Brain Block

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Qualms Of Existence

I just want to give a big thank you to everyone who reads, comments, likes, or follows this blog. It means more to me than you can really imagine, knowing that 1) there are people I can actually, coherently communicate with, that 2)there are people out there who understand what I’m saying, and that 3) you all have a sense of humor and laugh at the horrendous jokes I make.

That’s a real treat.

One day I’ll hit 500 followers and I probably won’t know what to do with myself, seeing as I’m a loner (on purpose, usually) and the idea of even twenty of those people taking the time to read and like things that I put out is just astonishing.

It’s like when you wake up in the morning and your house is on fire but you make it out alive. It’s that kind of thrilling.

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That being said, a few weeks ago I removed the “social anxiety” and “depression” from the subtitle of my blog. This is now simply me and the qualms of existence. Because the qualms of existence include, very obviously, anxieties and depressions.

I also removed them because this blog has become much more than a couple of labels, of which I don’t even identify myself by any longer. While I do still struggle with social anxiety, it’s stepped on the back burner compared to the other things I’ve been dealing with. As for the depression  . . . well, I don’t know what to think about that anymore.

I don’t know what to think about it because I’ve never been as in denial about it as I have been this last month and a half. It’s the most frustrating thing to sit in front of three different professionals, say very blatantly I am not depressed, and have them even more adamantly say “you’re depressed”.

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I clearly outlined the differences for them, you all. I did it extremely vividly. When I am depressed, I feel worthless. I hate myself, my life, and everyone around me. I’m ten times more sensitive than I usually am (which makes me extra-hypersensitive), and I don’t feel like I’m worth the effort people put into me. Everything I do is wrong, and everything someone says to me is a criticism. I am tired and trudge through my school work like I were a slave. I overeat. I don’t lose interest in things because I’m only interested in perhaps two things–writing and videos. If anything, I write more in my depression.

These few months I have been excruciatingly exhausted. I have missed so many days of classes I’m surprised the professors haven’t dropped me from their rosters yet.

I also can’t think. Which is frustrating. The words come and vanish into thin air. It feels like Trump has stationed himself in my head and built a wall to keep my own thoughts from me. They just run into the bricks and crumple in a heap and I never see them again.

Picture yourself walking ten leashed, untrained, six month old pit bull puppies. Picture the way the leashes would branch out from your hands and how much it would hurt when five tugged you one way, and the other five tugged you the other way, or each puppy tugged you in a different direction.

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These Aren’t Pitbulls, But You Get The Point

That is what happens to my brain when I step outside of my room.

On an average day, I can maybe yank a few puppies back beside me or pull them all just slightly enough to where I’m not in a full mad dash forward, but instead I’m only jogging ferociously to keep up with them. Regardless, that’s me maintaining a bit of control.

Right now they’re all pulling in separate directions and my hands are getting burned from the friction of the ropes. Going into class would be like letting loose some birds in front of the puppies. We all know what puppies like to do when birds are around: make a mad dash.

Sensory overload, they call it. I’ve struggled with it since I was a toddler and it’s only exemplified when my brain can’t focus and my energy is depleted.

I’ve been sleeping 9-12 hours a night: that’s what set off the “depression” ideas in these professionals’ heads. You sleep 3-4 hours, you’re manic. You sleep 9-12 hours, you’re depressed. They all think the same way.

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Regardless of the amount of hours I get, it’s not restful. Firstly, I’m sinking into the floor because my bed is two mattresses on my carpet. One mattress is a good 15-20 years old, the other mattress came out of a camper on the back of a truck from the 60’s. I doubt the mattress is from the 60’s, but it’s definitely older than 2006.

Secondly, the dreams. Oh the dreams, the dreams, the dreams.

I’ve been dreaming every night this week. They haven’t been the usual nightmares, just simple dreams. But many of them. One dream after another after another. Last night I had a dream of myself sleeping in my bed (I wasn’t seeing myself from outside of my body, I was just dreaming of laying in my bed) and I basically just laid there in the dream with five disembodied voices screeching full sentences at me. Something about me needing to build something or something, dude, I don’t fucking know, I can barely handle a conversation with one other person; like I could handle five people at once.

So that was an odd dream. Then I went on to have another one, and another one, all different.

I awoke frustrated and drained of more energy.

I am someone who has had few auditory hallucinations in my lifetime, including voices every now and then.

Every NOW and THEN. Like months and months apart.

Having a dream of being berated and screamed at by things in my head was too much for me. For those of you who deal with that on a daily basis: props to you all. You have my deepest respect. 

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I’m dead serious. I’m getting a headache just thinking about it. That dream seemed so real, I woke up thinking it had been real and that I hadn’t been sleeping. But I had.

Going to work today was hard. But being forced to be around people kept my mind off of how weird things have been lately. That gave me a much needed break. This is the first time I will probably ever say “work helped me”.

Speech Impediment

How are you all today/tonight? Good? Yeah?

As classes rear their ugly head, the realization that responsibility is a burden the child part of me absolutely hates fills my head with doubt that I can get through another semester.

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It’s the second day.

One thing I struggle with in terms of social anxiety is walking in crowds. I don’t like the eyes and I don’t like the noise. Today I avoided them by jogging up the library’s entrance stairs and going around the back of the building into the lecture hall of my philosophy class. I’d rather take a longer route and risk being late (which I never am, because I also give myself a twenty minute gap walking in between classes) than to shift my way through all those monotonous faces and unreadable eyes.

I also didn’t know where the building was. Building 450, room 450. I thought it was a typo. I’ve been in room 400 before and saw it only went up to 420. I took a chance and just wandered towards the 400 building. I found 450 by coincidence. I spotted the number behind a bush and sighed with relief in my head.

In my pharmacology class, we have to do a group oral presentation at the end of the semester before our finals. That’s something I know I’ll be worrying about, but I told myself not to focus on that.

c724ad27bbec0850029b85116fe080df305e9092cc588639f1f26e625a8e1908In philosophy, we do group work apparently, and that I am a little perturbed about. If you’ve taken philosophy in a college setting, you’ve probably noticed the professors can be some of the most outlandish (and by outlandish, I mean utterly loony, in a good way). My first philosophy professor I loved. She blurted tons of stories of times she told off car salesmen using Kant ideology and how the car salesman gave her husband an exhausted look at the end of her lecture. She screamed and cursed a lot and slapped tables and didn’t give a damn what you thought about it. She had a way with words I could only dream of and it meant a lot that she respected my writing.

This professor is almost the same. She doesn’t have the same open wit, but she is very boisterous and loud and because we’re in an actual lecture hall instead of a class room, she has the freedom to be very, very loud. I will not be sitting in the front of this class.

The problem I’ve always had in philosophy is speaking. As I’ve mentioned, I have immense trouble forming words. That’s what fuels my anxiety. I know that I’m smart, I know that I understand topics, particularly of the philosophical kind, but I need the space and time to think about them thoroughly. A room full of blubbering fools is not the area in which I can do that. When I need to think analytically, I do it on paper, not in my brain. And as most of you college students know, you don’t exactly get all the time you need to write your thoughts down before you have to talk.

The act of talking doesn’t bother me. The fact that I know that my words stumble and stutter across my tongue, and that my vocabulary falls to the level of a third grader is what bothers me. Then the social issues come in: do people think I sound stupid? Are they going to think I’m mentally challenged?

Because I can’t form the words right and they get all jumbled in my head like a traffic jam, I can’t explain my thoughts either. So even if I have a good answer or a right answer, it comes out convoluted and doomed from the start.

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I had my interview today, and it went well. She wants to set me up with another interview with the manager of the position I was applying for. Turns out it’s even better than I thought: they discourage you from talking to guests.

I applied for a position called “Cash Control” in which you basically count cash and keep note of it. You’re in a windowless room in the basement and when you go out on the floor to collect the cash, the fact that you’re carrying thousands upon thousands of dollars (it’s an amusement park, remember) on you around hundreds of people is what is supposed to deter you from speaking with customers.

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Because I had said I enjoy making people’s days and interacting with them (which is a partial lie, but also a partial truth), she asked if it was okay that the position required very little, if any, contact with anyone at all.

I said “I’m totally fine with that”. 

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But I can’t get over how ridiculous I sound when I talk. I’ve always been rather self conscious about the pitch of my voice. It gets squeaky when I’m around new people or really low when I’m around new people, depending on the day I’m having.

Mostly it’s just the words. I can’t form them quick enough to have a conversation. It made it worse that this woman (who my mother happens to have known from her years of working at a newspaper, which I wish she would have told me before I left) spit questions at me faster than a camel. When people speak to me, it takes me much longer to understand their words, even if they speak slowly. By the time they’re expecting an answer, I’m still hearing their first few words in my head.

It’s worse if they’re expecting an answer off the top of my head.

fillersAnd like I said, this women spoke exceptionally quickly, which made it even worse, and I found myself stumbling over words and saying the dreaded “um” that you’re never supposed to say in an interview. The one at sears was much easier because he spoke a lot slower. At least I had a few seconds to come up with a halfway decent answer.

Luckily this company hires pretty much anyone, and it’s always kids and younger people. The fact that I look hispanic might also help out in my favor.

I also had to take a math test. They gave me twenty minutes to add and subtract. Twenty minutes.

Twenty.

Minutes.

For ten questions like: one customer’s total is five dollars and sixty three cents. He hands you a ten dollar bill. What is his change? 

A math test I was 100% confident about for once. 

I’m going to need a lot of stress management and coping skills for this semester. The group work is rampant and my speech is horrendous. I don’t think I’ll ever be an orator.

If the world would just write instead of speak, maybe we wouldn’t have as many wars.

 

Learning Opportunities

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I’m okay spending many of my days alone. I have just enough contact with the outside world to keep me satisfied without overwhelming me. I also have enough video game equipment to keep boredom from crawling up my spine.

This is not another gaming post, but . . . admittedly, I play a lot. I do. I go through sessions of what I call “Binge Gaming” where I spend two or more days (depending on the difficulty and size of the game) glued in front of my television or P.C beating the shit out of ghouls or hunters or cars or whatever.

I used to be addicted to Call of Duty until I got bored with the franchise. I’d play for two days or three days with perhaps an hour or two break to sleep or eat. If I could spend my life entertaining people on YouTube with my screeches like some people, I would be a happy camper.

I love telling people online how much I game and what I play and I love when they assume I’m a man and I get the pleasure of bursting that bubble.

Do you all remember the old days when the PlayStation 3 came out and there was that PlayStation life or whatever the hell? The virtual reality thing? The first time I went in I got swarmed by about twenty people asking me if I was a real girl. That sounds cliche, but it’s the truth.

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As much as I’d like to go into detail about my crazy online gaming encounters, I won’t. Today is one of those days I feel like doing something that interests me (gaming, writing) but I just can’t push myself to get started with either.

When you struggle with your mental health there may be times when you also struggle to feel useful. Not just to yourself but to your friends and your family. Speaking from personal experience, I have immense trouble finding a job and keeping a job. Because of my lack of communication skills, and general preference to non-verbal contact, I never volunteered in high school. I rarely spoke with my teachers and I rarely speak with my professors so therefore I have no professional references. The last position I worked the cash register, had a meltdown, and refused to return. No two weeks notice, no explanation, I just disappeared off the face of the Earth.

So I’m not in good standing with my ex-employer, either. Whether or not some jobs I’ve applied for actually called them I’ll never know. But if they did, I know why I didn’t get those jobs.

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I Couldn’t Even Put Professional “Blogger” If I Wanted To.

My resume is rather unimpressive. I can beef myself up with a cover letter should the position even require such a thing, but my resume can’t back up that confidence or skill. Applying for jobs where other, more experienced people are also applying just throws me out of the race.

I can fake my way through an interview fairly well because they ask questions. I can handle questions. It might take me a little longer to form words and I try my hardest not to stumble or trail off my sentences. If they could speak with me in writing I would have much better chances.

Unfortunately, those of us who struggle verbally aren’t appreciated in a society which caters to loud mouths. I have a loud mouth too. When I have a pencil in my hand. No one understands my mind is uncomfortably blank when I’m forced into having a conversation. I literally break a sweat trying to come up with things to say.

So I’d rather work in an area where if I have to talk it’s for a reason and it’s not to different people every time. I could handle working in an area that expects me to be team orientated because eventually I’ll get used to everyone.

I can not handle working at a cash register. I don’t like a lot of things coming at me at once. I don’t want to have to help this person and have another person waiting on the side for a question to be answered and also have three blinking lights on a phone for people on hold. I was offered a position like that. I declined immediately.

mjaxmi03njvjztjjzthlytfhmddjDo people really understand this? I don’t think so. Because, often, the first words out of their mouth is “just do it” or ” just get over it”. Obviously if I could do either of those things, I would. But I’ve spent most of my life as a mute, communicating through scribbles on a page because I didn’t understand how people could form words on their tongue and blurt them so carelessly. Imagine a toddler who didn’t like to talk. Dream child, you’d think. And I was to a lot of teachers. I could do my work without much issue and they never had to reprimand me for speaking before my hand went up.

Because my hand never went up.

At home it was different because I could talk about things I wanted to talk about and ask questions about things I was curious about and spend days building endless fantasy worlds with my toys.

Anyway, whether people are educated or not, sympathizing in a way that isn’t condescending isn’t easy for a lot of people. So far, I haven’t met someone in the physical world (I.e, not online) who doesn’t make a joke out of what I go through or who just plain doesn’t understand–including my parents.

Well not my dad. His memory is shot.

But my mother still refuses to acknowledge I struggle as much as I do, even when I set it out very plainly for her. Whether she pays for it or not, she doesn’t think I should be seeing a psychologist.

There’s a very brutal truth about support: some people will never provide it. It doesn’t isolatedmean they don’t love you, it doesn’t mean they hate you, it just means they don’t understand. How could they honestly understand if they’ve never felt the things you do or seen the things you’ve seen?

Even the people who support you might not understand. The difference between them and the non-supporters is that what they do understand, the fact that it’s hard for you, is why they are there for you when you need them most. That’s a very good quality to look for in a person.

If someone is a non-supporter, don’t let your frustration get the best of you. There are probably things in their life you wouldn’t understand. I’m surrounded by non-supporters which is why, in my early teens, I decided to be a self-advocate. I support myself emotionally; I do for myself what I wish others could.

How?

Because I understand myself and the maladaptive ways of thinking I have.

The fact that I’ve built characters in my head who are really extensions of my different personalities since I was a toddler probably helps too. Rather than feeling like I’m giving myself advice, I feel like I’m having a conversation with people who support me and understand me. Because I am.

largejournal_acadia_green_75x975_029353There are two things I’ve always had issues with: writing to myself in journals and saying people’s names. I can’t do either. It’s hard for me to write to myself because I see no point in it. I could just tell myself those things in my head.

Seeing as I’m a writer, you would think putting stuff down in words would make it easier for me to see, but not for me. If I don’t write for a reader other than myself I see no point in it. It’s my way of communicating who I am, how I think, and my emotions. If no one reads it than I’ve just wasted precious words.

As far as the names go . . . I have no idea. I’ve just never been able to say people’s names, especially to their face.

The point? Keep a sense of dignified pity for the non-supporters who won’t take the time to understand how hard something is for someone else. They’re missing out on a valuable learning opportunity about someone they care about. It’s their loss.

Whatever

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After last night I am zapped.

I’m tired, but I’m also feeling “blank”.

I don’t really want to be around people today, or talk to people, unless they’re cool with sitting in a room with me and being mostly silent. I’m not depressed or angry or sad or happy or anything, just blank.

Sometimes I wish I was like everyone else just for the sake of the people around me. That way they wouldn’t feel awkward or confused when I suddenly stop talking and just feel like doing nothing and saying nothing. That way I wouldn’t appear aloof or careless. That way when someone smiles or something I’m not forcing it just to appease them.

Today is one of those days. Every ounce of emotion I’m feigning. I’ve learned by now that when people smile at you, they expect you to smile back, so I do that automatically without really caring whether or not I mean it. But today is one of those days where it’s a struggle to even get my automatic reflexes to work.

goatI know it makes me look depressed and everyone wants to be nice to me or whatever, but I’m really not depressed. I’m not sad at all, in fact. Right now, laying in my bed with this computer on my lap, I’m feeling content besides this aching fatigue. I’m not mad at anyone. I’m not sad with anyone. I’m not anything right now besides tired. And most of the tiredness probably comes from the fact that I haven’t eaten more than a few hundred calories each day for the last week and a half. Nor have I been keeping myself hydrated.

I’m not disturbed by this interruptions but I feel like it’s disturbing for everyone else. Even my parents. My mother has gotten used to it since I am her child after all, and I’ve been living with her for twenty years. She knows that when I don’t feel like laughing or smiling or engaging in conversation that I’m having one of those days. So she knows to leave me alone.

I feel like I’m letting people down when I do that, though. I feel like they’re wanting to engage with me and that it’s a bad thing I don’t want to engage with them. But is it really a bad thing?

The more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to say no. This is just how I am. Frequently I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to be around people, and I don’t need to be.

I should also probably eat but after last night, food isn’t appetizing to me at the moment.

alone_in_my_room_by_m0ut0n_addict-d545dxuAt least in my room I’m able to think about this kind of stuff. As soon as I step out of my room door I have to put on a facade and strut around the house like everything is “normal”. I have to strut around in public like all the noise isn’t fucking hammering nails into my head and I have to converse with people like I actually know what I’m doing. I usually fail at that part. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I manage a “hello” or a “how are you doing?” because I know that’s what you’re supposed to do.

It makes me think about jobs. I know I can do the actual job, but could I handle the constant bombardment of people and working with teams and such without feeling like my brain was going to explode? I don’t feel like I could.

If everyone would just talk about photography, books, writing, and technology, I’d never stop talking.

Today I’m not really socially anxious. If I got into a large group of people I could see myself being thoroughly disturbed, but right now I could walk into a grocery store or be out doing whatever and my anxiety wouldn’t impede me as much as this lack of “feeling” would. I just wouldn’t want to even make attempts at speaking like I usually would try to.

smallgroupWhen I’m in a group, I like listening to people talk. I don’t really see a reason to get involved unless they’re talking about something interesting like the categories mentioned above (ha). I don’t even know when I’m supposed to talk in a group of four or five. Anything larger than me and two other people confuses me.

Three people also confuses me, but I’ve been learning to manage it a little better. I can weasel my way into the conversation. I might do it via random ass sentences, but hey, at least I’m involved right? The social anxiety part comes in when I have to constantly analyze whether what I said made sense to them or was relevant. Then I wonder if it was stupid. Then I try to judge the look on their faces but I don’t know if what I’m seeing is what is right.

In a larger group, the only way I know when I’ve been quiet too long and people are wondering what’s wrong with me, is when they all stare glancing in my direction. I’ve learned to associate that with “shit, you’re supposed to say something”.

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My Dream Shirt

But what am I supposed to say? If we’re analyzing a book, I don’t know how to put my thoughts in words. It’s like my entire brain goes blank. If we’re supposed to say our opinions it’s equally as hard to verbalize my thoughts. Usually I end up sounding arrogant or completely jumbled. They have to give me several interpretations of what I’m trying to say so I can choose which one is right. Social “chit-chat”? Forget it. I don’t understand an ounce of it. It’s pointless. If you’re not talking about something worth talking about, then why say anything at all?

Then the social anxiety comes in. Then I freak out about how they see me. I wonder if they think I’m stupid–that’s a huge fear of mine. I think it came from all the teachers back in elementary school who were always chastising me for learning the way I learn and speaking the way I speak. i think they thought I was stupid.

Besides the whole, reading at high school level in elementary. I think they thought I was really stupid but that I was a good reader.

I remember I hated when I had to speak out loud because they always barked at me for speaking too quietly. One teacher kept interrupting me every third or fourth word to boom “a little louder, please”.

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That was harassment, I swear it was. By middle school and High School, the response in my head to them was “open your fucking ears”.

That’s probably part of the reason why I get anxious about talking. I’m someone who genuinely likes to talk (about photography, books, writing) but I find it too difficult to relate to other people. I don’t feel connected to the human race, I really don’t. When I was kid I was pretty sure aliens dropped me off from another planet.

As an adult, I 100% convinced aliens dropped me off from another planet.

I’m thankful that even though my boyfriend and I are complete opposites, at least we have fun together. He probably doesn’t understand me just like everyone else in the world but it’s okay because he kind of tries. Most people don’t. We’ve had some pretty extensive conversations about the world so that’s another plus. I have to be able to have those kind of conversations with people because that’s what I like. I like talking about stupidity and I like being opinionated.

Things I like are easier to talk about. Things I don’t like? I’m at a loss. What am I supposed to say? Why should I have an opinion on it in the first place?

Over the years I think I’ve been through enough that I should have a Ph.D in faking it. I try and be functional because if I’m not . . . then . . . what the fuck am I going do? I don’t really have any other option.

I feel like a child trapped under the expectations of an adult. By now I should be able to converse. I should understand the basics of socialization and I should want to get out there and start doing things. I feel like a four year old still going through a developmental process but not making as much progress as I should.

80% of me likes solitude and doesn’t care about talking or being involved in anything but my interests.

20% of me enjoys talking and gets frustrated that all of me can’t do it correctly.

Whatever.

 

 

 

 

 

Spaghetti And MeatBugs Rant

casual woman browsing on laptop

I just keep posting and posting and posting, I can’t stop.

I think I need to focus my attention on some other writing projects.

But first:

I’m tired as shit and I’m very irritated. 

As if you didn’t already know.

Today has been alright. I’ve been out a lot this week and it’s really drained me. I’ve only been getting four or five hours of sleep each night and I haven’t really been eating or drinking anything, which makes me even more tired.

This is what happens when I have a “busy” schedule. And I don’t even technically have a busy schedule. All I’ve been doing is picking up children from school and maybe helping with homework and it’s only for Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.

But getting up and driving takes a lot of effort out of me. Being “responsible” for two more bodies outside of my own also takes a lot of effort out of me. I can barely take care of myself.

she20will20not20eat20all20about20eating20disorders_3So when there’s a lot going on in my outside world, my inside world is ignored and I’m so focused on trying to reduce my stress response that I forget about myself. I don’t eat–I don’t really want to–I don’t think anything, and it makes it easier to do both because we don’t have a lot of food in the house. We barely have any, actually. This happens at the beginning of month after my mother pays rent.

And when I get stressed and things don’t go in a routine way and I know I might be forced to use my own shitty judgement or improvise for some reason, that puts more stress on my shoulders. I don’t handle stress well. I need to know things before I do them. I need to know I have a little bit of control and if it’s not done in a routine manner well that’s the end of the world for me. I need my routine. I’ve been addicted to routine ever since I was little.

I’m a leg bouncer. It bounces constantly throughout the day but when it goes quickly like it’s doing right now, I know I’ve reached my stress threshold. Which is probably about negative fifty. My stress threshold is extremely low.

I’m a rocker. When my muscles in my legs can’t take it anymore and I can’t ignore that cramp feeling, I rock. It relaxes me and I’ve actually almost fallen asleep doing it. I try not to do it in public because rocking back and forth is the textbook “Crazy person” thing. They should try it sometimes, maybe they wouldn’t be so stressed.

I’m also a teeth clencher. It really, really hurts my jaw. I do it when I sleep sometimes (not as often as I used to) and I do when without even knowing it, not until the pain starts radiating. I also do it when I’m stressed. Right now I have to keep opening my jaw and thinking about it so I don’t clench it anymore. My teeth are killing me.

get-excited-cause-its-gonna-get-weirdWhen I get stressed, things get weird. That’s why my brain has created so many coping mechanisms for me.

*Warning, slightly gross alert* 

When I don’t drink enough water I get really dehydrated. I also have a nose problem. What does that mean? I have overactive mucus membranes. It’s never been “diagnosed” but I mean it’s pretty easy to tell, I can feel it constantly at the base of the opening where my nose meets my mouth. Nothing is coming from my throat, it’s all from the back of my nose. I did some research on it a while ago.

I’m still going to ask a doctor the next time I see one.

At any rate, when I don’t drink enough water and especially in the winter (cold winds, I’m assuming), my nose can get really dry and I’ve got a few nose bleeds from it. Pretty average issue.

paranoia-130613Except when I’m stressed and paranoid about everything.

I try to spit out as much of it as I can because it gets really annoying festering back there. This morning I was trying to clear out my sinuses both ways and then started brushing my teeth and suddenly there was blood in the sink. I thought maybe I’d nicked my gum or something but I checked everywhere, that’s not where it was coming from.

I hadn’t hacked up anything from my throat or lungs but that’s where my brain went.

. . .

I tried typing just now why I’m so terrified of things like that–obviously it’s indicators of bad things like a pulmonary embolism–but I can’t type about those kind of things specifically without being convinced it’s going to happen to me, particularly when I’m running on very little sleep and very little energy and a lot of stress.

At any rate, that was sign number one. 

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Duster Jacket. 

Sign number two? This evening when I was in the kitchen actually making a small bowl of yesterday’s spaghetti I saw a body leaning over in my peripheral vision and I screamed and faced it and saw it was just my father’s duster and hat hanging on the wall. I legit saw a face and a head. I don’t scream often, not unless there’s a legitimate reason to.

I asked him if it was necessary to have that thing there and he just laughed. That was sign number two.

It’s just telling me something bad is going to happen. That’s what I felt. 

So I continued on with my night. I poured some water and I looked into the cup and I saw little black things floating in it.

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You see, my father has memory problems. He also collects rain water in jugs when it rains so he can water our indoor plants with it. One day a week or so back, he put a jug in the fridge thinking it was store bought water and without his glasses didn’t see the black chunks floating around in it. Apparently neither did I when I poured myself some and drank it.

So I’ve been paranoid about that happening again. I poured three glasses of water in two different cups tonight and all three came out with black shit in it. I asked my mother if she’d bought the water and put it in the fridge earlier, and she said yes, that’s why I thought it was safe to drink. Apparently not. My father didn’t see anything floating in the jug, even with his glasses, but I did. That was sign number three. 

As soon as I entered the kitchen from showing him the jug of water and being thoroughly confused, sign number four scuttled across the floor. Some kind of cricket looking bug that wasn’t a cricket. It was rounded but with a small body and really long antenna. It wasn’t a cockroach, trust me.

At this point I’m terrified. That bug just solidified everything for me. It feels like it just brings bad things with it and it crossed my path right when I was entering the kitchen. Like it timed it.

So I snatched my bowl out of the microwave and came back to my room already terrified that . . . shit, I can’t even type it out without worrying it’s actually going to happen. So scratch that. Ignore it.

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I came back to my room and started watching more YouTube, the thing that numbs my mind the greatest, but every time I took a bite of the spaghetti it felt like that bug was in my mouth. I had to look at the food to make sure it wasn’t made of bugs.

It wasn’t very hot, but somehow one of the bites warmed the bottom part of my jaw and it felt like someone put something in it, like tampered with it. I thought I was poisoned for a second but that can’t be right. I didn’t ever leave my bowl by itself, I don’t think, and who is going to poison me? Right? Definitely sign number five. 

Five signs? Fuck that, I need to be careful where I step. Something might blow my head off.

So there’s a half eaten bowl of spaghetti sitting next to me. I ate ice cubes instead.

I ate a few tater tots, a couple slices of smoked sausage and some french fries. That’s what I ate today.

I honestly don’t want to eat anything at this moment. I don’t even feel comfortable leaving my room.

And this is why I try not to stress myself out. 

My legs are cramping. This is ridiculous. I’m so fucking tired but if I go to sleep I feel like something is going to happen. Too many signs tonight.

Looks like I’m in for another night of staying awake until my body collapses from pure exhaustion and my brain is too beat up to do anything about it.

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This Friday I don’t want to see anyone and I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m just going to sleep. And when I wake up, I’m going to go online. And no one better say one fucking word to me.