It’s not often I share a portion of my creative writing on this blog, but I feel like I might as well, it might help me get back in the groove of writing. I also don’t write poems often, nor do I ever follow any forms of poetry when I do write them (so cut me some slack on that, poetry fanatics) but here’s a poem I wrote last night just freely, without restriction or editing. I posted it on Booksie, along with the one following it, but would like to put it here as well. I’m changing the title to: “Veiled”
The truth has thorns,
and the darkness has arms;
happiness lies, and anger explodes.
We move along this common ground,
you and I,
a soup of emotions, ready to blow.
The nature of progression pushes us forward;
we move silently through strife,
and why, who knows.
Plant our feet carefully between mines
we know are there yet we cannot see,
and be, we try, with ourselves,
however bitter that may seem.
We come across a stream that flows free,
how we wish we could be,
blue, crisp, and clear,
with a purpose dear,
to this Earth,
and we envy the stream.
But free we are in the mind and heart,
as the stream can never be,
rejoice, I say, for we are unique.
the darkness has arms,
and we have voice.
This one is entitled “Freedom”.
A renewing of strength,
I stretch my fingers, crack my neck,
I feel I haven’t lived for years.
The sun shines bright, an orange morning light,
and I wonder how long this will last,
this time I know this is real.
Birds chirp their welcome songs,
trees dance in the breeze,
and I observe it all,
a caged bird now freed.
A renewing of strength,
this feels contagious,
a bubbling pot on the stove not contained by any lid,
Hello wonderful people of the blogs sphere. I’d like to start off by saying welcome to the stream of new people I’ve had follow me recently. You will find out this blog is a clusterfuck of things, so I hope you enjoy clusterfucks.
It gets tedious sometimes speaking about how difficult life gets or how annoying health struggles can be, or how the world (or at least the United States) will most certainly end tomorrow, 11/8/16, and cease to exist for eternity. So today I figured I’d share some photos out of the last few months of my life.
What inspired this? Well, after going through all of my photos on both of my phones I realize I take pictures of random things sometimes. I also realize I take pictures I never look at ever again or even think of again. So, without further ado, here are some:
This is where I am located at the moment. The parking lot of my college campus:
The wonderful thing about this campus, beside the utter darkness in the picture above, is being located at the top of a mountain. I drove past a group of six deer on the way from one parking lot to the other tonight. They were huddled underneath a bush, not bothered a bit by the passing cars.
This is my boyfriend’s dog. I take way too many pictures of her. She’s a PitBull mixed with something–six months old. They named her Salsa. She’s one of the sweetest puppies I’ve met. She loves treats, licking my entire forearm, jumping, playing tug of war with the rope I bought her (far right picture), and she loves getting her belly and head scratched. They first got her some small stuffed fox, but she tore that apart. I told my boyfriend since she was a PitBull of sorts, she was going to need something a little stronger than a stuffed fox. I once stayed with a family who owned a six month old full bred male PitBull and he loved tug of war ropes. So I bought her one of those and some bones she could chew on instead of their furniture.
This is a picture of the sky I took about an hour before the sheriff took me to the psychiatrist hospital.
This is a picture of my math homework from the beginning of this semester. Why did I take a picture of this? No clue. But if you were ever wondering how to do Integration By Parts, there you go.
The hair products I use for my color treated hair. Why did I take a picture of them? Because I’m an asshole. I have no idea why.
The customization I will, one day, do to some car I own. They have lambo doors for Dodge Stratus’–they have the kit for it, at least–for a very reasonable price. Sometime in the near future, I will be riding around in even more style than I already do. Those headlights though: to die for. Once again . . . I took a photo to be an idiot. I don’t have friends to send these things too, so I have no clue why I take them.
Pictures from the Tech N9ne Calm Before The Storm tour I went to a month ago. The crowd downstairs was okay. Because he had the concert on a weekday (very rare), there weren’t many teenagers under 18 attending (thank GOD).
This is my father making some kind of face after I marked make up concealer on him. Yes, that is a feather in his hair and a kitchen towel on his shoulder, and yes, the shirt he is wearing is cut off like a crop top, and yes he’s wearing a green shirt underneath it. Dude, don’t fucking ask.
People ask why I’m so weird. This is why. This. Is. Why.
This is my boyfriend. It looks like he’s holding the salt delicately because he is. And he’s taking it very seriously, as you can see on his face.This is why I love him. Now, if both of us put that amount of concentration and devotion into our school work, we’d be 4.0 students by now. If he sees this, the first thing he’s going to say is “you talkin’ shit about me on your blog again?”. Watch and see.
This is me taking stupid selfies. Yes, my eyebrows are red and blue. The blue I don’t always put on. The red/magenta is dyed onto my eyebrows so . . . it stays. At one point my hair was violet and magenta, another point just magenta, and right now it’s fading into Magenta-Gold. . . which isn’t as pretty as it sounds.
I am pointing a finger-gun at my temple because someone sent me something stupid, so I sent them that photo back as a response. Get off my back.
And yes, I’m cursed with resting bitch face. I do not smile in photos, unless I’m with people and even then if I hate those people I’ll probably be in the background pretending to hump them with a devilish look on my face or something.
I also don’t like selfies. I dug through way too many photos to find just those three.
I guess I’ve just broken my vow of anonymity and that’s fine. Besides, you still don’t know my name.
Muahahaha I’m evil.
Look at my evilness. Adore it. Envy it. Now get out.
Halloween plans anyone? What did you all do? Do you celebrate the holiday? Do you believe in ghosts and spirits and demons and angels? How many “sexy cat” costumes were there in your town?
I went to California’s Great America Halloween Haunt.If you don’t know, Great America is an amusement park. They had haunted mazes and skits and theater shows and rides going with zombies roaming free.
I bought the passes for my boyfriend and I that gave us extra access to five extra scenes. They were very interesting. I’ll get to that in a minute.
First let me say fuck google. The GPS took us to the employee parking with hundreds of other people also misled by their GPS. The cars lined up all four ways down the street for a few miles. My boyfriend got the idea to cut through a huge parking lot behind a building called “Palo Alto Networks” and we beat a good hour and a half of waiting in traffic.
We had to wait in another line to get the quick passes. They allow us to go to the front of the line to all the mazes, along with experiencing the extra scenes. While we waited, people with nothing better to do than be lazy kept cutting through the line with their pathetic “excuse me’s”, rather than take an extra two seconds and walk around. It was okay at first.
Until the sheep came.
By sheep I mean the idiots who see one person cut through the line, so they push their family of twenty through too, all muttering “excuse me”. The drunk woman behind me was getting annoyed. I was getting annoyed. My boyfriend was getting annoyed. The guys behind us were also annoyed.
It’s very simple. You see a line, walk around. For someone like me who is already getting worn out from all the of flashing lights, the voices, the people, and the sheer volume of noise around the park, I got easily confused and overstimulated by all the people cutting through the line.
While waiting for one woman to stop arguing with the workers and holding up the line in front, another guy tried stepping in front of my boyfriend and me. I stepped in front of him, and he tried going behind me. The man behind me stepped closer to me and shouted at the guy to “go around! go the FUCK around! Go around, you rude motherfuckers!” and I joined him in the shouting. Why? Because behind that one guy was another three families of people getting ready to push through the line, and I was sick of being bumped and touched.
After a half an hour of waiting in that line, all because of that one fucking woman, we got our passes and started the night.
In one of the mazes there were different actors portraying people in history, usually murderers. I jumped a mile in the air at the man in the corner with the top hat and the trench coat standing next to the woman laying with her throat cut: Jack The Ripper. I started laughing and told my boyfriend they should have him following people around. Jack the Ripper heard me, hopped down from his stage and came after me, running with me, and I ducked as he growled in my ear. If you all didn’t know, I’m a huge Jack The Ripper enthusiast. I’ve read and watched about as much as a person could on the guy.
I’m a huge serial killer enthusiast. It’s normal and not disturbing at all.
I got followed by another woman with a huge gash in her forehead, smiling, and she followed me all the way to the end of one of the mazes. I got followed by another short woman playing a little girl with pigtails and she didn’t just walk after me, she ran after me and my boyfriend and he was saying “oh shit, oh shit!” so I squeezed past him because she was really close to me and it was creepy as fuck. I made him get chased by her.
There were several other mazes and funny experiences, but I can’t remember everything.
In the extra scenes, well, let’s just say shit got weird.
The first one we entered was called “Hoarder House”. It was a man with a southern accent in a house full of junk and a bunch of (fake) cats. He came up and down the line and called one man “Justin Beaver” and the girl next to him Selena Gomez. He came to me, because I was laughing my ass off, and got right in my face and said “and what’s your name, scaredy cat?”
I said I wasn’t scared. He asked my name again and I told him. He told me to come stand in front of everyone and I said shit and my boyfriend laughed. The guy made me hold a rubber Halloween hairless cat with a missing eye, and he named the cat after me. He told the group that if they didn’t find two keys in the mess of litter boxes around, that he would skin the girl he called Selena Gomez, and poke my eye out. He was great.
The group found the keys. I have both of my eyes and Asian Selena Gomez still has her skin.
We went to another scene called “Dominated”.
Yes, it’s exactly what you think. We could hear the paddles through the wall.
We get in the room and this woman in this sexy outfit has chains hanging everywhere and whips hanging from her hips. She’s hilarious. She handcuffs us in twos, and we have to weave through the chain mazes with our partner. My boyfriend and I weaved through the quickest and she picked on us mostly, saying we’d been handcuffed together before. We all laughed because, let’s face it, she’s not wrong.
At the end, we get paddled.
I don’t know what to think about that.
In another scene we get shoved in a box with one other person, and air compresses sheets against us, like the walls are closing in. When we step out the guy with the deep voice stares blankly, gestures towards the door and says simply “that is all”. Our entire group cracks up.
Another scene a man gets strangled and we have to run from a woman on the loose.
Another sorority scene, Bloody Mary crawls across the walls at us and right when I tried escaping she crouched on the counter, eye level with me, blood dripping everywhere, and stared into my soul.
I got followed a lot. There’s something about me that guys in costume and women with blood on their face get attracted to. I was hunted by these people the entire night.
I got home and passed out immediately. The level of sensory overload was too damn high. But it sure did beat not being scared. I love being scared. Halloween is the greatest holiday I do declare.
Now, let me get my ass out of the library before they kick me out. Be safe people.
“Best Poem About Gaming Ever–oh wait, it’s not about gaming? Whatever, best poem of 2016”–IGN
That quote is literally from IGN, I totally know everyone who works for them.
I’m also not a poet. I admire portions of poetry, I admire the way poets can string words together in a way that injects emotion and breathes live into something otherwise bogged down with simple definition or boring fact. Somewhere I read in a poetry book that everything in life was a teacher, and we just had to be keen enough with our eye, and with our words, to learn. Poetry then, was a reflection of that learning.
Something like that.
I’ve been wondering what to write my poem on. I’ve never been a simple person. I want to be able to describe something, perhaps an action, but having the meaning separate from the action. I’m pretty sure that’s what a lot of poets do anyway, and I’m just being a technical prick. I can’t really tell. You know why? Because I’m not a poet.
Ask me to bust out some fiction, or a nice comedy reel, I got you on lock. Ask me to be fragile and yet aggressive in some stanza’s and make words feel like liquid gold across the tongue and I’ll probably just slap you all the way back to your momma’s house, because I can’t make words into liquid gold, that is physically impossible. While I’m slapping you, I’ll explain known physics to you, because it’s obvious you lack that knowledge as well.
Like I said, “Technical Prick”. That’s my new title.
I can be excruciatingly literal sometimes. I can also be annoyingly metaphoric sometimes. I believe a strange combination of both attract people to my writing.
I could write a poem about insomnia because it’s 5:17 a.m for me and I have yet to get more than a few minutes of sleep. In this time I’ve managed to print tickets for a Halloween Haunt at Great America tomorrow–err, today. There: someone who is a poet, put that into a poem for me and I’ll give you 1/3 of my grade at the end of the semester. Why 1/3? Because poetry is 1/3 of the class and you will now be doing all my assignments.
There is much to write about, I just need to let it flow onto paper, regardless of what it sounds like. The more I think about it, the worse the poem is going to sound I think. Isn’t that usually how it works? Or is it the opposite? Uuuuggggghhhh poooeettrryyyyyy.
Perhaps I’ll write about things that are there and yet not. That’s always a fascinating topic for people who don’t understand it.
Tonight I was not home, tonight I was about my boyfriend’s house. I got there around half past midnight: he has a printer and I do not, and Great America does not send PDF’s to your email like every other e-ticket vendor in the world, they require you print it upon purchase from a different tab in your search engine, so I went to his house. He was doing what he normally does: play video games.
And when I was leaving, which was about a half hour ago, I noticed my shoes sounded really thick against his wooden floors. I said out loud that I hated my shoes, something I always say, then words came out of my mouth I wouldn’t normally say. I said: “I sound like a dead person walking”.
He’s used to me saying weird things, and he was tired, so he didn’t say anything. I, however, started freaking out.
You all know me by now as the one with the demons following closely behind me, breathing down my neck and reading my blogs as I type them, and the rest of the universe in front of me, guiding me away from them. Well, the demons were close this evening, young ones.
I had to park two blocks away from his house because there was no parking anywhere near, and his parents cars take up the driveway. Their driveway is shit anyway, I hate it; you back out against a blind corner into two lanes of same-way traffic. It’s a death sentence.
Anyway, I’m walking quickly down the middle of the two lane road because it’s four forty in the morning and silent. I love silence when I want it, I hate silence when my mind is reeling. I feel I can hear every little sound, every little scuttle, every little voice that might happen to roll along in the wind. In my head I’m repeating the line I said in the house and wondering where it came from.
I turn behind me for no reason a few cars away from my car and see a man in all black following my exact footpath. He was about a block behind me and had no face or footsteps or shadow and I quickened my pace because I got it in my head he wasn’t human. I got it in my head he was the reason I said what I said, and thought like I thought.
I made it to my car a second later, turned it on, backed out like I needed to get back on the race track, and searched for the man in black but he was gone. He wasn’t down the two side streets. And while I fought myself gallantly over what I believed–“well he could have gone into a house”, “no, he wasn’t human”, ” he could have just been walking and turned down a street and you just couldn’t find him”, “no, he put those words in your mouth, you saw him, you’d never say something like that”, “you’re just tired”–I decided I wasn’t going to fight it. I decided the man was a figment of the demonic force that follows me, indefinitely, whether he existed or not.
Flipping through my songs, I could find nothing to soothe the panic, not until a song, out of my 749 songs on Spotify, started blasting through my speakers:
And I knew the universe had my back, even when it didn’t feel like it. The song stretched until I made it home and when I parked it ended, as if on cue, and here I am now, sitting on my computer waiting for that guy to pop up outside my window.
*For those of you who are wondering, there was never a step 1. It’s 1 a.m give me a break, coming up with titles is getting hard.*
Anyway, there comes a time in a bloggers life when she has to sit and think:
What do I really want my blog to cover?
I’m sure we all remember the string of days my wit was impeccable and my sarcasm impenetrable. We all remember the early days of my blog when I took such gracious pleasure in ripping a new one into Alex Gorsky, the C.E.O of the company Johnson and Johnson for receiving his “man of integrity” award for being an outstanding “corporate leader with a sense of social responsibility”. Don’t know who Alex is? Don’t know what post I’m talking about? Well then I say hello to you and welcome to my blog, what took you so long to get here? There are cookies in on the table in the back.
There are two things I enjoy most in life: making people laugh and making people think.
When I first started this blog I never believed I’d even reach fifty followers. I barely even understood what a follower was and wondered if I could make them do my bidding.
I just knew that I loved to write and I loved to have people read my writing.
My first blog I was going to focus only on social anxiety. I wanted it to be planned, well thought-out and I wanted the posts to be articulate and informational.
Then I got bored. I mean fall-asleep-at-the-keyboard-and-drool-on-the-keys bored.
And I think we can all agree as bloggers and writers if you are bored by your writing, chances are other people will be too.
So I aborted that blog. It’s still somewhere out in the internet ether, floating around unmanned and essentially doomed.
It wasn’t until I started ignoring how my words fell onto the screen that I realized how therapeutic of a process blogging could be. I’ve learned a lot about myself over this last year from this blog alone and from the people who took their time to comment and read my words. Many of you have stuck with me through all the ups and downs and zig-zags and I’m thankful for that. It’s always nice when you’re twenty feet in a hole with two broken legs and thorns in your head from the time you thought you could run naked through the forest of Cacti without ramifications to wake up in the morning and see that little notification on your phone or your computer with an encouraging comment from someone.
Blogging has blown up with the internet. I remember this was a thing I used to make fun of: blogging? Who the fuck sits there and rants about themselves for a thousand words?
I guess I only came across narcissistic posters.
I was amazed at the variety of people on here: the artists, the lawyers, the health coaches, the doctors, the psychiatrists, many of whom I was surprised they even took a glance at my site, let alone click the “like” button. Them following me was like I won the lottery for a little blogging/social media newbie.
There are blogs on WordPress who are absolutely astounding, who I feel should get much more attention than that woman Amanda Lauren who claimed her friend’s suicide was a blessing.
What strikes me about many of you wonderful people is your ability to be real and open. You’re not trying to pull wool over anyone’s eyes, not even your own. You’re not trying to sound like anyone but yourself and I admire that.
Now I must admit, there are some of you who are unbelievably friendly. You have smiley faces all over the place, your photos are fucking unicorns flying around in rainbows, you address all of us as friends and such, I don’t know how you do it. I mean let’s face it, I’m one hilarious freak, but I can come off pretty cold and detached.
The great thing is no one seems to give a fuck, so thanks for that.
If there’s one thing that gets lost in the mental health system is our voice. A lot of people don’t have a say in their diagnosis, they can’t view their records, and even something as “simple” as going to therapy can feel like a trap. I know I’ve had therapists who have basically coerced me into agreeing with them. That’s when I was a teenager.
Little did they know I had eyes and, shockingly, a brainthat could process a lot of information very quickly in the form of medical, pro-psych and anti-psych books. So when a physician tried telling me a side effect I experienced of a medication I was taking didn’t exist, I argued until she shut up and took me off the medication. And she was one of the nicest ones I’d been to.
When the hospital staff in the critical care unit shot up my dad with Ativan to stop a seizure and he started hallucinating, having delusions, and being extremely confused, in and out of consciousness and they said “Ativan doesn’t cause that reaction” without even batting an eyelash at the situation, I looked them dead in the eye and stated clearly:
Long story short, because of me and my threat to bring up research, after they knowingly let him wander out of the hospital after he’d spent thirty minutes rolling on the floor laughing and pointing at hallucinations obviously not in his right mind, he’s listed as “allergic” on their records
It’s not smart to assume everyone who walks through your hospital doors has no knowledge of your medications and practices.
If you’re someone who can’t do those things, who doesn’t want to spend seven or eight hours a day reading medical research and books I did as a teenager just to argue with a couple doctors, the ability to have a blog and get your voice out into other’s eyes and hearts, is priceless I think.
Because your voice matters. What you experience matters. Doctors are humans too, they make mistakes and you’re the only one who is an expert on you.
I love websites like The Mighty that empower people like us to get our voice out there and connect with others and share with others. I think that’s beautiful.
It would be more beautiful if we could reach the medical community in that way.
It would be more beautiful if we had people like us in the system.
I fully admire and endorse that one medical student who was very open and honest about her mental health struggles despite the panel that degraded her for her “weakness” and almost cost her medical school.
I was amazed when a mental health magazine based in San Francisco read my blog and loved it and asked me to feature one of their info-graphs in a post of mine. I was amazed by the overwhelming support I’ve received from you all, from magazines and websites, from organizations and everything in between. All of it just serves to remind me that I’ve always wanted this blog to not just be a voice for me, but for all of us in a way.
It serves to remind me that I can never forget where I’ve come from. No matter my degree title, no matter the day when I finally get to write M.D behind my last name, I’ll never just be a representation of the medical community, I’ll be a representation of those of us who never got or get the chance to have a voice within the medical/mental health community. I’ll be a representative of those of us stuck on the streets without food or a roof (been there, done that), those of us who struggle day after day, night after night lost in our heads without hope (been there, done that), those of us who harm ourselves and those around us (been there, done that), those of us barely aware of reality (been there, done that), those of us too aware of reality (been there, done that), and everything in between.
We all have so much to say, so much we’ve experienced. I love the level it’s at now, I love the blogging, the websites, the social media . . . but I want to take it farther. I’m sure many people do. And we can if we do it together.