Tell ’em

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

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

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

“Hi, I’m Dave, can I ask your name?”

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

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

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

“Oh yeah? Where do you work?”

*Insert Cheshire Cat smile in my head*

“I work at a peer respite house.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes all it takes is one moment in time.

Sometimes all it takes is a little risk.

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

Why Writing is Actually the Bane of My Existence.

What a shit title, you must be thinking. And you’d be right, that is a shit title, but I refuse to change it because it is my shit title and I own my shit titles. If I could see you, I’d stick my tongue out at you.

5227758-a-disgusted-girl-giving-a-bratty-expression-toward-the-cameraa-bratty-valley-girl-expressing-towardYou also may be wondering, like smart-asses always wonder, “why are you writing if it’s the bane of your existence?”

<—(How I imagine your face).

Simply because the bane of my existence also happens to be the thing I enjoy the most. Because I, apparently, enjoy suffering. Think about it. If you don’t suffer, you don’t really grow. And if I didn’t suffer as a writer, I wouldn’t grow as a writer. And we all know a stunted writer isn’t really a writer at all, but rather someone who writes.

It’s the bane of my existence because I can never keep things consistent. That was not meant to rhyme, but it did. What I mean is that I’ll take a hiatus for a while, kick myself for taking that hiatus, struggle coming from that hiatus, and then finally breaking through the clouds and pouring my heart into what I do. However, there’s always that looming cloud reminding me: you’re going to fall again. Hey, hey, guess what? *Initiate plummeting to death sounds*

Take this blog, for example. I had a lot of things going for me on this blog. I had consistent readers, consistent followers, I had a nice little fan base and things were moving along quite swimmingly. And then I went crazy and had to take a hiatus and lost all of it. Well, most of it. I lost the rights to the domain because I couldn’t afford it any longer, and I lost consistent readers because who the hell is going to wait almost a year for someone to stop being crazy so they can start writing again? People’s attention spans are NOT that long anymore. Including my own. I can barely pay attention to myself.

My fiction writing suffered. I stop writing short stories, I stopped jotting down ideas for short stories, and what initiated was a complete breakdown of the self. Writing is the bane of my existence because if I don’t do it, I’m at a complete loss. It’s like heroin. Warm, foreboding, deadly, and addicting. I use negative connotations to describe writing because, as you can see, I have a love-hate relationship with it.

not_funWriting isn’t all fun and games, people. Jesus. You can’t just slap down words in any old order you want and call it a piece. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been doing that for the last 3 years on this blog at all. I totally calculate each word that spears through my fingers.

On a side note, I just bought Schrodinger’s “What Is Life” book, because I barely learned about it yesterday and cannot believe I’ve never heard of it. It should be a good read.

See: attention span = shit.

And that’s another bane of my existence: reading. I love it. I mean, I really love it. I read The World According to Garp in one sitting because I was so enthralled by the story I couldn’t put it down. After that, I picked up a second book and read well into the night. I love reading. But it’s always been hard for me to focus on something like a book, unless it snatches my imagination like The World According to Garp, or I’m on some medication like Effexor that makes me highly focused.

But writing. Oh-ho, fuck writing. I love it, but fuck it. And who’s to say you can’t love what you hate? There’s got to be a reason you hate it, right? Maybe you hate it because you love it. Maybe you hate it because it brings out a side in you that you can never project otherwise. Maybe you hate it because you’re just in a spiteful mood, but really you love it. I don’t know your life, man.

That is why you should embrace what you hate. Embrace your enemies. Embrace that one teacher in school who always picked on you. Mine made me a better writer, even when she called mine shit. Embrace what infuriates you the most, and you may learn the reason it infuriates you is something deep within yourself, something you’ve been ignoring.  And that’s today’s mental truth.

 

It’s Fucking Raw!

I’m about 300% done.

With what, you ask?

With the internet. Not the trolls (South park is taking care of that for me), not the idiots who start rants on social media about things they don’t understand, and certainly not the eleven year olds posting sexy pictures of themselves captioned “ftw, keep it 100, stfu biatches, snort weed hoe”.

employee-2
She’s not 12, calm the fuck down.

I’m simply done with internet connections.

It took about twenty minutes for me to load this page. I paid seven dollars for this day of wifi connectivity and this is the result I get?

“Just sign up with an internet company.”

Easy for you to say, you probably have enough money to pay an internet company. I’m about to get fifty frappe’s from Starbucks and start my ass on some Nikola Tesla shit. Resurrect Wardenclyffe for some free Wifi and energy.

I mean, does anyone ever think about this? How can they claim dibs on wifi if it’s everywhere? How can you claim dibs on energy when it is literally everywhere? It can’t be created or destroyed, only transformed. Don’t tell me PG&E is the only way you can power a fucking light bulb because I’ll slap you so hard with some science you’ll be dropping chemistry test tubes out your ass for a month.

There has to be a way you can create something that receives a signal without you having to saw off your leg and fuck the manager of Comcast while pretending he’s “Daddy” and you’re his “little girl”.

201608_1125_bibae_sm

Fuck Comcast with a capital F.

Could this rant be a result of my nerves over my psychiatrist appointment on Monday or the mountain of math homework I’ve been staring at but not touching, or the frustration I feel over my tendency to avoid every single thing that overwhelms me (which turns out to be everything)? You tell me, smart guy.

Oh God, I just assumed your gender, oh fuck me, send out the killer clowns and put on your metal chastity belts before Donald Trump grabs your cooch and Clinton breaks into your house and deletes your entire gmail history.

2016 in one sentence.

Fuck off.

My goal in life is to be the Gordon Ramsay of the psychiatric world. Picture this:

[Enter]: three residents, two with goofy grins on their faces and one with a patented “I’m going to be a doctor next year” flat-line face. They all have their clipboards clutched to their chest like it’s the first day of class and they don’t want anyone to see how much they suck at math. I am wheeled in on a throne made of previous resident’s broken dreams and souls with four angels with wings of solid gold pushing me along. The wheels of the throne are translucent and easily visible is the bubbling blood of my enemies; my source of energy. I puff generously on a Cuban cigar  I made a resident crawl through Cuban jungles to get.

Me: Repeat my motto!

Them: People not products.

Me: Again!

Them: People not products

Me: WITH ENTHUSIASM!

Them (visibly shaken): People not products!

Me: Good. Better than yesterday; yesterday you were shit.

Resident 1: That’s a little harsh.

Me: What? What did you say? Hey–hey! Listen you fucking donkey, don’t tell me I’m harsh when you’re shit!

Resident 2 (under breath): a compliment would be nice once in a while

Me: You want a fucking compliment? I haven’t had to take your clipboard and shove it up your ass sideways yet! There’s your compliment. Hey–hey, did that hurt? Fucking sue me!

I’m sorry, I had to pause and ask myself what the fuck do I write about these days?  This is my personality, people. I should be on T.V making millions of dollars for insulting people. Think about how self-fulfilling that would be to know you are the one person with such great comebacks about dry camel asses and raw food that people hate you so much that they tune in and watch you every week. What a wonderful source of fuel for my shattered ego and what a wonderful cure for my crippling depression.

maxresdefault3

My nerves are running rampant about this appointment. Meeting new people is one thing: meeting a new psychologist is another; meeting a new psychiatrist is ten times worse than both of the above. I’ve been fighting with myself over whether I would ever, ever, ever again in my life consider medication and although the dominant screech in my head is “what the fuck are you thinking you fucking psychopath, No!”, there’s a tiny voice somewhere hidden in the crevices of my brain matter saying “let’s get legally high”.

No, really it’s saying “do it.”

My problem is getting stuck in a cycle. My problem is 1) finding the words to explain myself and 2) explaining myself so well I went up getting thrown down the rabbit hole.

I have special names for things in psychology. Hospitals are called the Lions den because once you’re in there, you go by their rules.

aliceinwonderland-downtherabbithole-011The rabbit hole is the cycle of treatment people get stuck in, that I almost got stuck in once. The “take this medication, but it causes this so take this medication, but those side effects suck so take this one but now you can’t get off of them without horrible withdrawal or a psychotic break so I’ll just tell you that you might as well stay on them for the rest of your life” cycle.

I’m acutely aware that taking medication would mean my brain is forced to fight itself . Doctors call it “adjusting”. I don’t. Because it’s not your brain “adjusting”, it’s your brain constantly sending out more neurotransmitters to keep itself in homeostasis against the synthetic chemicals; that’s why you develop a tolerance–your brain finally reaches homeostasis once again and you don’t feel the effects of the medication anymore.

Until you quit it and suddenly your brain, which has started sending out huge amounts of transmitters to compensate and balance the other transmitters, sends out more than it needs because the chemical is now gone. That’s why you get withdrawal. That’s why alcoholics have seizures. That’s why many people who stop their medications have bad mental side effects.

I don’t have health insurance so what does any of this matter? Even if I wanted medication I wouldn’t get it. So, I guess . . .

0cab192e5afce41eba8cf08e75d45b6c934cecbe98655be46e547916479ce2e6

Internet is working now.

How To Survive College

There are tons of articles on the internet giving you lists of endless strategies to survive the seemingly endless hell of college group projects, surveys, lectures, and anti-abortion rally meth heads who camp out in the quad with their six foot tall posters of aborted fetuses, enticing women and men alike to screech pro-choice ideals at the top of their lungs.

Everything those lists have told you is a lie.

o-graduation-facebook

College is a bubbling cauldron of exponential debt. It’s a place you go to enhance your nihilism. If you weren’t already a nihilist, it’s a place where you can easily become one. It’s where you hustle to in the morning with your baggy sweatpants and a cup of coffee so you can walk into class, lean your fist against your cheek, and catch those extra Z’s you wasted this morning trying to find your car keys. It’s where you can major in rigid thinking, overly-liberal thinking, and non-thinking all at once.

It’s where you withdrawal from a course life intervenes on, only to take it once more while simultaneously kicking yourself. It’s where you sit in that course and bang your head repeatedly against the desk until the professor notices out of the corner of his eye, but tentatively ignores it because you have an accommodations contract from the disabled students center.

It’s thought to be a place for thinkers, innovators; the next Steve Jobs, the next Albert Einstein, John Nash, Nikola Tesla . . .

. . . but it’s mostly a place for hippies, kids looking for an excuse not to work full time, people with rich parents, or people with sports scholarships.

richkids

It’s where you could get a perfect score on a paper for memorizing a concept, but only fifty percent for creating your own outside the box.

With that in mind, there is your first tip: Lower your expectations. 

  • This isn’t 387 B.C and college isn’t a Platonic Academy. Plato has nothing to do with it. There’s less “let’s discover the world/the ether/ the mind” and more “we did the discovering for you, now read it, learn it, memorize it”. There’s a small percentage that will take that knowledge and build on it. Most will recite it and manage to feel proud.
  • Most people in college have average intelligence. That’s a good thing. Because if everyone was smart, i’d feel like an idiot.
  • The more you expect, the more disappointed you’ll be when things don’t go your way: like when you realize your major is the epitome of horrid and you want to switch but now you have to go through a bunch of paperwork and university is not fucking happy with you at all.
  • Instead, take everything with a grain of salt. Take charge when you need to. Coast along when you can.

We all know how sickening disappointment can be. So instead of making a list over summer hyping yourself up about all the great things you’re going to do in college, make a list reminding yourself not to do that. That’s stupid. And only smart people go to college, remember?

If you have an incessant need to list, than write this fifty times on four sheets of paper:

No matter how easily I sailed through high school, college will not be the same.

That’s my second tip.

It’s not the work content, it’s the work load. Professors don’t care if you have two part time jobs, a child, and a social life. They don’t get paid enough to care. And if they have tenure than you’re shit out of luck.

farley-katz-tenure

3). Learn your limits and don’t overexert yourself. Think you can take seven courses in a single semester and make it out alive? You know what, go ahead, fuck it, I want to see you do it.

4) When you get a boring professor with an accent you can’t understand, restrain your urge to mock his accent loudly and/or strip off all your clothes and mount the person next to you because they keep sneaking glances down your shirt. Trust me, don’t do it. You’ll regret it. You know how you went to that party the night before your exam, woke up with a headache and puked on your desk in class? You remember that regret? Do you really want to feel that again?

5) It’s okay to not move the same speed as everyone else. If you start struggling and feel like everyone is zipping past you at the speed of intellectual light, that’s okay. Because someone next to them is zipping past them as well. And so on. Everyone moves at different paces and if you’re not perfect, that’s alright. Don’t swallow thirty Ritalin and expect it to turn you into a super human. If anything, get in the Ritalin underground dealing on your campus, especially if you go to Harvard or Yale or any place where people are pressured to be inhumanely perfect. You don’t need your degree to get rich then.

6) If you don’t like it, don’t go. The simplest tip of them all. Not everyone feels like they need to constrain their mind (or their time) to the few options college has to offer. It’s not impossible to be successful without a little piece of paper signed by someone who calls himself/herself a “dean”. I’ve heard of tons of people with doctorates working hours at McDonalds now. College degrees don’t guarantee a good life. No college degree doesn’t guarantee homelessness. It’s all about how you maneuver life to your advantage.

7) Last but not least: if you can find a way not to pay for room and board, TAKE IT. LIVE OFF CAMPUS. Often paying for a dorm is the second most expensive thing you’ll waste your grant/loan/scholarship money on. If you can rent a room in a house or live with family or parents or whoever, do it. Trust.

8) Actually last but not least: if you are taking math, and math is not your greatest subject, I would suggest always doing the homework directly after class. I would also suggest doing some right before you go to sleep. The difference will astound you.

I once struggled on a problem for ten hours. Finally I said fuck it, threw my book across the room, resisted the urge to take a shit on my homework page, and went to sleep. I had a wonderful dream of the problem, how to work it, and the solution. Woke up and, for a second at least, declared myself a genius.

But actually, mathematical dreams are not too unheard of. It happens to many people, especially mathematicians. You might not care whether you know math, but apparently your subconscious does enough to work on it throughout the night.

If all else fails, flip off your campus, walk away, and give your life up to nature. What difference does it all make anyway?

df038df4a54e0a4b3657bd9630cb85cd

 

Your IQ and The MePhone

14

Am I the only one whose humor pitches a major tent while listening to black metal? I don’t know man, it must be something about their non-satanic, faux satanic hellish screams, clown make-up and fabricated foam horns they got from the runner up from last Season’s “Face Off” sticking out of their shoulder pads that get my funny bone throbbing.

I’m probably the only one.

After watching far too much Pyrocynical , I’m in the mood for some rich stupidity. Let’s get started, shall we?

*Just a note to all 2.5 of you Black Metal fans out there, at the moment I’m throbbing to “Hell Is For Children” by Vesania. Don’t know that song? Neither do I; it burst its way onto my iHeart Station.*

In fact, we’ll start this post with one of my pet peeves. Products related to and unrelated to Apple Inc. who put “i” in front of everything.

iheartradio-750x583Like iHeart. What the fuck does that even mean? Let’s really think about it from the perspective of the English language I’m sure we’re all masters of. Iheart is not a complete sentence. It’s not even a phrase or a fragment. It’s grammatical suicide and we all know how I feel about the nine year olds commenting on YouTube videos with “lyke if u cri evry tim”. I feel that’s where the inspiration for products labeled with “I” come from.

Yes, smart ass, I understand IHeart is a literal language translation of “I <3”. I also understand the point is to individualize the product, hence “IPhone”, or “IPad”. Yes, it’s your phone. I gathered that from the fact that you paid for it and you’re the one using it all the time. Does the name of the phone really need to tell me it’s yours? 

That must have been inspired by toddlers who have yet to understand the wonders of proper language. When you try to take their lolly from them, they screech “I lolly!” until they learn they should say “my lolly”.

The IPhone 7: the MePhone. Genius.

tumblr_m3ebdssdkw1qiv5yk

Then there are the intellectual leeches. The Stephen Hawking’s on the Einstein’s shoulders, like Bluetooth who sell shit like this:

41l4ip0kgfl-_sl1000_

Properly entitled the “Ihere”.

It finds your keys.

Keys.

16ed2148e7-16af1876b8-qlzmhn

KEYS. That’s plural motherfucker, it should be the “We’re here”.

But maybe I’m just nitpicking. Let’s give all these companies the benefit of the doubt. They deserve it. Totally.

Speaking of intelligence, there’s nothing more stupid than people who waste their life trying to find cures for stupidity. Like those scientists who believe they’ve identified gene clusters in the brain connected to human intelligence.

By the way, they found it by examining brains of people who had neurosurgery for epilepsy. The article I read (which you can find here, but why would you want to without skimming my wonderful explanation of it?) did not express how they went about examining these brains, so I’d say it’s safe to assume during the surgeries they went prodding around with their scalpels until they found a soft spot or two.

tumblr_m1rp9yv4q61rs3p5uo1_1280The author jumps from talking about dissecting examining brains to the same mad scientists analyzing genes expressed in the brain and combining that data with genetic info from healthy people who were suckers enough to take an IQ test and from people with neurological disorders and intellectual disability. I’m assuming in that latter category some of these scientists were included.

The conclusion? Genes that influence intelligence in those so-called healthy people can cause significant problems neurologically if they mutate too much. Shocking.

I honestly thought that was already a well known fact.

“Like a football team made up of players in different positions”. That’s how the neurologist described how traits are governed by large groups of genes. So I’m going to take another wild guess and say the genes that govern intelligence in smart people crash head-first into each other less often than the genes that govern intelligence in not so smart people.

Although, these scientists are from Europe, maybe he was talking about non-american football and I just made myself sound like an idiot.

1264887247768__large

Whatever.

The point of all this are the implications of potential future findings. You know, let’s alter our brain power despite the fact that genes are incredibly complicated and turning on a part of one might make us grow antennas out of our asses. 

What would earth do with a bunch of smart people anyway?

Let’s think about what the people on this Earth with the highest IQ’s (we’re talking 190-300) are doing at this moment.

The guy with the estimated 250-300 IQ died in 1944 so I won’t defile his name. Very smug look in his photograph, though. He knows he’s smarter than the people who will look at his photograph in the future and call him smug.

william_james_sidis_1914
Smug!!!!!

The apparent media sensation in America, Christopher Langan just chills at home on his farm coming up with the Cognitive-Theoretic Model of the Universe. I have read portions of it (not all) and I’m not entirely impressed, but then again my IQ isn’t 210 is it?

Maybe it is. I never fell for that IQ bullshit though.

I did partially agree with what he said in 2001: science doesn’t consider anything real that can’t be detected and then measured. But you can’t technically measure a mathematical principal or detect one and yet they must be used for scientists to conduct their work. Therefore, people are using numbers to try and come up with information about a universe (most of which we can’t detect anyway) when numbers haven’t really been proven “real”.

Don't hold back...what do you really think?Disagree? I’m sure a lot of people do. It follows a pattern of logic though, so I’ll give him that much. It also requires you step outside of the realm of 2+2 and remember numbers are something man made up to help him make sense of the physical reality we experience.

And we only experience probably about 1 trillionth of what is out there. Perhaps more, but I can’t think of a number that I can spell larger than “trillion”.

The point, people, is that this guy sits around making up philosophical contradictions for math and publishing his thoughts on the influence of Consciousness in Quantum Mechanics and creating a foundation for gifted children.

Another guy retired at 30 and chills at his house doing smart people things.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not putting the world on these people’s shoulders, but you know, we could use some “gifted” people in office. Some smart people with a good ethical standing I should say. Help us integrate some logic back into society. I’m not quite sure what good the Cognitive-Theoretic Model of the Universe has really done anyone.

Regardless, there will always be someone smarter than someone else. Tampering with the genes that supposedly determine our level of intellect? I smell a government conspiracy coming on. 

As human beings who decided to establish laws to govern a society, we’re already racing for something. For reputation, for wealth, for the newest style, for the highest degree. Let’s not bring nature into this bullshit, please. Nature ain’t got time for that. It’s busy being useful. 

iq

 

 

 

#GiveMeSomeWorkDamnit

55891207

My nickname should be Serial Killer because I murdered the shit out of those applications!

No one?

Alright. It’s all good. Go laugh at someone else, someone funnier and richer and willing to stand on a stage at the risk of humiliation, it’s not like I’m going to hack your I.P address and GPS track your computer and find your house and light it on fire and laugh at it or anything.

I won’t, I promise; empty sarcastic threats are my specialty.

Even if I did find your address, I’d probably just steal your dog.

I’d leave a note too, saying “sorry I stole your dog; I left an Iguana in it’s place. His name is Dave. He hates people. Have fun!”

I did murder those applications though.

tumblr_lo1jnuvrpn1qmbb3go1_400

What applications? What are you talking about? What’s going on!??!?! WHAT IS LIFE?!?!?!?

61945155
Let Me Put Some Kush Up in It

Job applications ya’ll. They annoying.

But I be murdering ’em left and right trying to get me some income so I can stop being the broke ass I’ve always been. I’m clicking on “apply” to every single position that isn’t Cashier or sales floor representative or sales associate or anything that has me dealing with people’s problems all day long.

I know I can handle a few people, maybe team members who I have to see and interact with every day, people like that. But if you expect me to handle bitchy customers for six to eight hours a day and still go home sane, than you’ve got the wrong person.

I’m not even considering restaurants. Could you imagine me as a server? One of two things will happen:

  1. The people will be so intimidating I’ll have the same breakdown I had at my last retail job and just quit coming–the anxiety would keep me up all night and once this next semester starts up again I can’t have these kinds of distractions. I refuse to let my mental health hold me back from what I want to do with my life any longer. That includes working.
  2. I’m going to get so pissed off my face is going to go beet red even though it’s brown and a bitches head is going to get cut off.

I mean, it is what it is.

I have a mouth and I have anger issues. If you tickle that little spot–err, okay, that gigantic spot–my anxiety will literally poof out of existence. I might not even remember what I say, or even do. I’ll have a rage attack. Don’t underestimate girls man, we can go 0-100 real quick.

6af172a66c2f71104d19bfd90a65cdf1

At least, I can.

So I’m looking for jobs that either having me driving or in the backroom or stocking the floor or cleaning–anything with a limited amount of exposure to the public.

It’s interesting the situations where my anxiety seems to extinguish itself. In an argument the anger will prevail. The throbbing in my throat and chest is no longer fueled by fear but by pure adrenaline, angry adrenaline, and it honestly feels pretty good. I probably don’t get enough of my other emotions, that’s my theory. It’s nice to let it all out every once in a while. But how and where–that’s what I need to work on.

If I see someone getting assaulted or, when I was school bullied, I’ll be the first to step in or call the police or put myself in a situation a lot of other people tell me not to.

One night my boyfriend and I were walking out of CVS drug store and a man was shouting at the top of his lungs at some woman in a white car. There’s always security around this story because it’s open 24/7 but this time they were no where in sight. The four homeless men stood by the wall watching and customers were just strutting past hoping they wouldn’t be noticed.

An argument is personal but I didn’t get a good feeling from it. So I stood and watched. The man tried to yank open her car door and when he couldn’t he tried reaching through the window to grab her or punch her; it all happened so fast I couldn’t tell. She screamed for him to get away and I already had my phone out and backed towards the end of her car ready to read the license plate number to the police. My boyfriend kept telling me to come on but I know what it’s like to be attacked–how am I supposed to walk away from that? 

The man ran around the other side of her car and hopped in. Yes, they knew each other, this wasn’t some random robbery or something. They were screaming at each other louder now, loud enough for people to glance over but figure it was unnecessary to put themselves at jeopardy.

I hate the bystander effect. Never been a big fan.

b3mpdt_cqaejrpi

 

I’m not going to get myself in their business. I was, however, waiting for true physical confrontation–a reason to call the authorities. He tried yanking something from her, it might have been the car wheel, and I called to my boyfriend that I was about to call the police if he hit her. I Basically shouted it. Both people glanced up and the woman stared at me first. The man stared at me second and I glared and I dared him to say some shit because I’m not scared of cowards.

Sounds like I was putting myself in danger, but I wasn’t. There was enough space between us and enough people around to where neither of them would try anything stupid. She started up the car and sped off. Sure, maybe they went and argued some place else. Maybe she tossed him out her car on the freeway. Maybe he shot her. I couldn’t ever know, but I know at that moment I wasn’t going to stand there and watch someone get assaulted.

They were probably drug addicts, there’s a lot of them in that area, but a person is a person.

I wished I could have had reason to call the authorities. I really wish I did; I would have felt much better. My boyfriend told me I shouldn’t get involved but I grew up around that kind of violence. I’m obviously not going to sit around while it happens right in front of my face, not if I have a small window to intervene.

7388786858851959_cpqabkvz_cThose are the moments I’m not really anxious, but the skills I’ve learned through anxiety come in handy. The ability to assess the danger level of a situation, the ability to skim through a million bad options that could happen in a matter of seconds and assess whether it’s worth it or not.

I’m not saying I’m super man here, but shit, if you’re with me in a tough situation you’ll swear up and down I’m the calmest person you’ve met. By the time you realize what’s going on, I’ll have thought of every possibility that could go wrong and every type of solution for those possibilities. I’m always primed and ready for disaster.

I think that would make me a valuable asset to a workforce. If something horrid happens I’m not going to be the one at the desk breathing heavy, distressed, ripping my hair out or the one kicking walls and getting blinded by panic. I’ll be the one zipping through a million solutions I already on reserve, and I’ll keep zipping through them until one of them works.

Those of us with mental health issues are valuable members of society, society just doesn’t know that yet. And I have to admit, many of us who struggle like that don’t even know it yet. But we are. We see the world in an entirely different light. We can come up with ideas and solutions and options unique from the average person.

We’re applied artists and good workers and intelligence people; we’re college students and Ph.D’s and writers and comedians and actors and band geeks. We make up a substantial part of the population and we have an insight on the world no one else does. Be proud of that. 

anigif_enhanced-buzz-21728-1369412702-0_preview

But also be proud of the fact that you’re not that different from everyone else. We all struggle with something, whether it’s mental health, physical health, emotional health, money, housing, whatever; we all struggle. We’re not very different from each other and I think the more we divide ourselves up into categories, the more stigma is perpetuated–not just for mental health but for all sorts of other issues.

We focus on our differences rather than our similarities. How does that make sense?

That’s why, a while back, I bashed the #StopTheStigma twitter sensations with their cardboard signs and medications. We’re different, but we’re not that different. Not so different that we should separate ourselves from the rest of the population. We all struggle. I think that’s what people fail to notice, that mental health issues cause a struggle.

We’re all so used to feeling our own struggle that we invalidate other’s struggles. I’ve done it before. We’ve all done it.

That’s the real problem here. Fuck not understanding the disorders, fuck not understanding the brain or classical conditioning, fuck Political Correctness like the difference between having a disorder or being a disorder, fuck having a disorder vs a disease vs an illness. This runs deeper than that. 

You don’t have to identify with my anxiety or have lived with anxiety to understand how hard it is to simply struggle. You should intrinsically know that tight knot in your stomach and negative thoughts and how hard it is to get out of bed some days. Because we all do it over different things. Because we’re all humans.

I think. Except maybe Ben Carson. I think he’s an alien Ya’ll.

The point is, I’d be a good worker so fucking call me back already. Shit.

If titling this post #GiveMeSomeWorkDamnit actually gets me work, I will take back all the bullshit I talk about # campaigns.

Thug Life And The Holidays

note-to-self-sneaking-up-behind-people-and-softly-whispering-it-puts-the-lotion-in-the-basket-will-get-you-kicked-out-of-bath-and-body-works-8477c

Note to self:

Don’t go to sleep at 8pm; you’ll wake up at 12 am.

And lay in bed staring at the ceiling until your eyes bleed.

Or you get hungry enough and crawl out to the kitchen sniffing for food.

Which is exactly what I did.

And I’m still hungry, damnit.

Holiday’s are stressful. Have I said this already? Have I made it perfectly clear yet that I love winter and simultaneously hate the season of it? The “holiday spirit?” Because I hate it.

Oh, I haven’t said it enough?

I HATE IT.

I sound like a horrible person right now, a partially loony insomniac sipping Orange Juice and water at 4:06 am staring at an empty blog page wondering why she’s a partially loony insomniac sipping Orange Juice and water at 4:06 am.

Then she stares into the orange goodness in the flower cup and wonders about the validity of her existence, the reality of her existence, and then figures none of it matters if Iheart Radio plays the shitty song it’s currently playing.

I switched it. For God’s sake my ears were on the ledge ready to jump screaming “I never wanted to go out this way!”

What the fuck was I talking about?

52842e451605fb4b00000032

Does anyone who reads these things follow my rambles half the time? Because I don’t.

The holidays, that’s right, how could I forget that bullshit. Out of all the things in the world, how could I forget that.

Like I said, it’s stressful. There are people giving you gifts who expect the same in return even when you haven’t had the seven years needed to connect with them, and drivers on the street don’t give two shits about their lives if they can’t get to Toys R Us before they close so they can get their daughter a collection of overrated Monster High dolls and their son an overrated collection of WWE action figures (that are really just dolls) so their entire family can perpetuate gender stereotypes and then wonders why their daughter is scared to speak up in class and does horrible on math tests and wonders why their son doesn’t have any friends because, little do they know, he has to hide the fact that he prefers to sit in a garden and sniff flowers than be with the other boys shoving and tackling each other on the concrete.

Are you happy with yourselves?

You don’t get your mail until 9 pm. 

Traffic becomes the bane of your existence.

Everything is green. I hate green. That is my least favorite color.

Red is my second least favorite color.

Parties are my least favorite thing.

People are my second least favorite thing. 

Chocolate, however, is one of my favorite things. I get a lot of that during chocolate-food-meltingthe Holidays, it’s what keeps my brain from exploding and my tongue from mouthing off to people it shouldn’t. Who could let scornful words fly from their tongue if their tongue is slathered in creamy, cocoa goodness?

A serial murderer, that’s who.

And that’s not me.

Although, the money’s probably good if you’re working for someone. I heard Kidneys sell really well on the Black Market. But you didn’t hear it from me. 

I’m a very sensitive person, you guys. Stress is in the air during holidays, I can’t take it. I can’t take all the expectation and societal responsibility and people smiling at you saying happy holidays when you know damn well if it was any other week they could give two shits about you.

18k2f6fh7cxz8jpgI always stress out about the gifts I’ve chosen. I never have very much money, so obviously I’m not presenting a new car to anyone, but I try and do the best I can with what I have. I know it’s the thought that counts, or whatever people say, but then you wonder if anyone even gives a real shit about that. How do you know they’re not using your gift to wipe their ass with? And that’s why you never see it hanging in their house or sitting on their table when you come over? And that’s why their pipes are always clogged? Because that’s how shitty your gifts are? Or what if they just shove it in the closet and that’s why they want you to call them before you come over, so they can set it somewhere obvious in the house for when you arrive?

I’m a sensitive person. 

Today in Big Five there weren’t many people but the feeling–it was overwhelming for me. I heard the woman ringing up the customers and saying “thank you, happy holidays” every five seconds and the workers who kept rushing past me and talking and chatting about random things and helping customers find products and the old dude next to use buying the air soft gun that he wanted to look like the real nine millimeter that he had at home and the two associates that sold their products like pros hoping to hook, line, and sinker him on some 129 dollar gun. I heard each one of their conversations individually and they were all screaming in my ears.

I heard each of their voices individually, I should say, but as a whole they coweringwere meshed together, one big clusterfuck of conversation and people were walking to close to me, standing too close to me–I don’t like that–and even though everyone was lost in their own little world it felt like they were all talking so loudly about nothing just to overwhelm my senses, just to make me out to be the outcast. Their actions were purposeful, I felt it, and as I stood there like a deer in the face of a rifle, I spaced out to avoid it all.

I’m sensitive to sensory overload. I don’t like loud noises of any kind. I hate cars on the street and motorcycles and vacuums. I don’t like yelling or loud laughing or bangs and although I like looking at fireworks their sound physics put my nerves on edge. I don’t like voices or banging of kitchen dishes or loud televisions. If the noise isn’t consistent, like an alarm beep, or if the noise isn’t music, than it puts me on edge. It’s why I walk around with ear phones in my ear–it mutes a lot of that shit. It mutes conversation and cars and loud noises and things that would make me more nervous than I already am.

When I don’t have music, which is rare and usually a mistake, I have a little space in my mind I go to in these kinds of situations where time no longer passes in the linear fashion we’re all used to thinking about it in. In fact, time there doesn’t exist, only nothingness, and the nothingness isn’t really nothingness, it’s just a black divide, a place that separates me from my physical self which is trapped in the realm of physical life. I no longer hear the conversations or read the words on the packages nor do I pay attention to my own thoughts. I, for a moment, float elsewhere until I’m prompted back into reality by whoever is with me.

Did I mention I struggle immensely with going into public establishments by myself? Well, that’s why.

I also haven’t mentioned that I experience both depersonalization and dissociation. They’ve never bothered me personally. Sometimes I get creeped out when I start having to ask myself if I’m in reality, but it never lasts longer than a few seconds or a minute. Rarely longer than that.

Once I blacked out and wandered into the middle of the street in front of on coming traffic. My high school friends were running after me screaming my name apparently and I made it to the other side untouched and woke up like what’s wrong? They gave me this look:

4214777772_kim_kardashian_crazy_face_answer_1_xlarge

I was confused at first then searched my memory: I remembered walking up the hill with everyone, listening to my music and their conversations but keeping quiet because that’s what I needed after a long day. I stood at the corner with them. Then everything went black, like I was asleep. Then I opened my eyes and I was on the other side of the street. I laughed my ass off.

Anyway, today the Dollar Store was worse. There were more people but it wasn’t the numbers that bothered me, it was the feeling. Everyone was stressed. It’s like a bubble expanding, waiting to burst. Everyone was moving quickly and talking quickly and I hate that. Their feelings transferred into my feelings and I was stressed and getting smothered by the bubble they didn’t seem aware of.

I also confirmed the dollar store is run by the mafia. An old, white haired dude with bags under his eyes and a face shaped like Marlon Brando and dressed in a black button up shirt with black pants and a golden cross dangling between the two un-buttoned buttons near his collar walked slowly up and down the aisle next to the cash registers listening to his employees spew their “Happy Holiday” bullshit they probably wouldn’t say to you if his gaze wasn’t screaming “horse head in your bed” at them.

He smiled at me and nodded and I nodded and smiled back and I think I’m a gangster now.

mafia-640x426

Is that how it works?

The guy in line in front of us bought maybe eleven or twelve items and was staring around wide eyed with a “GOOGLE” beanie on and a meth-look in his eyes and gave the cashier a hundred dollar bill.

A hundred dollar bill. In the dollar store.

Who the fuck . . .?

facepalm-meme-04

Anyway, Holidays. NOT my favorite time of year. I don’t like expectation, I don’t like doing things for others because I never know if I’m doing it right. I saw a thing about people with anxiety and the fact that we often spend a ridiculous amount of time wondering if we’re doing the right thing rather than doing anything at all. And it’s true.

That’s going to be my hardest obstacle, being a perfectionist and all.

I’m sure everyone appreciates what I can do but I never feel like I do enough or do enough of it right.

I can’t act “normal”, you know? Does anyone appreciate abnormality anymore? 

Maybe I was out too much this weekend.

Back into my room I retreat. Safe and sound.