anxiety. I want something that can help me teach myself how to control it. And that, thus far, is what Passion Flower has given me the ability to do. My anxiety is part of me. It might keep me up all night, it might keep me from asking for help in classes, or participating, or even stepping out of my front door, but it’s still part of me. And I treat it with respect because of that fact.

I’m trying to stop being dependent, and as scary as it sounds to me, as much as I want to cry at the thought, I know it’s what’s best. I know I’ll be happier in the end. And part of not being dependent requires I don’t depend on my anxiety to be an excuse for why I can’t do something. I know my limits and I know when my anxiety tries to create new limits, I need to push through them in order to see it was never a limit in the first place. And whatever I have to do to get to that point in my life, I will do. Even if it means swallowing dried flowers that smell like fresh rotting corpse. To me, that’s better than swallowing synthetic chemicals that smell like four year old rotting corpse.

My Path

Shy Student Hiding Behind Note Cards During Class Presentati

As a Social Anxiety Enthusiast (by no choice of my own), I’ve spent countless hours wondering if I’m doing it right.

Am I socializing correctly? 

Is this how you’re supposed to stand?

Did I say the right thing?

How stupid did I sound?

Are they talking about me? Are they laughing at me?

Is it awkward I haven’t said anything yet? Better look around and check everyone’s eyes. Shit, you made eye contact, abort, abort, abort! 


Is a joke appropriate here? That joke was corny as fuck, and they laughed out of pity, better shut your mouth already.

Is it weird that I have no input? Can they tell I can’t think straight? Better just agree with the person next to you. Originality can wait.

Was my opinion too strong? Should I have not taken an absolutist’s point of view? At least Kant would agree with me. But he’s dead so how is that helping? Fuck, just get out of here already. 


It’s not just face to face contact, it spills over into emails as well. Blogs. Whenever my words come in contact with another person’s eyes or ears I’m worried of their substance. I’m worried if I appear as an average human to them and if I don’t . . .

Well, I’m not quite sure why my anxiety cares if I appear as an average human to people or not. Sure, I’ve always been confused on how to connect with my peers (since pre-school), but I don’t have a clear memory of caring whether or not people accepted me until late in elementary school. I believe that’s when I grew self-aware that I’m not like the others.

People determining my personality “shy” became an insult. When teachers requested I “speak up” I grew so enraged the rage fell out of my eyes as tears. School was no longer a place to learn, to grow, to develop, it became a house of trauma. 


I never grew out of it because it wasn’t something to grow out of. It was something that needed to be addressed that wasn’t.

They weren’t inside of my head, they didn’t know how much I could talk. The only way they could see an ounce of intelligence was through reading and writing, the fact that I ran circles around my peers. It kept my peers from finding reasons to bully me. I was never once bullied to the extent many other quite kids are. Perhaps because I bullied the bullies who attacked the little disabled girls who didn’t know how to stand up for themselves.

Maybe it was because I was with the kids with the tazers and the weed who hung out with the adults and pretended to be adults. Maybe it was because I exploded alcohol in the library, got told on, threatened the kids who told on me, and walked out of the principals office unscathed, no punishment, with the entirety of the school believing the snitches had just over-reacted. And, regardless of my anxiety, I would stand up for myself and if I didn’t, the people behind me would.


Did any of that help? No, it only isolated me further.


Once the cool kids moved onto high school and I was left with two more years in junior high alone. I had to establish my own personality and I couldn’t.

I wasn’t a stranger to being alone in my head. In fact, I quite liked it. I’d liked it since before I new school existed. I created worlds in my head I could never explain in words and they never went away. In fact, I continually retreat to them when I’m not sure what to do. They are the reason I can dissociate, blink, and wonder where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing and how time has passed without my recognition of it.

Although these worlds, and the people I’ve placed in them, have given me better advice than any physical adult has in my life, I wouldn’t want another child to grow up like I had and be forced to retreat into a fake world and merge their personality with the personality of the little people in their head. It comes with a price.

You think you’re “going crazy”. 


You ignore the fact that you’ve created them and although sometimes it feels you’re interacting with them on their own accord, as if they’re speaking with you freely, you’re the puppet master. You’re giving yourself advice and soothing yourself through the ruse of an imaginary character in your head. If that sounds confusing, imagine how it would be for a ten year old.

You get very used to being with yourself and talking with yourself, and not very used to speaking with other people or being open with other people to the point where you don’t see a point in trying anymore.

My anxiety was left unattended and depression joined me at age ten. If I were to choose the worst of the two, I couldn’t. They go hand-in-hand; they wouldn’t be as bad as they are if one didn’t exist.

In all honesty, I prefer depression. It’s soothing. It’s calm. You move slow, you think slow, nothing matters. If I wanted to spend my life like that, depression would be ideal. You know, minus the suicidal part of it all.

coping-with-anxiety-and-depression-722x406Anxiety has the capacity to frighten me because it snatches away all rationality. Depression doesn’t always do that to me. Anxiety urges my insomnia, it makes me pay attention to my heart rate, it makes me think the finest cut on my hand will contract the deadliest disease. I carry a USB file of all the files on my computer since 2009 with me at all times in case there’s a fire when I leave the house. I can’t keep a single thing neat. I can’t focus. The tiniest thing causes so much stress I end up doing nothing in hopes of quelling the stress and then stress out about the fact that I’m doing nothing. 

The seemingly unimportant behaviors I expressed as a child has birthed something much grander than expected.

It’s prevented me from writing the fiction I used to love to write. And this, you see, is taking it to a whole other level. Now, I’m pissed.

The reason I can’t find myself to write, the reason why it’s so hard for me to type this information about these thoughts right now, is because I feel I’m being watched.

Now, hear me out here. 

stock-vector-sketch-illustration-of-puppet-master-hand-256704700After speaking with a crisis line the other day (congratulations self, you didn’t blow your head off), they helped me realize the reason I’ve suddenly dropped all the things that used to keep me sane without even knowing they did. It’s not because I don’t have time for it, like I somehow convinced myself over the last few months, it’s because I’m convinced every (fictional) sentence I write, every idea I come up with, is being judged by someone who has either passed on into whatever afterlife there may (or may not) be or by the fictional characters I’m writing about.

It could be the result of unattended anxiety. And it probably is. But I found it odd because when I tried to rationalize my way out of it, I find no loophole. 

It’s all spiraling out of control. This is why I’m a strong advocate for educating teachers on mental health. I’m a huge advocate of preventative care done right. Back in 1999, 2000, I wouldn’t have expected any of my teachers to predict this or to recognize those behaviors.

But it’s 2016. We have stylish electric cars, we have smartphones that interact with Virtual Reality headsets. We’ve teleported messages between particles.

I think we can give our teachers and the public a little more education on mental health.

Genuine Motives To The Rescue


Let’s talk.


There is a very reasonable, very practical, very intelligent reason why I wish to speak with you all.

A very, very intelligent reason:

I just got off work and don’t feel like doing homework.


Great reason, right? Just agree with me, you’ll live longer.

Anyway, the first thing I do when I get out of work beside thank all the Gods and Cosmic Minds for letting me get out of that hell hole without having something mentally damaging happen is grab my phone.

I don’t check Twitter often, but when I do it’s because I’m bored and letting my car warm up. There was a bunch of stuff in my feed talking about the joke Bernie Sanders made at the democratic debate tonight. That I missed. Because I was too busy being a good little slave.

Just for the record, I’m neither against or for any parties of any political affiliation, I just point out the facts as each side presents them. I could care less to pledge my allegiance and loyalty to anything. 

But Sanders decided it would be a good idea to crack a joke at his opposing team (The Republicans) by saying if he was elected president, he’d make sure a lot of money would go towards mental health. He added that the republicans were the reason why we need to invest in mental health.

My first reaction:


Because the man isn’t lying. Come on now. Get off your high horse for a second and really, really fucking think about this. 

Trump: the epitome of an egoist. He’s incapable of considering the consequences of his actions/words, and if he does consider them he’s blatantly ignoring that part of his conscience. He has an insatiable need for attention to be on him and he’ll open his mouth to anything for that cause. Are you telling me we don’t have disorders listed in the DSM that are specified towards those who say/do outrageous things for the sake of attention? Whether he’s a spoiled fucking sewer rat with balls the size of peanuts and a brain to match doesn’t matter.

The KKK endorsed him and people outraged over the fact that he didn’t reject them. Why the hell would he? He wants attention, popularity, and endorsements. It doesn’t matter by who, he just wants the numbers and the attention.


Carson: Another attention seeker for the sake of being watched. I hear so much about these two candidates I honestly have no clue who else is running on the republican side. And they wanted it that way. They wanted to run the show and that’s what they’re doing; everyone is eating of their hand, even me–I’m talking about them. Everyone is.

When I step out of my house, the whisper of someone saying Trumps name slaps me across the face and the whisper of someone saying Carson’s name kicks me in the shin. I mean, come on people, stop this insanity. You should be thanking these two for showing you how half-assed our political system is. I can sum it up in two lines:

“Oh, you have money? Yes, yes, you run, you run good, be good for country! You . . . you have brain? You go . . . you go in dirt or . . .  or something, fuck off.”

Cut The Shit, Society

Are you telling me their self-centered, egotistical, histrionic, narcissistic, whatever kind of behavior you want to label it as, isn’t listed somewhere in some psychology textbook as a mental health issue? We have a lot of them and they sure like to get thrown around a lot, so why don’t we toss some on the elite groups while we’re at it?

And when I say Elite group, for the love of God I do not mean Charlie Sheen. 


The main argument against Sanders’ comment was that he’s perpetuating stigma and  portraying those with mental disorders as dangerous.

I don’t know where everyone is getting the dangerous aspect. I felt more like he was calling us idiots rather than dangerous. Carson and Trump and the rest of the morons aren’t a threat to anyone except themselves. Stupidity can explode your mind, did you know that?

Give a personality profile or an MMPI2 or whatever you like to test people with and see how many different “disordered” people you could find in C.E.O positions. And I’m not talking depression, I’m talking Antisocial Personality Disorder. Because there’s a lot of them.

So the problem here isn’t necessarily that Sanders insulted half of the population on Earth. The problem is that we see mental health patients as lower members of society. We see them as low enough to use the entirety of the population as an insult towards stupid people.

bandwagonSo before everyone jumps on the “WTF Sanders” bandwagon, take a step back and look at yourself. Even I’m guilty of having called someone or something ADD or OCD.

Because we’ve attached these bad connotations to mental disorders in general, they get used improperly and inappropriately. Obviously calling someone who keeps their house clean “OCD” doesn’t portray the actual struggles of OCD.

And because we, those of us with mental disorders, have gotten so horribly used to having a negative connotation behind our disorders, we start stigmatizing ourselves. We call ourselves sick and ill and separate ourselves from the rest of the population.

So if people in the spotlight can put us down, and if we put ourselves down . . . how can anyone be confused on why mental health care hasn’t been paid attention to? On why people still use the terms “crazy” and “psychotic” to describe simple things?

If they aren’t going to lift you up, and you aren’t going to lift you up then you better get used to the fucking pits of hell because no one else is going to come to your rescue. 


Yes, I struggle. Yes, I’ve done this, I’ve done that, I have depression, I have anxiety disorders, I have insomnia and attention deficits. I’m paranoid (I left my drink in the fridge at work and refused to drink out of it the next day because I’m fairly certain the water wasn’t left at the level I left it at and someone poisoned the fuck out of it) and I have harmless hallucinations (spiders on the door that apparently my mother didn’t see, and I always see the clock as a different time than it is. Don’t trust me with the time. I thought it was 7:11 when it was 6:40. I saw 7:11. Twice. Maybe that’s a code. Guys were installing more cameras today and messing around with the computers, don’t get me started.), self-harm, suicide, yada-fucking-yada, you all know this already! You’ve experienced it one way or another yourself.

But I’ve never once called myself sick. I’m not going to accept a label someone who has never experienced what I have decided to stick on me.

While it’s all well and nice to point out the bullshit society says about us, like Sander’s joke, it’s better that we focus on pumping up our own self-esteem about what we struggle with. How are we supposed to assert ourselves if we’re not even confident and consistent in how we lash back at them?

I’ll run in 2020 against Kanye. Don’t worry, I’ll slice the military industrial complex, defile the army’s budget, and send it into community services. Then I’ll rule the world.

Oh shit. Ignore that last part.

My motives are totally genuine, you guys. Totally.


An Anxious Day


Today is an anxiety day.

I’m not sure if I’ve had one of these since I’ve started this blog, so if you’re just now reading my masterpieces, welcome to hell.

There are many things I love about keeping this blog. I can connect with people on a personal level otherwise unobtainable through verbal communication (for me), and we can exchange woes in a healthy fashion, examine each other’s behavior and learn from it. We can feel included in the world. I spew personal rants, which can go in odd direction (hence, 10 questions for Cannibals) or I can be informative and quite possibly helpful, as I’ve made attempts in the past with Be a Teacher, Not a Scapegoat.

I provide a mix on this site to show the truth behind struggling day to day with mental health and to provide a safe space to learn and perhaps think about mental health in a different way. I first started it as a way to communicate information but soon realized that didn’t do much good if people didn’t see I was a real person with similar struggles.

Therefore, I will be truthful with you all: Today is an anxiety day.


All the textbooks and published articles in the world could never give you enough factual information to help you deal with these kinds of days. You learn through experience and by listening to yourself.

I practice the art of repression.

abstract-art-hd-background-wallpaper-55Yes, it’s an art, and it takes years to master. That being said, I’m not proud of my maladaptive coping strategies, in fact they are the reason I sit before you at this computer tonight with my leg jiggling and my mind racing. When presented with stress I internalize it to it’s fullest and it hides in the dusty corner by the caged beast, seeping into the gooey fibers of my brain, waiting to wreck havoc on my physical self.

All of my panic attacks and lesser anxiety attacks have stemmed from a reason, I’ve come to learn this. For example, they happen around the same time every four months: when a new semester is starting.

They’ve been with me since I got off Lexapro and they’ve developed a pattern of hitting me the week before a new semester. Just the other day I was wondering when I was going to get hit with heart fluttering panic.

You all know how I am about my health. If you’re just tuning in and haven’t yet experienced the beauty of my health anxiety rants, just know I’m terrified of developing a disease or a sickness that could permanently scar or kill me.

72b894e855438a3b406efc18becaaabeThe thing about panic is it makes your heart race. The thing about my heart racing is that I immediately assume something is wrong. Did the heart racing start before the anxiety or did the anxiety cause the increase in heart rate? The line gets blurry even though I’m 95% sure the anxiety came first. It’s been building up and building up and I’ve been shoving it down and shoving it down.

I do have a slightly faster heart rate than others (just natural, I assume, plus I need to exercise more) and it picks up the pace at the slightest hint of anxiety, and if I take a shower when I’m anxious and steam up the room it beats faster. Then when I sit down, I feel like it skips a beat and that makes me even more nervous: your heart skipping a beat because you change positions is not exactly a good sign. Fluctuations in blood pressure and heart valve functioning should go relatively smooth, smoother than that at at least. Maybe it’s normal, I don’t know. I’d like to talk to a physician about it. Just on the off chance: anyone else experience that?

I never have chest pains or shortness of breath. Even if I am hit with a hard panic attack, I’m never in any kind of pain. It only happens once or twice every three or four months, and because I’m prone to high anxiety that can sometimes hit out of nowhere, because I’ve never had a problem with my heart growing up, because it didn’t ever show inconsistency when it was racing at 164 beats per minute in the hospital, I’m really inclined to believe my anxiety has a lot to do with this.

stress-level-smallerRegardless of the fact, those little incidents increase my anxiety. Ever since it happened today, my anxiety level has been through the roof. I have to keep moving, keep thinking, or else I focus on my heart beat.

The funny thing is, it only ever seems to go fast or skip a beat when I pay attention to it. How much of what I experience is reality and how much of it is induced? That’s a constant question that ravages my mind.

I’ve also developed a cold. This is not a good night. 

So I breathe. I practice the breathing techniques and I divert my mind away from my physical self. I grab my mental magnifying glass and fly over my cortex searching for clues. What brought out the anxiety? Is that why my mind was attacked by a conglomeration of dreams last night?

One thing came to mind:


Like I said, it happens ever four months. I’m worried they’re not going to give me my money because of how much I fucked up last semester. I’m worried about keeping up with my work this time. I found out I’d only signed up for 11 units when I thought I had 12 (that’s a full-time student), so I had to sign up for another class, which is a Health Services class about street and prescription drugs and their effects on the body, the organs, mental health and emotional health. It sounded interesting so I signed up. I hate doing things quickly. I hate not being able to research the professor and the class and having to do things last minute. That’s stressful.

It’s in HW2000, room 2214.

specificsI have no idea where that is. There is HW1 and HW2. I’m assuming by “2” they mean “2000” building. They’re not very specific. That stresses me out.

I don’t have a job or money to pay for my books if they don’t give me my financial aid. That stresses me out.

I didn’t accomplish what I wanted to over the break. That stresses me out.

How do I calculate where my anxiety comes from? The level of leg shake I get in relation to thinking about certain topics. My body and I have a system. It’s a master at it and I’m still learning. Judging by the shake of my leg, school is the culprit at the moment.

On top of that, I hate how useless I’ve been feeling and how tired of dealing with all this shit I am. I hate that I can’t sleep at night or wake up in time to go outside in the sun. I hate that I keep clenching my teeth (another sign of my repressed anxieties).

manque-sommeil-effetsAs much as I love being abnormal, I hate how much stress that puts on life. I hate that I can’t get through the day like the average person and I hate how I feel sick and fatigued even though I’m a generally healthy (I fucking hope) 20 year old.

All these things I tell myself not to think about will, inevitably, be thought about, either in a form of a mental thought or the form of physical repercussions. Where can you shove a thought? It has nowhere to go. It doesn’t spill out of your ear as much as you’d like it to. It seeps into your muscles and your brain and your fingers and it travels through your Central Nervous System until you burn it’s energy in some manner.

Plus my sinuses feel like someone’s stuffed super glue in them.

So I give thanks to the opportunity to write this out and put it in front of my eyes and make me feel what I try so desperately not to feel.

Except the sinuses. That could kindly go away.

90% of the time there’s a reason for anxiety. It’s there so your body can speak to you. It doesn’t speak English, it speaks cells and physical sensations. You have to learn to be bilingual.

Right now it’s telling me I still haven’t developed the proper techniques to handle my stress. I respect what it tells me and I listen to what it tells me.

It’s one of the reasons I quit medication. With me, it put up a blockade between myself and my body. How am I supposed to know what I need to work on if my body is prevented from telling me?

I’ll tell you right now: it’s amazing how much better I feel just reading these words to myself.

Mental Illness Awareness Week = M.C. Hammer

Apparently I’m a weird eater. I had two pieces of pepperoni pizza with a fruit tart with custard in it. I eat them simultaneously: You know, I tear off a piece of the pizza and cut a piece of tart and put them in my mouth at the same time. I thought everyone ate like that. I thought everyone proportioned their food too: you know, if you’re eating macaroni and broccoli and . . . I don’t know,  burger, you eat a bite of macaroni, a bite of broccoli, and a bite of burger until you finish all three components at the same time. Apparently people don’t do that either.

On a completely unrelated note, I don’t know how I feel about MTV promoting mental health advocacy. Don’t get me wrong, we need the recognition . . . but is it the right kind of recognition? I don’t have cable, so I don’t know if they’ve been doing specials or something, but I read a “personal story” of a girl with “extreme social anxiety disorder”. It was sponsored by MTV or some shit. Something. Dude, I don’t know, I don’t pay attention to anything half the time. Whatever.

Anyway, do we really need some multi-billion dollar industry taking a few minutes out of their day to talk about tolerance and respect and dignity? They don’t give a shit, they’re just doing it because they have to. It makes them look good. What about the rest of the year? Do they ever mention it? Like I said, I don’t have cable, so maybe they do and I just don’t know about it. But I’ve only not had cable for a year; MTV couldn’t have changed that much, could it have?

I miss HeadBangers ball and Celebrity DeathMatch and TRL . . . I could tolerate those shows. I even enjoyed the VMA’s up until about 2006. Shit man, that network just rolls around in its own feces now. There’s no music. And when there is, it’s . . . Drake and Minaj and Taylor Swift.

Mental Illness awareness week . . .


You mean mental health pay-a-fucking-ttention year.

365 days.

Those of us fighting with our mental health don’t get a week to say “oh, wow, no mental disorder today, fucking awesome man, I’m going to go eat some ice cream and pet some donkeys!”

No, we deal with it every day on a consistent basis and although I love that people are kind of starting to talk more about mental health, I hate that it’s this “one shot” bullshit. There’s nothing wrong with advocating mental health everyday. Doing it for a week (when most people don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about) is like . . . a Vine video. It happens for about seven seconds and then it’s gone and an hour later you don’t remember what just happened.

I went through my Vine addiction phase. When my cable first got cut off I started watching two hour long YouTube videos of just Vines. Talk about some mind numbing shit. By the time I pulled my eyes away from my phone screen I couldn’t tell my foot from my ass. Then I’d pass out, wake up, and watch Vines as I got ready for class. When I had breaks, I went to my car, huddled in my hermit shell, and watched some more Vines. I mean it was bad. They need a Vineadone clinic for Vine addiction because that was one of the hardest things to stop.

The point is, a week is not enough. A day is not enough. We need people to get serious about this topic, we don’t need some annual one-hit-wonder Mc Hammer Vanilla Ice bullshit.

And what about the stories they’re sharing? Are they ones that paint a picture of: 1) Person has problem 2) Person suffers with problem 3) person finally gets diagnosed 4) person takes medication 5) person is better 6) person advocates mental health and that’s it?

Sure, that’s some people’s stories. But it’s not everyone’s story. They need variety, especially if they’re focusing on teens and young adults. They need people who take medication, who don’t take medication, who want medication, who oppose medication, who got good treatment, who got bad treatment . . . they need to have variety or else they’re not showing reality.

Which, I mean . . .it’s MTV . . .birthplace of Jersey Shore . . . you’re not going to get much reality working with these Giraffe necked, bird-brained monkeys.

My story is much different than this girls.

For example, when I entered high school, my worst fears had nothing to do with being a girl who still hadn’t ever had her first kiss or first relationship. Well, I had had my first kiss a year before but I mean, you’re a KID, that shit doesn’t count, not at 13. Having severe social anxiety, my worry had nothing to do with superficial bullshit like that. I couldn’t even speak with people lest they spoke with me, let alone calling my mother to come get me because some boy tried kissing me or whatever she says in her story.

I’m not trying to sound like I’m ragging on her, we all have our own stories, but . . . I just don’t understand people who focus on that kind of stuff. That’s not social anxiety . . . that’s a product of your environment. If you’re that worried about relationships that young–come on, now. Too much MTV.

I self-harm and often get suicidal just like that girl, I have been since I was 12, and I’ve never been hospitalized. Because I don’t tell people. And people don’t ever see it, because I hide everything. I’m a hermit. I’m in my little shell. When I’m depressed I lay in bed and I don’t talk to people. Because if I talk, I might say the wrong thing. I don’t scream in a fit “I’m going to kill myself!”. If I was going to kill myself, I’d just do it. Which is why I often contact chat support. It’s obvious she wanted help since she had the courage . . . or carelessness . .  to let her parents see what she was going through.

No offense to this girl, but I haven’t heard one thing that indicates social anxiety. Perhaps the beginning of her story when she was talking about standing out on the street while her sister went and knocked on the neighbors door to see if they wanted to buy some girl-scout cookies.

But the fact that she had relationships, that she talked to people . . . well, just kind of hard to believe it’s severe social anxiety.

People bullied her. That could contribute to depression and anxiety. The fact that people cyber-bullied her online to the point where she tried to commit suicide . . . also depression. Don’t see how medication helps people stop bullying you.

Bulling is horrible, it ruins people. Cyber bullying is worse. Anxiety is horrible, depression is horrible. And with all the social pressures teenagers go through now with Facebook and mobile phones and blah, blah, blah, I don’t think it’s uncommon for them to react like her. But here’s the thing. There’s a difference between Endogenous depression and depression from environment. Last resort treatment like medication is good for Endogenous depression.

That is no Endogenous depression. I’d be depressed too if people were telling me to kill myself because I was worthless, especially if I was fourteen, already prone to anxiety, and freaking out about the hormone fueled zits popping up on my face.

I mean, when I was in middle school cutting yourself was something you did to be in the “in” crowd. I’m not kidding. I was eleven when I first cut myself because my friends were doing it. Then when I actually started getting really depressed, I started doing it because, well, it took my mind off things for a while. Gave me something to focus on. When I got older I resorted to punching shit, kicking shit, or burning myself.

She says she wants to be a spokesperson for those who are like her. I would love for her to speak out about her issues. However, I would like her not to use “Severe social anxiety” as her diagnosis.

I haven’t yet met one person with social anxiety whose social anxiety is better after medication. What it does do is make you feel a little calmer. Might make you a little numb so that depression doesn’t tug at you as bad. That’s not changing your mindset. And when you’re dealing with anxiety and depression, mindset is key.

I know, I talk a lot of shit about medication, but only because it’s being misused. Save antidepressants for someone whose life is going perfect and still can’t find themselves to get happy. Save anti-anxiety medications for people who can’t lay on their bed at night without worrying the springs in the mattress are going to pierce their heart while sleeping. Leave the Anti-psychotics and Mood Stabilizers for people who suffer from full blown Mania and people who disconnect with reality so often they also don’t know their foot from their ass.

Don’t teach young people that they should get on medication because they have a diagnosis. Teach young people their “mental disorder” (more like, ‘rough patch in their life’ and mild anxiety) is nothing to be ashamed of, it’s nothing they should consider ” a flaw”. It’s something to work on, it’s a part of them they need to accept and they need to put some effort into improving.

Now, if your teenager is staying up all night for a few weeks, making noises like a monkey, and threatening to murder you in your sleep . . . maybe think about some medication. Or . . . padlocks on your door.

Or let MTV hire them. I’m sure they’d fit right in.

I Will Never Have A Career In Graphic Art . . . Obviously

There are two things I will never understand in this world.

  1. Stupid people
  2. Really stupid people

Now, I don’t usually sit here and waste my time talking about your average stupid person, mostly because they’re average and tend to pop up anywhere you go. You know, like that one person who stops to talk with their friend in the middle of the walkway and doesn’t care to move to the side to let the fifty people behind her pass. Or that one person who sits in the middle of the staircase and talks on their phone. They’re you’re average stupid–I’m sure we’ve all been guilty of doing something of that nature a few times in our lives. So we’re all stupid, if that makes this post feel any less . . .offensive.

But then there are the people who are a special kind of stupid. They live under rocks and poke their head out every once in a while just to lock eyes on their prey. When they find them, (the prey is usually me) they smirk to themselves, spend all night laying out the blue prints of their evil plan, and put up all their traps while I’m still tossing and turning in my unsound sleep. When I wake up, I can smell their pheromones. It’s a pungent scent, something like . . . rotting eggplant someone tried to spritz with Brittney Spears perfume.

And the next thing you know, I’m pulling out into the street and some crazy lady speeding down my residential street slams on her brakes and gives me an evil look. I back up accordingly. I give the car next to me an evil look. Do you know why I give the car next to me an evil look? I give the car next to me an evil look because his stupid ass is parked in the red zone.

Well, here’s the thing about my driveway. If you park in the red zone, the street is not visible.

People these days are driving Tesla’s and Priuses, how the fuck am I supposed to hear if a car is coming?

This is better done with a visual, hold up.

First picture tale of car red zone

Stop laughing at my fucking drawing skills.

Now, as you can see, there is a really obvious red zone. People are not supposed to park in the red zone. I gave up believing this is for emergency services (I’ve called them enough to know they just pull in the parking lot) and started believing this is for the safety of people pulling out of the lot, because if even one car parks in that zone, you cannot see any traffic coming towards you. Now unless they’re stuck in the fifties and driving a clunker, you’re also not going to hear them. So let me now give you my view of this situation:

front of car

No matter how far you inch out, you will not see around this big fucker. This is not a one time thing, this is something that happens every other morning. I understand there is not a lot of parking in this neighborhood. The spaces in my apartment complex are paid for, so the people who paid for them get special spots. The rest of us Hunger-Game it out until we get a free spot, hence why I often park next to a spider infested bush in front of the street. Sometimes I have to park a block away and walk my ass. But at least I’m not a lazy asshole and park in literally the only spot, THE ONLY SPOT, on the ENTIRE STREET where you’re not supposed to.

not amused

They usually live across the street. They take their junk out of their backyard and put it on our yard, they park their cars on our side of the street, and they blast their fucking party music all night long. There’s something wrong with that apartment complex. They’re all whacked out on coke or something.

I have no tolerance for inconsiderate behavior. These people are lucky I haven’t seen their car yet. Because the moment they park in that red zone again and almost cause an accident is a moment they get a very distressed, sarcastic, and quite possibly offensive note from me warning the next time they do so I’ll alert the police. Or take a hammer to their fenders and a knife to their tires. At least I’m nice enough to give a warning.

I’m not one to have the police solve my problems for me, but I am one to have stupid people fined for their stupidity. It’s better than getting sent to jail for vandalism.

On five hours of sleep, I can’t handle this shit.

I skipped chem lab today for two reasons: 1)I’m tired as fuck; 2) My lab partner isn’t going to be there and I don’t want to be a loner! I hate merging into new groups, I hate it, I hate it, and I refuse to do it. I don’t care if it’s a maladaptive behavior to avoid what makes me anxious, I don’t have the energy to put up with that level of anxiety today.

It makes me anxious that half of the time I have to fight with these posts to even get them to show up under the tags I tag them with.

It makes me anxious that I have to fight with Microsoft/Xbox to get my ten dollars back for a game I bought on this PC that won’t open in the full version (only the trial version) even after I bought it. Now come on Bill Gates; how many billions of dollars do you have? Give me my fucking ten dollars back. Don’t make me take this to the supreme court, because I’m just crazy enough to do that.

This is why I’ve been a PlayStationer since I was six years old and first held a controller and shot little green and tan army men. PlayStation is Love; PlayStation is Life. Xbox is worthless.

Sorry, if you’re all into Xbox live and all that stupid shit. Sure, I’m pissed I have to pay 50 dollars for a PlayStation plus subscription in order to play online whenever I get a PlayStation 4, but it’s still better than Xbox. A donkey taking a shit on my burger made of ground rotted human flesh is better than Xbox. I think you get my drift.

Also their controller is dumb.

I will say I’m more for PC than Mac, but more inclined to buy Intel than AMD . . .as I sit on a PC with the latest AMD processor. Whatever. There’s not a computer in the world worth the amount of money apple demands. I paid less for my fucking car. That’s not a joke. I got a used car for less than I could get an Apple computer. Let that sink in. Just let it sink in.

For the record, my car runs great and isn’t a junker. I paid $1600. Best Buy wants $2000 for a Mac.

That is all.

P.S I swear to God if this post doesn’t post under the tags I gave it, I’m going to explode some hookers.

Don’t Ask Stupid Questions

Politics. Politics, politics, politics.

The word leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. I think it leaves a bitter taste on most people’s tongue, especially if you’re in the U.S.

You might say you don’t care about politics, you might even avoid watching specific news channels because of it, but if you’re in the U.S, there’s a problem with that: we’re supposed to be a democracy. Now, if you’ve taken a moment to observe even the slightest bit of our government you’d see we’re more of a Corporate Capitalist society, with some um . . . disgraceful attempts at socialism.

But, because we still insist on calling ourselves democratic, ignoring politics means you’re not getting a say in a government that is supposed to be run by you. After all, “One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors” as mah boy Plato says. It’s no wonder they get away with so much bullshit; hardly anyone opposes them. The only people investing time into politics are the people who are either extremely left or extremely right. There are some obscure middle ground people and third party people, but let’s be honest, how much influence do they have?

Too much money involved in campaigns (not as if people are going to get together and oppose it) and too many corrupt bastards sipping coffee and jerking each other off in congress (not that people are going to get together and oppose it).

As I’ve said before, we’re a very individualistic society. Sociology does a pretty good job of explaining why that world view is so primitive and selfish. You can tell little Bobby he can be whatever he wants and he can, but I’ll tell you there’s going to be a big difference if little Bobby is white and grew up in a house in the suburbs versus if little Bobby was black and grew up in the inner city. We don’t talk about the fact that red lining black neighborhoods in the thirties, forties, and fifties and having real estate representatives sneaking up to white people’s houses and telling them “come live in the suburbs, there’s less crime because it’s less . . . ethnic” still has an influence on how races are perceived and how far someone of color can go in today’s society in the United States. Don’t believe me? Look it up. Suburbs were created as a white haven.

So what do politics have to do with mental illness?

Don’t ever ask me that question, that’s a dumb question. Teachers tell you there are no such thing as dumb questions but let’s be real here; if I’m holding an apple in my hand and you walk up to me and you see it’s an apple and you still ask me “what’s in your hand?” I’m going to smack you. That’s a dumb question.

Politics have everything to do with mental illness. The elite created the term mental illness. They called you ill, and they still do.

So, as we cower in the dark corner over here, cold, trapped, alone, wondering whether or not sanity it exists, whether or not we’ve lost it, and for some of us, whether or not we even exist (I’m a frequent visitor of that line of questioning), they’re telling us who we are, what we should take, how we should live, and most importantly, how intense our symptoms must be to even quality as “ill”. Yep, that’s right, there’s an application process to being labeled. It’s not about whether or not your symptoms cause you distress, it’s about whether or not you fit into a category that warrants medication use–and therefore, profit.

But beyond the corruption within the system that you all know I could spend days upon days talking shit about, there’s another major problem. We’ve become a scapegoat. All of us, not just the mentally disturbed people participating in all these mass shootings.

Now, I wasn’t going to do a post on this shit because honestly I get sick of saying things that should be so obvious.

If I shot up my community college (which I would never do; sure I can’t stand school, but that’s not everyone else’s problem), what’s the first thing out of my mouth while I’m in the interrogation unit? “The voices told me to”.

I mean, it’s an easy out. If you can fake it in front of a psychiatrist, if you’ve been acting strange around your friends, family, or better yet if you had no friends and family, you might just be able to pull it off.

On the other hand, maybe the voices did tell you to do it. In which case you’d just be a murderer, not a murderer and a liar. So, I guess that’s a plus for you.

To commit that level of atrocity, you’d have to be a little disturbed, I’ll be the first one to admit that. Does that make it right to start blaming every person with schizophrenia who may or may not have been violent, or every person with Bipolar disorder who may or may not be violent, or every person with Asperger’s/Autism who may or may not be violent, or every Borderline Personality who may or may not be violent, for this kind of shit?

I agree with Liza Long’s opinion. I don’t see mass shootings as a gun control problem or a background check problem, or any of that bullshit, I see it as the result of a “society that has failed to help our most vulnerable”. She’s absolutely right that these tragic incidents are “the price of our silence”. As much as I love keeping my mouth shut and observing, there are sometimes big consequences for doing so.

If these politicians and such love statistics so fucking much, why don’t they read their own studies and realize that people with mental disorders are much more likely to be a victim of a crime than to commit one. Take that check to your fat pig bank and cash it. 

If anything, this kind of media coverage pinning mental disturbance as the reason for a mass shooting only fuels an ongoing ignorance that, in turn, fuels stigma. We’re the scapegoat, I’m telling you. Instead of pushing treatment for those suffering from severe mental disorders or for those suffering at all, instead of funding projects to help with early intervention, instead of helping teach society the truth behind living with a mental health disorder, they decide to keep on pumping up our military industrial complex and stress the importance of background checks. Because you see, it’s not societies problem that your son just went off the rails–you should have gotten him help (because it’s so easy to get help these days), he should have gotten himself help. It’s not societies problem the gun shop dude didn’t do a thorough enough background check, that’s his problem. Nothing is ever societies problem, it’s always the individual’s problem.

And that, my friends, is what makes the idea of the American Dream, the idea of Corporate Capitalism, the idea of half-assed Socialism that isn’t even social enough to be considered Socialism, the idea of Individualism as the golden trait of humanity, so dangerous.

There is a huge difference between individualism and being an individual.

I agree with C. Wright Mills: Our private issues need to be public. How do we expect to grow as a society when everyone is trampling over each other? In kindergarten we were taught that “sharing is caring”. So . . . what the fuck happened with that?

It’s not pathetic to need help. It is pathetic that we, as a society, see no need to put effort into helping those that need help. It’s pathetic that we as a society can’t see that we’ve helped certain people, races even, be privileged, and let the others hang out to dry. Every single coward in congress is pathetic.

I’ve stated it once and I’ll state it again: I never regret a word of what I write.

It’s obvious these dumbasses just want schools to keep getting shot up. Yeah, let the people run up in the elementary school and kill some kids. Give an address to the public. Have a representative from the government express grievance to the families. Go home, take a bath in your hundreds, and kiss your wife goodnight. Hope she doesn’t sit in a theater tomorrow and get shot in the back of the head. Wake up the next morning, help your kids get breakfast and send them off to their nice white private school where they’re safe from any violent schizophrenics wandering around. Sit in your seat in congress, jack off your neighbor, and go home.

Don’t take a moment to think about all the families whose children aren’t going to join them at the dinner table anymore. Don’t take a moment to think about all the families whose mentally disturbed children are branded for life as murderers, who are slandered in the media, who are stuck behind bars, in institutions, for the remainder of their life because that agency you stole funding from to put an extra couple million towards our dormant nuclear war heads couldn’t hold their foundation any longer and turned away several struggling, mentally “ill” people and their families. Don’t take a moment to think one of the citizens to be turned away shot up little Bobby’s school yesterday.

Anti-Social people can really be full of themselves, very narcissistic. They need control to thrive and the government is no different. There’s only one way to put out a fire: take away the oxygen; there’s only one way to stop an Anti-Social personality on a rampage: take away their control. I’m not advocating violent revolution, but I am advocating revolution of thought. Don’t be lazy. It’s not their government, it’s our government. It’s not their country, it’s our country. It’s not their mental health policies, it’s our mentally “ill” families, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, and selves getting dicked around.

I say we slip a few Risperdal in some official’s coffee. Maybe it’ll help squander their psychotic thoughts. It’ll for sure help with their addiction to whacking it.

Some of them might need something stronger. I’ll have the Haldol and Thorazine on hold for them. Don’t worry, I’m almost a doctor, they’ll be fine.

My point? Politics and Mental Health go hand in hand. Get educated. It’ll help in the long term much more than a protest. You can’t get arrested for learning. At least, not anymore.

I Could Never Be A Serial Killer

Another night of five hours of sleep birthed extravagant dreams of me and my boyfriend going on a murdering spree (he started it). It’s my fault, I watched too many serial killer documentaries.

I think I do better on tests after a short amount of sleep and some murdering dreams. Because I fucked the shit out of that Integral test. I apologize for the vulgarity if you are the sensitive type, but that’s the best way I can describe how hardcore I breezed through that shit.

Now, if this is overconfidence speaking than think how thoroughly disappointed I’m going to feel next Monday when I get that crap back with a big F stamped on it.

No, it was much too easy. There was only one problem I got completely stumped on and even then I winged it well enough to get at least partial credit. I felt bad for the poor kid with Asperger’s who always sits behind me; he looked like he was really struggling with his hand all yanking on his hair and shit. He went up to the professor asking about some problem he couldn’t factor. That’s because it wasn’t meant to factor.

But whatever, all I know is I marched out that room like try me, bitch.

Anyway, it’s not the first time I’ve had dreams of killing people. I have three main categories of dreams: Robberies, Tsunami’s and Alien Invasions. The Tsunami ones have pretty much died off, but for a couple years I had them every night. The Robbery category is rather new, and usually I’m the one talking the robber down from shooting up the store. They always sing the same songs (I remembered in one dream that I’d heard it in my other robbery dream and I told the guy in my second robbery dream about the first robbery guy who also sung the same song), although I never heard the song in the real world before. The robber always ends up shooting himself in the head at the end. It’s pretty disgusting.

The Alien Invasions are fun. I have conversations with my subconscious in those. It always shows up in the body of my friend then tells me these great lessons of life, always tells me I need to calm down, I need to focus, and they said something way more important than both of those and now I can’t remember. I probably wrote it down somewhere.

I only had one other dream where I murdered someone. I was in a black S.U.V and I took a knife and stabbed this dude in the chest. It felt like stabbing raw steak jello. I woke up disturbed.

A while later I dreamed a town got set on fire and then I jumped off the top of the building because I was just sick of living in a fire town.

I don’t know what was up with last night. In my dream my boyfriend murdered some dude and I was like whoa dude what are you doing, how did that feel? Then I forgot some shit. Then I killed two people and I was like whoa dude this shit feels horrible. I remember having a physical weight on my shoulders and that was how I woke up. I’m used to being disturbed now.

I’ve had a lot of crazy dreams, a lot of lucid dreams. Often I lucid dream when I need to get the fuck out. If I’m having someone chase me or if someone’s going to kill me or strangle me or whatever, I suddenly realize whoa, dude, I’m dreaming, I need to wake the fuck up. So I struggle a bit through the dream wall, through sleep paralysis, and then eventually open my eyes to the real world.

One awesome time I was having an amazing dream, although it’s a pity I can’t remember it, then some shit woke me up, some dude banging on the wall or something, and I got pissed. So I told myself go back to sleep and dream that dream. So I broke through some creepy dream wormhole and plopped down right back in my dream. Best day of my life. I woke up feeling like I traveled through some different dimensions. I probably did. I’m surprised I didn’t see a T.A.R.D.I.S.  Maybe dreams are a vision into another dimension. Maybe that’s why people chase me. They’re like, yo, get the hell off my fifth dimension lawn you whipper-snapper!

I’m not one for dream interpretation, mostly because my dreams are just out there–like the time I had one dream that my throat was swelling and that no one would believe me and I realized I was in a dream, so I laid down in my bed and told myself to wake up and when I did I saw a two headed dog in the window and I realized, Fuck, I woke up in another dream.

Interpret that. Do it. I’m serious. If you can give me an interpretation for a dream inside of a dream with a two headed dog staring at me in my window, I’ll give you a piece of candy.

I’m not in a “write about something important” mood today. I’m also cursing a lot. Fucking sue me. I’m in a good mood, and I can’t think straight when I’m in a good mood. That’s probably what makes my mood so good.

I Hate Games . . . Unless They’re Of The Video Variety

Do you ever just wake up in the morning feeling guilty for no particular reason?

That’s my morning today.

I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m just going to attribute it mostly to school stress and the fact that I’m not the kind of spirit to put up with all this structured nonsense. I love learning, I hate school. I love math, I hate tests. If it weren’t for this Native American Literature class, the one where you don’t get grades, where your papers are creative and appreciated rather then structured and critiqued, I would have dropped out this entire semester already.

What’s the number one thing us people with anxiety are experts at?

If you said avoidance, you guessed right! You get . . . nothing. Sorry.

And if I could avoid these classes to get to my goal, I would. I hate when people praise me for being in school or whatever and I’m sitting there like “you have no idea how close I am to dropping straight the fuck out”. I’m just in it to play the game because you have to if you have the kind of goal I do. Sure, I could influence individuals lives to a certain degree without being a fancy doctor, without going to medical school, without being a psychiatrist even, but I don’t feel I’d have the same impact. People are more inclined to trust the one with the professional title.

Regardless, I hate classes. I hate them, especially when I have no energy for them. I know I’m going to have to retake that Research Methods class where you have to lead all those fucking experiments and do all that crazy group work and shit, which I’m fine with because I would like to eventually do research, but that class is a ball of stress larger than Calculus and Chemistry combined; I’m nowhere near ready for it.

I’m a creative mind. What I love is writing and I will always love it. And when I’m bogged down by all this structured bullshit without a chance to exercise that part of my mind, I get very irritated, very sad, very . . . uninspired. That’s like yanking my ear phones out of my ear and I’ve warned how dangerous that can be. My friend in high school used to do that all the time and I’d shove her to the ground. Don’t fuck with my music.

Oh don’t give me that look; I kept telling her to quit it and she wouldn’t.

But these days, with the very minute amount of motivation I have left, and the even smaller amount of energy I have left, I barely have time to scribble down the outline for a short story. I loved writing for competitions. I don’t care if I don’t get first or second or even third, I enjoy it and if it isn’t a part of my life then what’s the point in anything?

Part of my father’s depression is the fact that he doesn’t get to play music like he used to. Part of mine is I don’t get to write like I used to. We’re way too similar for my comfort sometimes. I need to start exercising again before I’m hypertensive.

I realize that I need to start working. I prefer a stock job in the back where I rarely have to set foot on the main floor, or a cleaning job where I can be in the buildings at night after all the freaky office freaks are gone. But I also realize that I’m going to have a problem no matter where I go. The social anxiety is one thing; I’d end up so beat by the second hour that there would be no way I could last another four, five, or six hours. When you have social anxiety people are a parasite to you; they suck the energy out of you without even knowing they do. They’re just doing what they do best: talk, laugh, socialize. And I’m doing what I do best: misinterpreting their facial expressions as malicious, wondering if their laughing at me, considering the possibility that they glanced away from me as quickly as possible because I was laughing weird with them or I said something dumb or . . . God, whatever. Point is, it’s too much energy for me to do anything in relation to customer service and I’d run the risk of someone calling me “quiet” again.

I fucking hate that. I know I’m quiet you stupid son of a bitch, is that a problem? No, it’s not, so shut your fucking turkey lips up and get the fuck out of my face.


Anyway,  Problem number two: aside from anxiety around them, I’m not really a people person. I like helping people, I like being part of a group very rarely for maybe a few minutes while we all work on something, but I prefer to be by myself. That’s just who I am. I like to walk alone with my music, I like to drive alone with my music, and I like to spend the majority of my Friday and Saturday nights either listening to music, writing, or just day dreaming. I day dream every other second. It’s how my brain functions and I don’t like the fact that I have to fight it to appear “normal” in the rest of my life. So I have a very strong urge not to. Fuck focusing in your class, I’m going to imagine what it would be like if an alien spaceship landed outside and it was a pure being of consciousness and wanted to stick a straw in our brains and suck out the white matter. That’s much more interesting to me than converting Atomic Mass Units (a made up fucking number) to moles (another made up fucking number). How does one made up number into another made up number make a real number? Why do they think numbers are even real? Just look at the atom and appreciate it, stop trying to weigh it. Stop it. You can’t. Stop.

I mean, really. Carbon is 12.011 amu. Even if you put that into grams and moles, it doesn’t make a difference! I still can’t even fathom the number! There’s 6.022×10^23 atoms per mol. Can you please fucking show me, physically, how many atoms that is? Show me, right now. I can show you two plus two. Here’s one pencil, here’s another. There’s two. That math I let slide because it makes a tiny bit of sense. The rest of this math is just theoretical shit, observations, science tries to pass off for reality. Pisses me off.

Problem number three: I want to enjoy my life and that means living it how I want to. I am also mature enough to realize that’s more of a cliche dream than a reality. Therefore, if I must get a job to assimilate to this weird ass society, then I want the freedom to be a writer on the side. I don’t want to be bogged down by school, by work, like I see so many other people. How stressed they must be. I’m not one to handle stress well, OBVIOUSLY, and while I don’t mind learning coping mechanisms, I refuse to put myself under any amount of stress that I’m uncomfortable with. I just love writing, I can’t help it. Sure this blog is pretty informal, but even that’s fun to me. If I ever got paid for writing, I think the level of disgust I feel for my current life situation would shrink tremendously.

I need to find a balance before I ruin myself.