Reality Vs. Fantasy


Sometimes I question whether we really can make a distinction between the two.

I liken it to the idea of normal versus abnormal. And the idea of stupid questions. Those of you who have been following me for a while can either guess where I’m going with this or you’re getting ready to flip away from this post because fuck she’s at it again.

The brain is a fingerprint. We’ve established this, correct? Either you have established it through your own observation of the world, or you’ve established it through the multitudes of neuroscience research supporting it. So the idea of “normality” is simply a social construction: it changes over time and it’s defined by a culture. To say that I’m not normal is to remind yourself that neither are you and neither is anyone else. That in itself nullifies the idea of abnormality and normality in one fellow swoop.

I drive a white car. If you walk up to me while I’m in my car, and you are not in any way color impaired, and you ask me if my car is white, well, that’s a stupid fucking question.


Don’t believe all your grade school teachers who used to say “no question is a stupid question”.

There are tons of stupid questions. Like when the professor clearly says “don’t pay attention to the statistics” and you raise your hand a second later and ask if you should pay attention to the statistics.

What am I talking about again?

Fantasy and reality, that’s right.

The last time I checked, there was no clear distinction between either. We can only live in the reality that we observe, so to be bold enough to say that this reality is the only reality makes me wonder how you walk around with those hundred pound balls between your legs.

This makes me wonder what in the world I could be missing–what we all could be missing. We’re such limited creatures, stuck in a world where all you know is what’s in front of your eyes, and even then you don’t really know those things, you just see them. Is seeing really indicative of every truth imaginable? From my experiences, definitely not.

What’s the point of this, you may ask?

Well for those of us whose reality perhaps is not the best, who wish they could get away from their parents, or their spouse, or themselves, I think it’s best to remember that it’s okay if reality doesn’t make sense. There’s nothing in the Book of Life that says you have to be %200 sure of anything. There’s nothing that says your reality has to mimic everyone else’s and there’s nothing that says if your reality is horrible now it will always be horrible.

There’s nothing in the Book of Life that even says any of us are really human. I’ve known since I was a toddler I wasn’t from here, no way in hell. And the older I got, the stronger that sense became. And no, it’s not because of fucking Trump, and if I hear one more thing about him, I’ll explode.

I’m not telling you to be happy with whatever shitty situation you’re in right now. What I am saying is understand it’s okay to be there. And it’s okay to hate it. And it’s okay to be confused. Because it’s okay to live, whatever that means for you.

Acceptance Of The Self

Is morality like etiquette?


I’m not going to answer it, I just wanted to give you a question to think about for the day.

I had an interview at a nursing home this morning for a housekeeper position. These past few months have been rough: I’m fatigued, I’m tired, I’m forgetting more than usual and of course I’m skating through most of the day wondering if I’ve stuck in a dream or not. Today, luckily, has been relatively chill.

But my mentality has taken a toll on me, so when the secretary asked me what position I was applying for, I couldn’t remember the word “housekeeper”. I said “the person who sweeps and mops”.


I laughed at myself harder than I probably should have.

The manager who interviewed me was high as fuck. He could hardly keep his eyes open and when he spoke he slurred his words. He moved fairly quickly however and seemed to keep up well with his staff, so from all the drugs and addiction I’ve grown up around I can safely assume he’s on some kind of pills. His cognition was there, so were the majority of his reflexes, but his speech and eyes and general demeanor were not that of the average sober person.

I had to sign a “we have a right to drug test you” clause in the application.


I suspected Xanax or perhaps a benzo; his position seemed to be high stress as he was constantly running around the facility trying to make sure his staff members weren’t fucking something up.  His desk was a tragedy. Paper all over the place. I didn’t even have room to fill out the paperwork.

It’s odd that much of my social anxiety has sort of taken a back seat for the time being. I still wouldn’t give a speech or go to parties or anything like that comfortably, but in terms of going into stores, doing interviews, working with other people, it’s gotten much easier. I see that as progress. An odd sort of progress because I haven’t really been practicing anything. 

What I struggle with now more than anything is the tendency towards Alexithymia-I can’t distinguish my emotions from each other. They’re all a whirlwind inside of my head and as a result I lash out. These are the days I usually take something or smoke something to level me out, but because I have no more prescriptions available and because I’m still applying to jobs which may drug test me upon hire, I can’t risk it.

So instead I’m standing waist deep in my own personal hell.


I thought today would be okay because I woke up feeling alright. The last week has been a haze. I can’t describe an ounce of how I feel in words. I tried last night, I’ve tried many nights, and being a writer it’s more than frustrating when you can’t put something as simple as emotion into words. So instead I write about how I can’t write about it. That makes sense, right?

So I use music to distract myself from my own thoughts. It’s louder than my brain so it makes it easier for me to focus. As long as there is noise, I can focus. If there isn’t background noise and all I’m alone with is me and my thoughts then I get confused, overwhelmed, and only more tired.

I just spend my day wondering if the tree outside of the library is real or what would happen if it wasn’t. I wonder if I’m real, if you’re real, if the table I’m sitting at is real, and if the hands I see typing on the keyboard belong to me and what if they didn’t? I feel unreal, my actions feel unreal, my words sometimes don’t sound like they’re coming from me, I don’t feel connected to the world, blah, blah, etcetera, etcetera.

I’m not bothered by it, it just takes up a lot of time during the day.

depersonalization_by_danger99-d2lfkldOver the years I’ve learned to accept the derealization, the constant pondering, and my tendency to wonder if an event happened or if I’m still dreaming. I write off the feeling that I’m still dreaming. I wrote off the feeling that the incident in the vault never happened and I imagined it-I’ve already concluded it didn’t happen so there’s no need to continue thinking about it.

I write it all off because of the simple fact that it hasn’t disrupted my life like anxiety and depression has. Sure people think I don’t care about things (I.e, my room is a mess, I mean you can barely walk through it, I rarely do laundry and just salvage old clothes or hand wash in the sink if I absolutely need something) and sometimes they get annoyed because I won’t talk because I’m so deep in my head, I won’t laugh because I honestly don’t know, sometimes I just don’t feel like I can, or if they just meet me they don’t understand why I won’t share facts about myself with them or why I don’t feel like making eye contact or why I barely respond to them at all in some cases.

But in reality (ha, in your definition of reality I should say) none of those things bother me. Depression that makes me suicidal bothers me. Anxiety that prevents me from speaking up in class or asking a question when I need it bothers me. The fact that I can’t be comfortable at any moment outside bothers me.

Do I really need to tell the different between reality, dreams, and fantasy to live my life? Depending on the severity, not necessarily.

Think about it.


If I feel I’m living in a dream or I can’t tell if I’m awake or if what I experience was a dream or not, but I still go on about my day, I still study, I still work, I still function then what difference does it make?

If I’m not sure if my hands are mine but I’m still typing with them, what does it matter?

If I don’t feel like talking with people and still live life content with limited human contact, what does it matter?

I think that’s where people get stuck in the process of overthinking their “problems”. I’ve been comfortable questioning what was real and what wasn’t since I was 6 or 7 years old, I’ve been comfortable with bouncing back and forth between reality and fantasy too. In fact, I’ve never really separated the two. I’ve always seen the world differently. Am I aware that such a thing could snowball into something more “serious”? Sure. Am I going to sit there and act like I have a problem right now? Fuck no. And I think the fact that I’m as comfortable with such things as I am has helped my functionality.

Anyone else who stepped unprepared inside of my brain wouldn’t survive.

To me, what’s in my brain is normality. People who go through life without analyzing the reality of every little thing or people who have never sat at a table, stared at the floor, and had to ask themselves “am I dreaming?” scare me. That’s not normal.

So there’s a reason this blog focuses particularly on depression and anxiety because those are the aspects of myself that I find most troublesome. Not being able to talk to a classmate frustrates me more than the fact that i can’t tell whether or not the incident in the vault at work ever happened. Waking from a dead sleep into a panic attack, slicing or burning myself frustrates me more than my belief that I’m destined to change the world per some otherworldly intervention, or my introverted tendencies.

What do I think of the boss who is obviously abusing his prescription medication? Well, he’s accepted reality is reality and he doesn’t like it. So he medicates. I accept reality isn’t reality, that as a result reality is a fantasy and therefore one in the same. I don’t medicate. 

Curious, eh?

Double Fudge Brownies

“All That We Are Is A Result Of What We Thought” –Mah Boy Buddah

Today was a good day.

I sure am quoting Ice Cube a lot lately. Straight Outta Compton’s been injecting subliminal messages into my head. I go to search some song lyrics on A-Z lyrics and their background is promoting Straight Outta Compton. It’s just everywhere.

Tonight I’m clawing underneath my skin. I’ve awoken from the dead with a little more energy, a lot more anxiety, and an insatiable craving for double fudge chocolate brownies. Mmmm brownies. I feel like I need to jump out my window (i’m ground level, ya’ll), dance on the yellow line in the middle of the street, whip out my bat signal, throw up some jazz hands, stop: hammer time, slap my momma, and then reach a moment of enlightenment. That’s how Buddha did it, you know, I asked him. He’s Mah Boy.

I’m just restless. I went to bed at five am, woke up at seven am, and have been running around ever since. I feel good but I don’t. My energy is fueled by the pent up anxiety I subconsciously slapped a “dunce” cap on and shoved into the dark corner of the classroom in my head. So I inject a full dose of Imagine Dragons and sit back in emotional bliss. Whenever I listen to one of their songs my bones melt into my veins, my inner ear enjoys convulsive orgasms, and the neurotransmitters just sitting in the synapses in my brain (like the lazy fucks they are) unleash their inner interpretive dancer. I have no other way to explain the emotion I feel from this man’s voice. A few songs I’ve heard are unbearably generic but hot damn that February 2015 album Smoke and Mirrors has me transfixed. I feel every emotion and no emotion simultaneously when he powers through a chorus and I’m reminded of what raw talent sounds like.

Everything is so fake around us that it’s a bit of a refresher to hear creative lyrics with meaning behind them and an unbeatable voice bringing them to life. It’s better than “ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, ass” or “I never fucked Wayne, I never fucked Drake” (Like any of us care, you dumb skank) or “blah blah blah blah I broke up with someone” (#TaylorSwift). I’m  not trying to be a hater on anyone who likes those artists, but they’re not for me in any way, shape, or form. Reading their lyrics causes temporary blindness in my eyes. I get tired of listening to things about sex, love, and ass. I get those things are pleasurable but what are we all, cheap knock offs of Hedonism Bot from Futurama?

Don’t even get me started on listening to the eleven year old’s walking down the street singing to that stuff on their Iphone 6’s.

Growing up with this anxiety and my perhaps “odd” imagination made me realize there was so much more to life than what people told me. I feel things more intensely than others. It adds substance to this existence. Anxiety is the opposite of sociopathy and if everyone in between thinks they’re the sane ones, they better lift up their arms, take a good, long whiff, and step down off their high horse; we’re all tainted with a scent of insanity. Just deal with it. You’re not normal! Be happy! Fuck, man.

My philosophy professor a few semesters ago suggested we not think about how fragile life really is, so I did the opposite. Think about it. You could die right now. Right before you finish reading this sentence. How weird is that? Blackness. No more Iphones, no more blogs, no more ice cream at one a.m when you know you should be sleeping, no more pets, no more anything. So are you wasting your time worrying about how to have a successful, normal life in the eyes of society or in the eyes of yourself? I’m going to choose myself. I have to die with me and what I do or don’t accomplish. The C.E.O of M.T.V isn’t going to be by my bedside assuring me I did the right in thing in spending my entire paycheck on that one outfit Snookie wore on that episode of Jersey dumbfuck Shore.

Once again, sorry if you liked Jersey Shore, I don’t mean to be offensive. I’m also sorry it existed for you to like.

That’s why I love this song “Dream” so much:

The message is so simple: life isn’t what people make it out to be, this place is a mess, so let me dream. I’ve lived in a fantasy world since my childhood. Inanimate objects contained personalities (e.g. cars had expressions) and they spoke with me in my head. Your eyes probably got wide and your finger probably made circles around your temple in response to that. It’s fine. But when you’re six, seven years old and every day is an anxious nightmare clawing at the walls of your skull, you need an escape. I couldn’t talk to people so I talked to objects. And to this day, I feel more connected with, objects, technology, than I do with peers. It’s not because people are “so judgmental” and objects aren’t, it’s because objects can be whoever I want them to be. An alien. A pope. A ghost. A novel character. Whatever. It’s the endless possibilities that keep me clinging to my fantasies. There are times I bask in my disassociative episodes for that very reason. Existence itself is called into question and I get the pleasure (and often displeasure) of experiencing it.

It’s like feeling reality’s heated, seductive core without ever leaving my room.

Reality as we know it is an irrational comfort for humanity; theoretical physics taught me that. And double fudge brownies taught me that heaven does exist. In the form of baked goods. I shall stuff my face and I shall enjoy it. Fuck your bikini season.