Two Years of What-The-Fuck

It’s pretty ironic that a few weeks ago I made a post on here saying I wouldn’t be on here for a while and instead of leaving I’ve been pulled back towards this site.

It’s been a long road. I was skimming through some of my older posts and having a laugh at not only the content, my aggressive nature which quite obviously came through in biting satirical wit, but also the comments and the beautiful souls I’ve met through this blog.

One person commented: “Are you mentally stable?”

If you have to ask that question, the answer is probably no. And I saw how many posts I wrote at 3am, 4am, 5am, and then came back the next day with either no sleep or two hours of sleep. I was busting my ass in Calculus and trying to find a job that wasn’t complete ass while simultaneously losing my mind. I’m pretty sure this blog helped me keep some kind of attachment to reality.

Then I ripped Alex Gorsky a new one (here) because there is no way in hell that man should have any kind of award in any kind of “humankindness” category. He’s a straight monster, and if I ever get the chance to meet him in person it’s going to take all of my strength not to spit in his fucking face. He hasn’t done anything that any other C.E.O of a major pharmaceutical company hasn’t done. The difference is he got caught. And I read about it. And that’s where the real danger for him is.

People ate that post up back in the day before I disabled the like button and couldn’t figure out how to get it back up, and it launched me into the blogsphere at a tremendous velocity. I became known for not only tearing apart pharmaceutical companies, but tearing apart anything and anyone who seemed to throw ethics out the window. And people who park in the red zone outside of my apartment. Fuck those people.

Where is this blog now? I have no fucking idea you guys. I basically recorded my decent into madness (I said that in some post a couple years ago) and the large gaps in between posts are indicative of me either being comatose in bed, in the hospital, or running the streets all hours of the night.

Those times consisted of a lot of weird shit. Like, weird shit. Like . . .like this:

Cat-Fish.

That isn’t even weird enough to really explain all the weirdness. I remember a lot of horrible dreams, traumatic dreams, all of which were caused by some unseen forces, dark forces, demons, which followed me around during the day, crowded my bed at night, whispered in my ears, fucked up my thoughts, intercepted them really, possessed people around me, and somehow I went to class and took notes and took exams and went to work and I guess I just sort of let my body work from muscle memory while my mind drifted into a different dimension.

At one point I remember being in hell, literal hell, and I was strapped to a torture board where some demons–I finally saw their true form, rather than the disguises they use here on Earth–turned their dial and stretched my limbs, trying to rip them from my body. That part was a dream, I’m pretty sure, but when I woke up they were still screaming at me, hissing at me, and I don’t remember much after that, just a lot of them screaming and cursing me, and they promised I would die.

One of these fucking things

Eventually I couldn’t keep up with the classes. Eventually I wasn’t picking up shifts at work, and inevitably, I stopped writing on this blog. The last hospital visit I had followed the Las Vegas shooting. Because those demons were after me, (and still are in all truth, that hasn’t gone away) they were hell bent on—

God it’s so much to explain. It’s so much to explain mini explosions detonate across my cortex when I think about it.

I believed I was here for a reason, on earth I mean, and I still believe I am. I believe everyone is. But for whatever reason this was heightened during this time, and I believed the safety of the human race essentially depended on me, and that was why so many dark forces had surrounded me–they knew what I knew, and they had to stop me.

They couldn’t physically touch me because I had the protection of my ancestors–that’s what I believed and still believe. So instead, they entered others around me. Strangers, friends, coworkers, and everywhere I went I felt attacked and unwelcome. I couldn’t tell anyone because 1) they’d think I was crazy and 2) they were all fucking in on it anyway.

So when the Vegas shooting happened, I immediately knew it happened because of me. I waited and waited and watched videos and theories and news stories, waiting for a motive to come out, and when nothing was found that only confirmed my belief: he’d been possessed and the shooting was a message to me, specifically, that they were coming for me. And that’s when they attacked my thoughts and I remember always feeling confused and drained of energy and I couldn’t sleep and I just wanted to die. I wanted to die and happened to mention my plan (I guess I didn’t really want to die anyway) and got the sheriffs called on me yet again.

I wasn’t in the hospital as long as people would expect. I have this problem. It’s called functionality.

She seems functional, albeit stressed.

Through all of this–and this built up over the course of a year, at least, maybe even two, of being out of my mind–I was still functional. I went to classes even though I had to drop them eventually. I went to work, some fucking how, and I wasn’t speaking strange or obviously disconnected from reality. I wasn’t walking down the street talking to myself or accusing people of things or anything. I was just . . . existing. A shell. My body moved, I responded to people when they spoke to me, and that was that–I was okay by mental health system standards.

And so the hospital just wanted to help me sleep. And that’s what they did. They gave me some Seroquel so I would sleep, waited for about a week, diagnosed me with Bipolar 1 this time, and tossed me to the county mental health system back in my town which gave other optional diagnoses (PTSD–which I’d already been diagnosed with, Schizoaffective–there’s a newbie, Psychosis NOS–okay?) no one ever came to a conclusion on, and then they outright rejected me. I didn’t last long enough in their system for them to conclude anything, really.

Now, the wonderful thing about all this is somehow it’s all worked out.

And the weird thing is now that I quit my medication in the worst fucking way possible, a way that almost cost me my life, I feel so much better. I still get confused by my thoughts often, but a lot of the time I feel wonderful, sparkly, like I’m connected to every inanimate and animate object on earth; sometimes I know what people are thinking, sometimes I know that they know that I’m connected to them.

I haven’t heard any voices since I abruptly stopped my medication–it’s been five months. That’s fucking unprecedented. I’ve been a conundrum in the mental health system since I was 5.

I’m back writing, and that’s a good fucking sign. Welcome to whatever the fuck this blog is now!

Perhaps I’ll find another C.E.O to drag through the dirt and hang by his/her ankles.

Speech Impediment

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

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

exhausted-man-130214

It’s the second day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

bender-doomed_zpse312c890

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

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

b4f

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

I said “I’m totally fine with that”. 

extreme-rain-happiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twenty.

Minutes.

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

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

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

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

 

Interview #2

blacklist (the dictionary project)

After applying to every possible job in my town, I’m convinced I’ve been blacklisted by my previous employer.

But regardless of whether or not they’ve been following my life and ruining it step by step like corporate freaks tend to do, I have another interview on Tuesday.

I applied at 1am this morning and received a call from them at 9am.

It’s for the same amusement park my boyfriend works for. I saved this position for the very last resort because I knew they would call me back–they always call everyone back. They need a lot of workers and the damn majority of them are high school kids who can’t work during the weekdays.

I picked a position where I’m down in the basement, counting money, and putting the numbers into a system. I pop my head out to collect the case from different stations, then return to my home in the basement like the freakish vampire I am.

I won’t sport my fangs on the first day. I’ll wait for a week at least, until I reveal my true identity.

vampire-jerry-big

I’m good with numbers and I’m good with computers. I don’t know the systems they use, I’ve never even heard of a “File Maker” accounting system, but I understand technology fairly well. It all runs with the same consistency.

I believe you’re mostly working by yourself or with a partner, which I don’t mind at all.

A lot of people with social anxiety disorder struggle in interviews, but I can handle speaking to a man or woman for fifteen to thirty minutes, one on one, especially since they’ll be asking most of the questions.

My worries surround the first day of work. Where do I go? Who do I report to? Do I have to ask around to find out? Where will they be? How much of a fool of myself am I going to make? (Regardless of the logic that everyone is lost on their first day). That’s part of the anxiety. 

My worries surround the coworkers. It’s not the typical worry of “oh no, are they going to like me? Are they going to be nice?”. I’m worried because I know for a fact I can’t communicate with them easily. I know I’m going to have trouble appearing “nice” and average. I’m going to have trouble relating to others. I’m going to have trouble having a conversation with them and not appearing as some passive little girl. That’s partly anxiety. It’s also complete ignorance; I just don’t know how to talk to them. 

intimidatedI’m going to have trouble with not being intimidated by my superiors; they’ve worked there longer than me, how stupid am I going to make myself look in front of them? That’s an anxiety thought.

I’m not going to be able to make friends with the coworkers. I’m just not. I honestly don’t want to and I hate that people have bad impressions of you just because you don’t want to talk to them. They should be thankful they won’t have to hear my mouth like certain other people do. This is my personality. 

Whenever an interview is scheduled for me, an instant pang of regret floods me. Once I’ve committed, I’ve committed, and there’s no going back without burning some bridges. I’ve burned enough of those.

The thing about living with anxiety is that you’ve got a second person inside of you constantly ravaging your brain with reasons why you shouldn’t do something or shouldn’t have done something. It’s always in your ear blocking you from hearing the more competent part of yourself.

So I force myself to seek out some positives.

  1. I’ll have a job.
  2. I’ll be making money.
  3. I won’t feel as useless.
  4. I can pay for things more often.
  5. I can save some dough for when I move out.
  6. I can gain work experience.
  7. I can do something really special for my boyfriend.
  8. I can get my car fixed.
  9. I can work through some of my social anxiety.
  10. I’m forcing myself out of my comfort zone. 16f741e
  11. I can get some fucking internet in this fucking apartment.
  12. I’ll no longer have to panic when my college delays on my financial aid money.
  13. I’ll have to be out of the house often, and it will prevent me from slipping any further into agoraphobia.
  14. I’ll see that everything my anxious twin has been listing off in my head since I got that phone call was all just exaggeration, meant to tamper with my self-confidence. 
  15. I’ll learn my limits–healthy limits.

    b96397e36042ccf4c50bed33eb4709f7
    Look How Healthy This Limit Is. Love Is Healthy. Math Is Healthy.
  16. I’ll be able to separate my introverted personality from the anxiety and find that I can get along working just fine as long as I’m not around too many people at once.
  17. It’ll will force a more steady sleeping pattern.
  18. Working and school means my schedule leaves little room for feeling sorry for myself and my struggles.
  19. I can prove to myself that I’m stronger than I think.
  20. I’ll learn to balance out my insatiable need for power with my insatiable need to cower before my superiors. How does that work? Ask my brain. There’s a whole bunch of people in there, that’s why I’m so contradictory.

I’m not even going to waste space typing out the negatives. My twin listed off the opposite of each of my positives right in my ear and just the thought of having to have this type of responsibility and do the kind of mental work I’m going to have to do just to get by every day is enough to make me start shaking and tearing up.

But my true self, the introvert, the writer, the amateur photographer, the slightly awkward but otherwise pretty intelligent person could care less about how people see me or whether or not my co-workers will find me weird or not, could also care less about any negatives. It could care less about the fact that June-August in this town are more crowded than Satan’s summer bash in Hell and I heard millions attend. Satan makes some pretty damn good brownies, if you know what I mean. 

weed-brownies

I logically understand the separation in myself with my anxiety and who I am. I understand that part of my anxiety comes from the fact that I also struggle with understanding how to converse or make friends and the fact that depression can take control of me in just a few hours and render me immobile. That’s why I work so hard to find the positives in everything, I’m constantly fighting it, I feel it every second of the day and when I’m stressed it’s just harder to find those positives.

Those are struggles I have to face in the moment. I could practice in my head or in the mirror all I want, that’s not going to do shit, not for me. Role play doesn’t work either. I had a therapist do that with me once.

It went horribly wrong. 

I’ll let your imagination wander.