1.2 Billion and Some Change

At a 1.2 billion dollar a year profit, I could understand the temptation. I could understand the temptation to market a product for something that it isn’t.

As a song says, regarding Michael Jackson: “He could fuck me–for 45 million”.

Money, money, money. We say we hate it, but we do whatever we can to get it, and in this world I can’t blame anyone for that. You need it to live. I don’t know if you need billions, but you know, it must be nice to wake up in the morning in satin sheets and eat off of plates made of gold with a meal cooked by your sixteen five star chefs you keep locked in the basement–the basement, of which, is also gold plated with its own set of maids.

I’m assuming that’s what billionaires do. They probably sit in chairs–excuse me, thrones, gold ones–and swing their legs back and forth and whine and whine about how bored they are. That’s how they make so much money. They have time to think up good schemes.


The 1.2 billion dollars of which I speak of is what AstraZeneca, the pharmaceutical company, makes on Seroquel XR alone.

In October 2009–get this, because I’m dying from laughter over it for several reasons–they settled on a 520 million dollar agreement against two federal investigations against them. The charge? They’ve been marketing Seroquel as something it isn’t. SHOCKER. From what I’ve seen online, they’re being investigated for this once again.

Remember, 520 million dollars is like getting smacked with a twig on the inside of the wrist to them. It’s not even like the sting of a tattoo. Think about that before you believe they got their just dues for that.

By marketing, we’re not talking about commercials on television. We’re talking about pushing doctors and anyone who can prescribe medications to give their “clients” Seroquel for things like insomnia, panic attacks, and anxiety. Doctors, not knowing any better, do so.

I say this after being prescribed it, but not for anxiety and not for sleep but because I went into my psychiatric appointment pretty distressed and distracted over feeling invaded, internally, by someone having control over my body. It’s progressed a lot since my last post on it, I think, and I am impressed with this psychiatrist. I am. I talked shit about her many, many months ago. But she impressed me because she didn’t say I was a delusional freak. What she said was that it’s okay to have these feelings and it’s okay to have these beliefs.

I was shocked. But, what that did for me was not close me up. I even told her these are things I don’t normally say to people. Towards the end of the visit she of course said that from a psychiatric standpoint it’s a little concerning, and being who I am, I understood that fully. There’s this eerie sense in me. Because this is stuff I’ve grown up with in myself, these kinds of feelings and thoughts and beliefs, and because I’ve studied what I’ve studied, I’m completely aware of how my beliefs sound. That doesn’t mean I can disprove them. I can’t. People expect me to just be like “come on, doesn’t that sound a little ridiculous? Someone telepathically controlling you?”

No. No it doesn’t. Because I feel it happening. Maybe it doesn’t happen to you because no one wants your shit body or your shit brain, ever think about that?

I get defensive sometimes.

warning-exclamation-triangle-md If you were prescribed Seroquel in any form solely for something like Insomnia, Anxiety, depression, whatever, you’ve been prescribed it “illegally”. Because that’s not what it’s for. There’s no evidence that the benefits for those issues outweigh the risks. Not to mention it’s one of the worst antipsychotics in terms of weight gain and diabetes. Heart problems as well, I believe. Don’t take long term.

Technically speaking, from a lawful standpoint, which is still pretty loose, it’s for adults and adolescents (13-17) for the “treatment” of schizophrenia and bipolar. Now, the adolescent part is a lie too, because they didn’t do trials in that. So really it’s adults with schizophrenia or bipolar.

Now, think about how SMALL of a market that is. As if they’d make 1.2 billion dollars a year from that alone, when you take into account how many of those people probably wouldn’t like it, probably would stop taking it at one point, and probably would never want to be back on it, and switch to something else.

So the trick? Say it works for anxiety, say it works for insomnia. Everyone and their mom has anxiety and insomnia the last time I checked.

That’s not to say some people might feel “better” on it. If you take it for anxiety or insomnia or whatever, I’m certainly not coming after you. I know anxiety isn’t a joke, I’ve lived with it all my life, insomnia too. I’m coming after the people who convinced your doctor that was a good idea. 

The fact of the matter is, people, that when you go to someone who is a clinical psychologist or a psychiatrist, or even your GP if you’re more comfortable with them working with you on your mental health, the knowledge they’re spewing at you is knowledge not sent to them from the medical world, it’s what they hear from researchers funded by pharmaceutical companies. You’re not getting accurate information.

You can discredit me by calling me delusional. And I honestly welcome that. Research it for yourself. I’ve been doing so since I was 15.


Master Of Puppets, I’m Pulling Your Strings

Last night I walked into the house (I.e, work), and saw the printed paper I’ve been waiting to see: the “Fuck ICE” paper.


It didn’t actually say that, but that’s how I like to think of it. ICE, if you didn’t know, and if you couldn’t tell from the picture above, are the Immigration officers here in the United States. There’s a man who works for them who lives in my apartment complex. My mostly hispanic apartment complex. Hmm.

Anyway, the point of the paper was to remind us all of confidentiality rules. That is, if ICE officers bang on the door and want to search the house, we immediately need to ask for a warrant. Repeatedly, if needed. If the warrant is signed by a judge, and once we’ve read the criteria, we let them in. If they don’t have a warrant, or the warrant isn’t signed by a judge, we stand our ground at the door. If they call looking for specific people, we say “I’m not your puppet, Master.”

You probably shouldn’t say that, but that’s what I’d say. And then I’d hang up.

No, fuck it, that’s what you should say. Fuck it.

Like I said in my conversation this morning before I left the house: I expected Trump to get assassinated on Inauguration day. I’m still convinced the CIA is planning his assassination, too. Or aliens are going to abduct him and put him on display in an alien zoo to showcase what Earth (pronounced Ee-Arr-th) has to offer. And that’s when we all die. I bet Nostradamus predicted it.

What hasn’t Nostradamus predicted, I mean, Come on.

I’ve written an article prompting the deportation of Mike Pence here. Have a read. It’s short. And #DeportMikePence. #I’mNotYourPuppet.

I’m sick of people calling people who feel like they’re being watched, judged, and spied on by the government “paranoid”. That’s not fucking illogical paranoia, wake up! Look who’s in office! There was a huge raid just a few nights ago in my town. One was right across the street from my apartment, the other was downtown near my boyfriend’s house. ICE and homeland security and the local police department. “Gangs” they claimed, but not really. I’m sure all the people they arrested won’t be coming home any time soon, and it won’t be because of prison time.

And we’re the “progressive” town. We’re in California. I hope we secede from the union. The “union”. The fucking broken gram cracker of countries, fucking burnt ass popcorn of countries, fucking rotten-fruit-of-the-loom of countries, that’s what America should be called.

I haven’t been sleeping again, can you tell? I think all that medication is completely out of my system. I’m supposed to see that psychiatrist on the 20th, but I’m not going. I’m tired, but I’m funny again. So, you know, pick and choose your battles people, that’s a good life lesson. R Kelly taught me that.

Not really. He’s nasty.

I sleep maybe four hours a night. I go to bed around 3 or 4, wake up around 7 or 7:30. Without fail. Either at my apartment or at the house. I’m tired and distracted and pretty sure I’ve been contacted by Aliens the last few nights, but it’s all good because I’m also more evolved than the average human being, or so they said. Maybe that’s my inner arrogance coming out.

I’m tired.

Fight the Power.

Sleep and Bad Poetry; Nevermore.

An Anti-Ode To Insomnia:

Oh Insomnia, how you glorify yourself

in the twinkling midnight hours;

how heavy is your presence,

like a teenage pregnancy.

Oh Insomnia, like a whisper in the night,

gentle yet foreboding.

Oh Insomnia,

Fuck you.

Fuck your shit.


Fuck your mom. Fuck your brothers. Fuck your sister.

Fucking gets stabbed.

Everyone hates you. You piece of fucking shit.

Go die in a hole.

Oh insomnia.


Oh I have such a way with words. Everyone, it’s okay, let your cheeks flush, feel the mighty power of my eloquent words.

It’s 3:32 a.m. And for about the fourteenth day in a row, I’ve gotten less than a few hours of sleep. A phone call woke me from a peaceful slumber on the couch at work, and I stumbled into the office with a cat following on my heels. It followed me as I plopped back on the couch and crawled underneath my legs, never to be seen again, because it didn’t exist. Too bad, I could have used a cat whose purr could lull me to sleep tonight, real or not, I don’t fucking discriminate. In this day and age, in this fucking country (U.S.A), what is the point of discrimination anymore?

Real, Fake, Fat, skinny, black, white, brown, orange, yellow, small dick, big dick, ugly, beautiful, I could care less anymore. Just let me sleep.

I can’t

I hadn’t been blog posting rants or personal posts for quite some time now, because I was actually partially adulting.

No, I wasn’t adulting, I was simply coasting through the adult world for a brief period of time. As someone who dislikes most medication, and can’t ever seem to agree with one or the other, Effexor XR did wonders for my mood or whatever hole I was stuck in previously. I could my emotions again, and work through them rather then get entirely overwhelmed by them. It was a stabilizing moment in my life, now gone.

I got eight hours of sleep. Now I’m back to getting whatever the fuck THIS is. This 5:34 a.m clusterfuck of thoughts and no sleep.

The withdrawal, I will say, is fucking terrifying. At least, for me it was. I had to lay in bed for a couple days because every time I stood up to walk, the world tipped on its side and a shockwave ran from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I’m still getting the shockwave senstation a bit, and that’s convinced me 2016 is going to do what it does best, and kill the fuck out of me.

My head is killing me. The headaches were another bad withdrawal symptom. I got so dizzy and my head hurt so bad I was immobilized and crying for a good hour or two. At least I’ve got my kitten sleeping on my shoulder.

Because tonight the thoughts are going, going, going, gone into fucking outerspace. I can’t tell what I’m thinking half the time. I described it to someone as having a head full of thoughts crashing into each other–not racing thoughts, just a bunch of them–and because they crashed into each other so quickly, I can only capture snippets of what they want to say. So the conversation I had with this person consisted of me blurting as many snippets as I could to try and convey how I felt. I don’t think it worked. Shit got weird.

I’ve been away from this side of my brain, or at least this intensity of this side of my brain, for a good couple months. And now, because health insurance costs want to shove a lead pipe up my ass, I’m back to where I started. Too bad. I was making progress.

But, considering the withdrawals, to be honest, I wouldn’t want to stay any longer than a couple months on that shit. With the way my body reacted, me being on it for a year would get me stuck on it for life. And I’m not about that bullshit.

The emotions are all haywire again. I felt it the instant I woke up this afternoon and rushed through twenty emotions at once and confused myself so badly I forgot to eat. This was my problem before. My head gets so muddied up with random thoughts, anxieties, paranoias, pains, that I forget to do basic things like eating or I just don’t have the energy to take a shower or go out and buy necessary items. If I lived on my own, I wouldn’t survive more than a week.

That’s what impressed me about Effexor. It’s labeled as an Anti-depressant, and it sure did give me some energy back, but wholly hell were the thoughts calmed to a dull roar. I wasn’t so quick to convince myself of whatever it was I was going to type here because I type to slow for the thoughts in my brain. And I type pretty damn fast, ya’ll.

My plan going forward is to go talk to the dreaded county office. They can help set me up with Medi-cal. At least I can get healthcare that way. My hope was to get into system.

To get into “The System” you need to be labeled “severely mentally ill”, three words I never put together in one sentence. Ugg. It makes me cringe.

The truth is, I don’t have the capability, or the skills, to live independently. It doesn’t mean I can’t learn, it just means at this moment I don’t possess them. I get lost in my head and shit gets weird and I don’t leave this room, I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don’t do anything really but think and think and think. At this point it’s not even thinking really, more so as such my brain blurting random shit and then attempting to foil a theory from it, failing, then trying all over again.

Is that “severe” if I have an on-call position and a record of going to college? Probably fucking not. Severe means you’re in the streets babbling about the bastards you know and the hero you hate and scrubbing your feet with a dead squirrel because it contains the blood of Egor, the giant in the clouds who tells you to punch the kid on the red bicycle and shove a pine cone in the ass of the next skunk you see.


See, I babble about that kind of shit in my head or I babble about it out loud in the shower. I’ve only slipped up a couple times in public, and I yanked my dumbass self back down and shut my mouth. You can’t be seen loosing it in public man–reputation forever tarnished.

People don’t hear me talk to myself, or the images that get put in my head, or any voice I may hear, because, well, fuck me, I’m aware of stigma. Well, fuck me County, let me just disregard everything I’ve taught myself and let the crazy out JUST FOR YOU, let me do it JUST FOR YOU.

And they’ll still shove a steel pipe up my ass and kick me out their office.

I’ll repeat, I have not slept. I am tired. My teeth hurt from clenching them. The only reason I care so much about being part of “The System” is because you’re assigned a team dedicated to help you get along. They’re there whenever you need them. Sure, I could also use where I work as a support force, but the difference is I have to initiate it, and that’s something I’ve never been able to do. This “team” would be “assigned”. And as you all know, I prefer structured things over willy-nilly things.

So whatever. First things first–get Medi-cal insurance. Second: tell medi-cal I’m crazy. Third: take over the world. Fourth: finally, for once in my fucking life, actually get the services I need because I rule the fucking world, and if they don’t do as I say, I’ll just blast them away with the laser hidden in my third eye.

Now, I’m going to go ruminate on the third eye, all the powers it contains, and try to unleash Pandora’s box on the world. Cool.



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?


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.


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.


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”.


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.

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.


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. 


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”.

Poetry Slammed


This weekend I am supposed to write a poem.

A poem.

A single. Poem.

My response?

I just wrote it.

“Best Poem About Gaming Ever–oh wait, it’s not about gaming? Whatever, best poem of 2016”–IGN

That quote is literally from IGN, I totally know everyone who works for them.


nycpofest-logo-transparentI’m also not a poet. I admire portions of poetry, I admire the way poets can string words together in a way that injects emotion and breathes live into something otherwise bogged down with simple definition or boring fact. Somewhere I read in a poetry book that everything in life was a teacher, and we just had to be keen enough with our eye, and with our words, to learn. Poetry then, was a reflection of that learning.

Something like that.

I’ve been wondering what to write my poem on. I’ve never been a simple person. I want to be able to describe something, perhaps an action, but having the meaning separate from the action. I’m pretty sure that’s what a lot of poets do anyway, and I’m just being a technical prick. I can’t really tell. You know why? Because I’m not a poet.

Ask me to bust out some fiction, or a nice comedy reel, I got you on lock. Ask me to be fragile and yet aggressive in some stanza’s and make words feel like liquid gold across the tongue and I’ll probably just slap you all the way back to your momma’s house, because I can’t make words into liquid gold, that is physically impossible. While I’m slapping you, I’ll explain known physics to you, because it’s obvious you lack that knowledge as well.

Like I said, “Technical Prick”. That’s my new title.

I can be excruciatingly literal sometimes. I can also be annoyingly metaphoric sometimes. I believe a strange combination of both attract people to my writing.

I could write a poem about insomnia because it’s 5:17 a.m for me and I have yet to get more than a few minutes of sleep. In this time I’ve managed to print tickets for a Halloween Haunt at Great America tomorrow–err, today. There: someone who is a poet, put that into a poem for me and I’ll give you 1/3 of my grade at the end of the semester. Why 1/3? Because poetry is 1/3 of the class and you will now be doing all my assignments.


There is much to write about, I just need to let it flow onto paper, regardless of what it sounds like. The more I think about it, the worse the poem is going to sound  I think. Isn’t that usually how it works? Or is it the opposite? Uuuuggggghhhh poooeettrryyyyyy.

Perhaps I’ll write about things that are there and yet not. That’s always a fascinating topic for people who don’t understand it.

Tonight I was not home, tonight I was about my boyfriend’s house. I got there around half past midnight: he has a printer and I do not, and Great America does not send PDF’s to your email like every other e-ticket vendor in the world, they require you print it upon purchase from a different tab in your search engine, so I went to his house. He was doing what he normally does: play video games.

And when I was leaving, which was about a half hour ago,  I noticed my shoes sounded really thick against his wooden floors. I said out loud that I hated my shoes, something I always say, then words came out of my mouth I wouldn’t normally say. I said: “I sound like a dead person walking”.


He’s used to me saying weird things, and he was tired, so he didn’t say anything. I, however, started freaking out.

You all know me by now as the one with the demons following closely behind me, breathing down my neck and reading my blogs as I type them, and the rest of the universe in front of me, guiding me away from them. Well, the demons were close this evening, young ones.

I had to park two blocks away from his house because there was no parking anywhere near, and his parents cars take up the driveway. Their driveway is shit anyway, I hate it; you back out against a blind corner into two lanes of same-way traffic. It’s a death sentence.

Anyway, I’m walking quickly down the middle of the two lane road because it’s four forty in the morning and silent. I love silence when I want it, I hate silence when my mind is reeling. I feel I can hear every little sound, every little scuttle, every little voice that might happen to roll along in the wind. In my head I’m repeating the line I said in the house and wondering where it came from.

185bno26vplqxjpgI turn behind me for no reason a few cars away from my car and see a man in all black following my exact footpath. He was about a block behind me and had no face or footsteps or shadow and I quickened my pace because I got it in my head he wasn’t human. I got it in my head he was the reason I said what I said, and thought like I thought.

I made it to my car a second later, turned it on, backed out like I needed to get back on the race track, and searched for the man in black but he was gone. He wasn’t down the two side streets. And while I fought myself gallantly over what I believed–“well he could have gone into a house”, “no, he wasn’t human”, ” he could have just been walking and turned down a street and you just couldn’t find him”, “no, he put those words in your mouth, you saw him, you’d never say something like that”, “you’re just tired”–I decided I wasn’t going to fight it. I decided the man was a figment of the demonic force that follows me, indefinitely, whether he existed or not.

Flipping through my songs, I could find nothing to soothe the panic, not until a song, out of my 749 songs on Spotify, started blasting through my speakers:

And I knew the universe had my back, even when it didn’t feel like it. The song stretched until I made it home and when I parked it ended, as if on cue, and here I am now, sitting on my computer waiting for that guy to pop up outside my window.

I’ll write a poem about that.

Dreams–Not The Influential Kind

And it begins.

You all didn’t know me when I struggled with nightmares inside of nightmares every night. In fact, I started this blog at the tail end of my nightmare tirade.

It’s been a good eight months since I’ve had a good, vivid scare in my sleep. That streak has ended this morning.


Ever since I was young, I’ve had dreams more vivid than reality and they’ve always been extravagant. I remember a dream I had at the age of six–at least, I’m pretty sure it was a dream. The refrigerator danced from the kitchen into the bedroom/living room where my family slept. The door opened and all the condiments and items in the door were dancing too. You think, as a six year old, I would be entertained but I was fucking terrified. Then a 2 x 4 piece of plywood got puked out of the middle of the refrigerator and a snail the size of three humans heads slugged across it, and in its mouth were two sharp sabretooth-looking fangs, about the size of my forearm. It hissed and opened it’s mouth to devour my head and I woke up.

That is the first vivid nightmare I can remember. And it hasn’t stopped since then. Weird things happened with the clocks, with the house, e.t.c; sometimes thinking back on them I can’t discern whether they were indeed dreams or if my brain was playing tricks on me in waking reality.

In high school the streak really took hold of my sleep. Every night was one of three dreams: a tsunami, a robbery, or an alien invasion. The themes never deviated and that has not changed.


The tsunami ones scared me the worst because I didn’t have any control of it (#symbolism), and woke up drenched in sweat.


The robbery ones were extremely tense, but I never awoke scared of them, only shaken. In fact, they often bled into each other. One robbery would relate to the next, and then to the next–even if the dreams were not had consecutive nights.


The alien invasion ones always woke me up feeling like I had actually left earth. In some of them I talked with my subconscious and woke up feeling freed, in others I was dissected. Sometimes I was just running and hiding like everyone else.

Once I dreamt of me killing myself and once I dreamt of me killing someone else; those were the only deviations from the themes.

I remember the majority of them like I experienced them in real life. They aren’t just dreams to me, but experiences, and I remember them like memories.

I’m someone who does not pay attention to my sleep pattern because it deviates ridiculous amounts. It’s like a kid walking down a sidewalk licking their ice cream on a cone and out of nowhere some jackass on a bike smacks the ice cream to the concrete.

But the weeks leading up to the hospital and the last four days afterwards, I’d been sleeping anywhere from nine hours to thirteen hours. Three days ago I woke up after five hours of sleep on the dot. The next day, five hours on the dot. Last night; five hours on the dot.

Last night the dream was a combination. It was a dream inside of a dream (another reoccurring theme of mine), with an alien invasion of sorts and a robbery. That’s new as well.

I remember waking up (in the first dream) to an alien creature with legs like an Orb Weaver spider and the body of a shrieker out of Resident Evil 6 (picture the two above combined together). The face was circular and the mouth elongated across the diameter of it’s spherical head. Underneath it was a body. The alien was ripping apart the body and tossing around the gore and gorging itself on intestines whilst simultaneously raping the shit out of the mangled corpse.

It noticed I was awake and drenched in sweat and I could not move. It went to engulf my head and I woke up (in the dream) in a cold sweat. I woke up my mother who was sleeping next to me (as a child, my parents and I had to sleep in the same bed because we only have a living room and a bathroom and a kitchen), just to make sure that she wasn’t an alien. She woke up and I sighed and realized it was a dream and went back to sleep . . . still in a dream.

Then my mother and I were driving to Safeway. I saw a shopping cart that was wheeling itself around in the parking lot and doing donuts and I knew there was some kind of paranormal force around us.

bloody-screamer_largeThen we were shopping when shots rang outside in the parking lot. Windows broke, people screamed, and blood sprayed. People were looting cash registers and grocery items for whatever reason and my mother and I were outside (suddenly), crouched on the ground by my mom’s car, face to face with a cop who was so distressed he almost shot the both of us. He pointed a gun at me and screamed “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I have to! I have to!” and I told him “you don’t have to do this.”

That freaked him out and he ran to the other side of the car to point the gun at my mom and he screamed something similar. She said “you just have to calm down.”

That freaked him out and he ran back to my side of the car and pointed the gun back at me.

This went on for about ten or fifteen dream minutes. I remember watching his little footsteps pitter patter back and forth underneath the car.

Finally, he ran off. My mother and I went into the store and put on store aprons and started helping put items back where they were supposed to be. People were dead, hanging through the broken windows and dripping blood on the produce. I told my mother “I think the reason we got to stay alive was that we were so calm when he wasn’t”.


And that was when I woke up, heart pounding. The force that was in my dream was the force I felt in my face that moment. I have no doorknob in my door (courtesy of me and my father fighting) and through the hole I swear something was staring at me. I was too paralyzed to leave my bed because I feared if I got up whatever force was keeping me captive would strangle me. I looked at the time and it was 4:00 a.m exactly.

I wasn’t going back to sleep.

I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t want this string of nightmare bullshit to start again, not as vigorously as it used to be. I can’t handle them every night, it’s like waking up in the middle of a panic attack but instead of waking up it’s prolonged through the night and you have no choice but to deal with it.

For those wondering, yes, I can lucid dream.So I often realize I’m in a dream. But what that results in is me fighting against my brain through different layers of dream (literally crawling from sleep layer to sleep layer) until I break through the surface and open my eyes in this reality. Then I’m more exhausted than I was before I went to sleep.

Remember how I was writing about the different forces I felt on one of my walks? The one with the monarchs and the ripped squirrel tails? I feel that force that ripped those squirrel tails and bird wings are trying to get to me yet again; invading my dreams and my room and my reality.

Whatever. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I have math in two hours.

All Shit

It is 4:19 in the morning.

You guys, do I really have to say anything other than that?

I’m tired as shit. 

This post is going to be shit. 

Because I’m tired as shit. 

And sick of shit.

It’s just all shit. 

You see, I have 8 dollars left in one of my accounts because someone was a little too excited these last few weeks and went shopping, went out to eat, bought useless items online while she was up thinking about all the ways she was going to become a millionaire on YouTube and all the ways she was going to build her own PC and get a studio and how she was destined to do this for the world and . . . and . . .

Obviously, those ideas and that confidence and that euphoria was short lived. Last week was my transition week back down to earth. My emotions were spinning out of control as they usually do, I was sleeping 11-14 hours a day, and now that it’s all over with, now that I’m generally stable, I see the damage that was done. I’m broke as fuck, ya’ll.


But it’s okay. I can make it through this.

I’ve been lonely and frustrated with reoccurring thoughts of failure pressuring behind my eyes. I’m really good at fucking things up and not so good at repairing them.

But it’s okay. I can make it through this.

I’m a self-harming addict. Were you all aware of that? I don’t think I’ve spoken much on it. My scars on my wrists are really visible in the day light; I’ve had friends stare at them and say “what is that?” and I say “what are you talking about?” and they say “I can obviously see it” and I’m like “awesome. Let’s focus on something that isn’t my life, please”.

Remember, I’m the clown of the group. I’m not supposed to have problems, I’m too funny for that.


One just gave me a hug instead of opening her mouth any further, and I appreciated that.

But I’m not someone who falls to temptation easily. My brain battles with me to harm myself–yes, you read that right. It spends more time and energy trying to convince me to harm myself than I do telling it no. I’ve been doing this since I was eleven years old. About ten years. I’ve gotten used to ignoring and scolding that little voice in my head that tells me I need to feel the pain.

Then there are times when I let them take control.

I used to harm myself (burn, cut, e.t.c) when I felt depressed, when I was lonely, when I was homeless and essentially forced into public education every day.

Then there were a few good years I didn’t self harm. And those were the years I learned to accept the depression and the anxiety, those were the years I learned I wasn’t alone and that there were other people in the world who felt the same. Those were the years I was generally stable, when medication kinda-sorta helped, when I found a passion in life I wanted to pursue.

Then one day I woke up with slits across the old scars and a wrap around my arm my tired self must have used to control the bleeding. And I thought . . . hmm. This again, eh?

Because a new dilemma has stepped into my life and that dilemma is unidentified emotions. When I’m angry, happy, depressed, disgruntled, elated, confused, fiery, agitated, irritated, generally okay, and lonely all at once, I get frightened. I try and distract myself but I end up crying and planning my suicide . . .until a moment later I’m convinced I was put here on this earth to complete a specific task and influence people’s lives like a messiah . . . until a moment later I want to tackle the next person I see and pummel their face into a bloody pulp . . . until I’m suddenly okay. Until I’m not again, a few moments later.



It continues for hours and hours until I feel I’ve lost control of myself. Every sentence someone speaks to me ignites another bomb behind my eyes. These are the days I prefer to not be around anymore, not my boyfriend, not my parents, not a friend, no one.

So I find a way to physically hurt myself. It’s the only moment of control I have. And it’s often made me calmer, it’s made me present and in the moment.

There are a lot of misconceptions around self harm. That needy teenagers do it for attention. That only idiots do it. That it’s something stupid, it’s something that has no deeper meaning behind it besides how ignorant the human race can be.

First of all, what’s so wrong with wanting attention? Are you telling me the assholes in false advertising, the business moguls of this century, e.t.c aren’t attention seeking little whores? Give me a break.

Second of all, if a teenager is harming themselves it doesn’t become a matter of them being attention seeking or dramatic or stupid. It becomes a matter of you needing to give them attention. Because regardless of whether they are wanting it or not, it’s something they need. Something is not right, and something is hurting them deeply. Think of it this way: the scars on the outside represent the fight on the inside.

That being said, tonight I didn’t listen to the little voice. Tonight was successful because I’m in control of myself tonight.


Quick announcement before I flop my head on this fucking pillow and pass out. I’m a contributor for a fairly new little website called “My Trending Stories” and I want to split the mental health topic I have started here with that site. I figured I’d keep that one a little more informational and critique-y and this one a little less formal and more personal.

If you’d like to check out my profile, click here.

If you’d like to browse through My Trending Stories, click here.

After careful consideration I agreed to write for them because I see potential in this website. It reminds me of a young Thought Catalog. There’s a large variety of articles and writing styles, kind of like WordPress but more Thought Catalog-y. My vocabulary at 4:57 in the morning is fucking amazing.

Anyway, there are tons of categories to read under and stories that can keep you entertained for days.

No, I’m not paid to promote them, I figured I’d just put out a good word about them because they’re pretty cool.

Check it out.

I’m going to sleep because fuck everything.

Rant or Something Of The Sort


I cannot CHILL.




Looked for some chill under my bed . . . wait, it’s two mattresses on the floor, no I didn’t. I looked in my CLOSET for some chill and it was missing.

I searched my laundry hamper thinking maybe I threw it in the dryer and it shrunk, but I burst from my pile of clothes empty handed.

I ate a couple cookies hoping maybe the chill was in the chocolate chips but I think that made it worse.

Maybe it’s the stress. This usually happens. I must have been ignoring something. Maybe I’ve been ignoring all the school stress and work stress and mucking my subconscious up with it to the point where my subconscious has no other choice but to hurl it back up through my system in the form of anxiety, hyperactivity, energy, and that patented “panic” feeling.

alex-gregory-oversensitive-car-alarm-new-yorker-cartoonAlthough last night was much worse. I started noticing my heart beat (that’s how it always starts) And when I tried to lay down I kept waking up to it beating in my ears. My head was spinning, my thoughts were racing, and I could barely focus an ounce on the computer screen when I tried to use YouTube,  my faithful savior, to calm me down. I went through the motions of wondering if this was it, if I was going to die, I went through the motions of wondering about things so quickly I can’t even remember what they were about, and then I remember the Ativan. I remember how well the placebo effect worked with those useless things, so I scrounged around in the bottom of my satchel to find a measly half a milligram.

While my heart rate has calmed down, I still feel my blood racing through my veins (that’s what it feels like, a million ants or centipedes crawling underneath my skin) and my leg is still bouncing like I’m on a drum set smashing double bass for a black metal band, and my thoughts are all over the place. You know, the kind of thoughts that sort of bounce off your skull like your brain is a trampoline. But instead of waiting their turn, they all get on the toy together and jump around screeching. Because that’s what your brain is to them, a toy.

My left hand keeps tapping at the opal stone on my necklace (it’s really pretty and shiny, it’s one my boyfriend gave to me) and it’s another way to relieve tension if I can’t keep both of my hands busy I suppose. If I don’t tap the necklace I’ll have to find something near by to grab like a knife or a pen to just tap on my desk or I’ll just tap repetitively on my collarbone. I like the gentle thudding sound it makes in my head. It’s so repetitive.

5-more-minutesBecause I didn’t sleep until 5 A.m yesterday, and was too lazy to get up at nine, I missed my afternoon class. Luckily it’s philosophy and the class was just a review. The test is Thursday but let’s be honest you all, how the fuck do you study for philosophy? Just keep the views of the philosophers in your head so when you answer a question about them, you can just reason it out. That’s how I get through all my philosophy. It’s not rocket science.

Tomorrow . . . err, today, is my math class. It’s at 8 a.m and I still can’t get to sleep. It’s 1:02 now. I usually have to get up at 6:30 to be ready to leave by 7:20 so I can get there ten minutes early and find a comfortable seat away from everyone.

My head is pounding and my brain will not turn off tonight. Nope, not tonight.

Night time always evokes anxiety in me. I like the silence, but I don’t like the lack of company. I think perhaps I could get to sleep, like I said my heart rate has calmed, but now it’s all about the brain. It’s all about the thinking and the feeling like I HAVE to do something.

I could clean (least likely). I could ride my bike in the freezing fucking cold. I could do yoga. I could stay on this computer all night (most likely) messing around on this website, going on forums, and multitasking all around. My eyes feel tired, my brain doesn’t (yet) and I feel as if I’ll be taking a quick nap through chapter eleven in calc tomorrow.

I’m hoping I can lay in bed and let my body do what it does naturally: pass out.


But that probably wont happen. And I’ll probably be late to class again tomorrow.

It’s interesting how you can feel your brain moving so quickly but not have it think about anything really. There’s no substance to the thoughts, they just pass and I see them and I reach out to shake their hand and they pretend to have never met me.

Things about school, things about work, things about theories and cognition and the universe, and how stupid IQ’s are.

But at the same time, my brain is blank. It has thoughts with no volume, like a pool with the theory of being filled but never experiencing a drop of water.

Even though my eyes hurt and I want to lay down, I don’t feel like there’s a point, not with how fidgety my body is, not with how actively inactive my brain is.

Then again, it’s almost three in the morning and I need to be up in three hours.

I should probably lay down.

Tomorrow is going to suck.