A Curb Full Of Fucks . . . once again.

Days turn into night, nights turn into days, and my fucks are on the curb once again.

I’m usually up during the house night becomes day and day becomes night, and that’s the best time to dig up some fucks and shovel them over onto the curb. If you’ve been looking for some fucks because your fucks have run out, come on over and pick from my pile, I have thousands of them I’ve discarded.


I honestly love where I work and I love the night shift. However, with the major shut down I had this last week, I could never gain the courage to return anyone’s calls when they called me for a shift, fearing 1) I’d have to work a day shift right after classes (that’s much too much social interaction when I’m stressed and 2) because I just couldn’t talk to anyone.

Classes makes it impossible for me to attend the team meetings or even cover shifts for it.

That’s a lot of guilt I carry. These people are nice. The last thing I want is for them to think I’m disinterested in something I care deeply about. How do I express that kind of dedication when I have trouble holding and following even the simplest conversation? I guess I should just be blunt and say it.

I think the combined strength of guilt, sleeplessness, and stress puts my guard up around them. I’m convinced all they do is gossip about how unreliable I am or how they shouldn’t have hired me. Did I tell you all I feel like they set up cameras in the office to watch me at night? I’m pretty sure they set up cameras in the office to watch me at night. I’m pretty sure they review the tapes and talk about how much of an ass I am and that they’d wish I quit. At one point I went in expecting to be fired.

Some people call this paranoia, and I used to as well. Until I sat down and thought about it the way someone at my work would see it.

Paranoia doesn’t always result from “irrational thinking”. This is stemming from my own insecurities with people in general. It’s stemming from the fact that people are not routine, you can never guess what they’re going to do, and that already bothers me. I worry people would exploit a weakness in me if they saw it because it’s a dog eat dog world, right?

591277485Paranoia is a term for categorization. But the deeper you dig, the more you see it’s not always irrational underneath, not as much as it seems on the surface.

It doesn’t feel like that every night and it didn’t last night, probably because I was in the common area and kept out of the office to give some company to someone struggling with panic and anxiety. If there’s one thing I wish I had every time I panicked, it was company. Even if it’s just someone to sit there and talk nonsense with. I’m a horrible conversationalist, but I hope it helped at least a bit.

I hate people misreading my intentions because of my behavior, and I never can know the thoughts in their head without bluntly asking “hey, you think I’m a dickhead or . . .?” and that doesn’t seem like a very appropriate thing to do.

I would like to be reliable, I would like to make a call without it taking every ounce of my energy, I would like to be able to feel I can handle all the administrative stuff during the day shifts, but I’m not at that point in myself where I feel I can. Not without it taking every moment of my time in my head and outside of it. And if that happens, there will be nothing left for school.

kemeter-slackline_2362783bThe state of my mind balances on a fine thread across a deadly canyon. It takes an extreme amount of precision to keep it balanced

This new insight gets more interesting the more I type. It pays to think about things in a different way. For those of us with mental health struggles, be careful not to get stuck on categorization and labels; those just tell you surface behavior. It doesn’t provide insight on a deep level. You really think everyone’s brain that disassociates, or hears voices, or sees things, or things like the feeling of being monitored or watched is solely because their brain is sick? Give me a break. The brain doesn’t do anything that isn’t for a reason. If it operated without reason, it would take up such a tremendous amount of energy and space you’d have no room to even be alive, let alone conscious. 

You know yourself better than anyone. It just takes a little bit of introspection. You know those “crazy” theories that say psychosis actually has meaning in the end? Well, the theories aren’t so crazy.

That being said, my fucks are still on the curb. Regardless of insight, the fucks will always pile up until they start leaking out of orifices that don’t need to be leaking, and I have to shovel them all off onto the curb.

The night after I made that post about my uncomfortable obsession with my car (a.k.a my child), I was driving down a street at 40 mph with my boyfriend and we hear a deafening “THUNK!”

The sound of metal cracking against metal continued with each rotation of the tire over a small dip or rock in the road.


Panic, panic, panic. But I kept cool; I’ve been driving around in cars that suddenly fall apart all my life. A little thunk is hardly something to start crying and calling the tow truck. In fact, if you do that, you’re going to feel like more of an idiot when you learn you probably could have driven it home and saved the hundred dollars.

I do not have free roadside service, so . . . that’s a fuck that can go out the window as well.

We pulled over and looked under. Nothing was caught, like I hoped. So the rest of the way I drove 15-20 mph, not giving two shits if someone behind me was in a hurry. I don’t compromise my car for anyone.


That night I was so stressed my head could have exploded. Why, out of all the things, does this have to happen right in this moment?

We took it to the mechanic (where I drove 10mph the entire way this time, with my mother tailing behind me). The front right control arm had essentially fallen apart.

If you don’t know what that is, picture your skeleton. Picture your pelvis and how it holds the lower frame of your body to the upper frame of your body. Now, picture that broken.

It essentially attaches your suspension that holds your wheel to the frame of your car. Had I pushed it any longer, I’m assuming the front end of my car probably would have nose dived into the pavement and I’d have to go to a body shop as well. At the very least, my wheel would have inverted or flared outward, and then I really would have to call a tow truck.

Essentially, my car is a metaphor of life. Things happen suddenly, often bad things which require a good amount of repair, and then you keep rolling until the next thing. And the next. And the next. It never stops.

You can choose whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.


Yes, I’ll Take The “Get Me Off This Planet” Meal To-Go, Please

I’ll never understand how after so many successes, one tiny fallback feels like an even greater number of failures. Besides the two hours of sleep I got this morning (7-9), I only got another thirty minute nap after I got home from my first class. The first four or five days of this I was alright and it didn’t bother me much, but now it’s turned into straight up insomnia. My eyes are tired, my body aches, and I want sleep, but I can’t find myself to do it. Usually it’s because my mind has too many thoughts going on but now even that is at a minimum. I’m so damn tired my brain actually got tired–that’s some rare shit right there.

But whatever.

My writing gets huge respects at college. My professor wants to give my paper to someone he knows over the hill who would be delighted to read something like that. So I started off the class feeling great (besides the knives in my eyeballs).

Well, almost great. When I walked in the classroom two people were talking and they both stopped when I sat near them. I feel like they know all the things I write about the class in this blog and I feel like they’ve read it and they hate me. I feel like they think I’m some kind of teachers pet or something. I don’t know. But I feel distanced from everyone in that class. I feel like they’re all giving me the cold shoulder because they know what I’ve written.

Which is weird because I never called them dumb in any of these posts, I just said some of their answers and questions were shallow.

Which I guess sounds stupid coming from the fucking mute of the class. Last week I expressed, in my essay, by pure coincidence, to the whole class that I am not a talker. I can’t think when I speak. This week I got called on (not that I mind) but I’m running on two hours of sleep and I already suck ass at expressing myself verbally, especially about poetry. I loved the 90 page poem, but I couldn’t even squeak that tiny, shallow opinion out. All I could say is um . . . I’m pretty tired tonight.

Great going fucking idiot. I mean, out of all the things I could say . . . that’s what I come up with? My mind went completely blank. And the longer I sat there in silence feeling the two chicks next to me staring at me, the harder my heart thumped and the redder my face turned and the tighter my throat constricted and the more blank my mind went, as if I had a time limit to respond and as if my response needed to be something from the Gods lest I wanted them to hang me at the gallows. Which honestly, in the moment, I wouldn’t have cared if they snapped my neck. He said it was okay and that I didn’t have to talk but that just made me feel like even more of an idiot. Now they all know for real that I’m fucking stupid. That’s what that boils down to. I just know they’re thinking “she’s fucking weird dude” or “aw, that’s sad” or “yeah, not so smart now are you?”. Whatever. Mentally I took about fifty steps backwards in that four second interval of stupidity.

I should have written down some points while we were reading. I fucking know that’s what I have to do in these situations; why didn’t I do that? I know I have to be ten steps ahead of everyone to appear to be stepping beside them like a “normal” person would. I know that. I’ve done it before just to avoid looking like a fucking idiot  like I just did tonight.

So I think about that while I sit there and I start feeling guilty for being a good writer and a shitty talker. I feel guilty for being one of the two other people in the class with native decent (one dude isn’t in the class but he stops by every once in a while; he’s a really eloquent speaker and thoughtful) and making us all sound like idiots. I feel like I let every single native person down in the history of life in that four seconds.

So I came to the logical conclusion that I should kill myself.

Now wait–I’m not going to kill myself. But within the minute of that whole ordeal, what I just explained–getting called on, mind going blank, e.t.c, that was my resulting conclusion: kill myself.

How does that even make sense? How do I go from completely blank in the head to suddenly flooding and then feeling like I shouldn’t live anymore because I’m a disgrace and everyone thinks I’m an idiot? I mean, honestly: I’m impressed. I can’t lie. The brain is a mysterious thing.

Obviously If I break down in the middle of class, I would have looked like a fucking crazy person (ha ha fucking ha) and that would have made the whole situation worse, so I kept sucking it back for another forty five minutes until I was in my car and safe from any of their fucking eyes. I breathed, I focused on other things in the surrounding area like the little blinky light on the back of a bicyclists’ bike or the faded tail light of the car in front of me or the ugly green ass street signs, e.t.c. It helped, actually. My mind got pulled away for a while and I gained control of myself.

Until I stopped paying attention to other things and then they all came flooded back and I listened to my brain say “just shoot yourself in the head, that’s what you should do”.

I swear, I’m not thinking these things on purpose. Sometimes they don’t even feel like thoughts–or at least not mine. And it’s never “I should shoot myself” it’s always “you should shoot yourself” as if I’m not the person in my brain giving me those thoughts.

Ehhhhh . . . I don’t like how that sounds: I don’t believe thoughts are being transmitted to me, I’m just saying it feels like the thoughts are not mine. They happen too randomly, that’s the problem. They’ll pop up while I’m in the shower and I’ll literally say “fuck off” out loud to get them to quiet down. Usually happens in the morning. They’ll pop up while I’m sitting in a group or just chilling with my boyfriend or when I’m trying to go to sleep or when I’m watching a YouTube video. Sometimes it happens a lot of times in one day, sometimes it happens once, sometimes it doesn’t happen at all. I don’t know man, I don’t know.

And it’s not always “shoot yourself” or “kill yourself”, sometimes it’s just things like “well, if you weren’t so fucking stupid” or I don’t know, random things. Things I can respond to with either a “shut up”, a “fuck you” or a “shhhhhh”. I don’t know how to explain this, obviously.

I realized I typed “they”. Well, you know how while you’re reading this you hear that little voice of yours in your head reading to you? It sounds like that except it doesn’t sound like the one I think or read in. I think I say “they” because it’s always more than one thought. I don’t know.

None of that interferes with my daily life besides, you know . . . it’s weird when you have to walk down the street shushing yourself and saying “fuck you” out loud. That tends to turn people off. It annoys me obviously but It’s not that big of a deal, honestly. If it was everyday and it kept me from focusing on things, then I’d be worried. As of now it just bugs me when it happens when I’m already having a tough time–that’s when it’s hard.

As of right now, I feel kind of calm. My legs are still bouncing and my heart is still beating a little fast but writing this all out really helped. Just to be clear, I’m not going to shoot myself. I don’t have a gun, remember?

The sad part in all of this? I can’t remember a word of the second half of class, I was so stuck in my head.

Sleep would probably do me well.

The good news in all this? If those fuckers in my class are reading these posts, they now have definitive evidence that I’m crazy.