Participation Points: NaNoWriMo

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Homeostasis has kicked in once more, a terrifying reality, and my mood, once lifted, has again suffocated. I’ve missed two more classes once more, and although I’m adamant with positive thoughts, although I attend therapy regularly, although this medication helps at a minimum level, my energy has depleted once more, my attention as well, and there’s a crack in the universe.

There are feelings which often grip on the soul, and those are the ones neither therapy nor medication has ever seemed to help. I’ve done a lot of work over the years on changing my mindset, and I believe I’ve come a long way. I’m confident in many things. I’m not so confident in a few things, and that’s okay–you can’t be perfect. What baffles me is how terrifyingly relentless my brain is with attacks on itself.

That being said, I got home today and have scrolled through fifty million posts talking about NaNoWriMo. This is number fifty million and one.

imaginationland1If there is one thing that is always there for me, it’s my imagination. Whether it works against me with strange men following me in the dark and putting thoughts in my head, or it graces me with some short stories that have professors with a history of being published bowing at my feet–it’s always been there. It was there when I was five years old, often alone, and listening to the cars out in the parking lot talk among themselves. I would laugh with them and they would have personalities based on the size of their fenders, tires, and their age. The conversations took place in my head, but the enjoyment, the stories, were very real.

So I’ve decided to participate this year in National Novel Writing Month. I decided today, on November first, to participate. I have a pretty vague idea of what I want to construct, and it’s a bit out of my comfort zone but often that results in greatness.

Although I have much homework to catch up on still, I need to do this for myself. It’s a good dissociative technique for me, writing is, that lets me regroup, rethink, and reconstruct myself. If I finish the 50,000 words, which shouldn’t be a problem, then it will prove I can finish a project. I haven’t finished a project in a very, very long time. 

I never even finished the multiple (albeit horrifyingly bad) stories I wrote in elementary school. I was obsessed with several television shows, and would write sequels to them. I made one about a land entirely filled with video game characters and scenes. I even made one based on Harry Potter, the first real book I read as a child. I may have been 6 or so.

Doing things spur of the moment like this, and making a spontaneous commitment can sometimes end up in something extraordinarily grand. I’ve learned that over the years, I suppose. If I create something spectacular, I can look back on this post and say I predicted the future. If I create something ordinarily bland, I can look back on this post and call myself an idiot. Either way, I can look back on this post and have a thought about it. I like thoughts. 

I will say one thing about one of my writing projects in particular, the one I don’t like mentioning at all on my blog: I’m very proud of it. It’s come a long way since the idea first blossomed in my head when I was 12. That’s when I got my first laptop by. It was a MacBook.

Scratch that. It was an Ibook, the predecessor to the MacBook. This:

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Yeah that piece of overheating, Itunes using, crock of shit. I still have it. It still works. It works like the piece of shit it is.

My father found it behind a NobHill grocery store. He brought it home and I started writing. The ideas were shit, the dialogue was shit, the plot was shit, the story was shit, and I thought I was the next pre-teen J.K Rowling.

Ha, you guys thought my first laptop was an actual expensive MacBook. Like I’d pay 2000 dollars for a computer. My fucking car cost less than that, and at least when it breaks down I don’t have to go and buy a whole new car.

Remember, you can still afford a doctor if you buy a PC.

Because the ideas started when I was around ten or so, the story has grown with me and learned with me. I’ve spent many years just learning lessons and incorporating them into the theme I’ve settled on in this potential novel. I stopped writing or tinkering with it for a while because I realized I needed more life experiences to make it how I wanted it to be. I wrote little fairy tale stories for competitions locally as a teenager, and won, and I knew in my heart of hearts that if I tried hard enough I could probably be one of those elementary school or teen authors who wrote the kids book or “young adult” book that captivated the state, or the nation, or whatever.

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Could’ve Been Me

But I didn’t want to be that kid. I had, and still have, a very specific purpose for my writing. I’ve never just written to write. I’ve never just written to inform. I write to communicate. I write to hold mirrors to myself and to others. As a child I knew this. So I kept myself in the shadows and let others take the spotlight. Fifteen minutes of fame is nice. But something someone can read and put on their bookshelf and never touch again isn’t literature to me. It’s a story.

Stories are nice, don’t get me wrong. They’re very . . . cute.

Literature feeds the soul, continuously. For those of us struggling to understand life, for those of us seeing others struggling to understand life, literature is a way for us to reach out and say–hey, I don’t get it either, but here’s my interpretation of you, of me, and of everything.

I bow gracefully to National Novel Writing Month and whisper:

Let the games begin.

A Reason For Everything

I came here and ranted about the psych hospital but didn’t really explain how I got there. As much as I hate making posts all about “me, me, me”, I think my revelation on my walk today can also be beneficial for others. That’s usually the goal of my posts anyway.

The day before the police were called on me, I went into the forest. I also made a post about that, but not about my thought processes behind all of it.

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Prepare Yourself

I’m very aware that I have a connection with the universe. I’m very aware that it knows my thoughts without giving me the benefit of know it’s thoughts. I don’t know what direction it’s guiding me or why, but I know that it guides me towards specific goals at specific times for specific reasons. I know this because of the feeling I get when I enter certain establishments, certain classrooms, talk to certain people–you just know that you’re where you’re meant to be.

I was lead to that forest for a very specific reason. It was by complete chance, to my limited human brain, that I came across the national park on the internet. I’ve looked at different national parks around this area on the internet millions of times and I’ve never seen this particular one–which is odd given how close it is to my proximity.

The first thing I noticed was the silence and the trees and the leaves. The leaves were like a neon green . . . but the day was dark and cloud cover completely encased the town in grey. There were only certain trees along our path with these colors. If I still had my Photoshop subscription, I’d manipulate a photo to show what the world looked like through my eyes.

case_4_of_6largeThere were lots of little gnats and moths and the trees were very loud. Not with words, but just with presence and enormity. I liked crawling in between them and sitting with them and letting them tell me it would be okay. The birds too. I tried to climb one, but being 50-60 pounds over my ideal weight and having been lazy the last two years of my life, I couldn’t really get far off the ground. That’s probably the other reason my blood pressure was a little high.

Which is partly why I’m walking more and changing my diet once again.

Anyway, none of that is the point. Don’t get me on another tangent. I’ve been on a lot of those lately. 

Now, after exiting that forest I felt like the universe really had my back. It was watching out for me. It could hear me screaming out mentally and it understood. When I returned that feeling had vanished. It was too hot, even under the cover of the trees, and that warmth I felt with the animals and vegetation had left. The only thing left was the three hawks circling right above me like I was a dead carcass–or about to be. Which I was.

It felt like I’d lost my reason to be here on Earth.

All my life I’ve been doing things with the universe on my side, even when I was a toddler I knew I had that connection. And now I felt like it has severed all contact with me. On top of that, my life is chaotic, unstructured, stressful, and I have no release. All of that lead up to why the police was called.

Something pushed me to go for another walk today. Also because I need exercise.

The moment I saw the monarch I understood everything.

By now you all know that I’m someone who strongly advocates for the spiritual and fantasy worlds. People call it irrational, but what I think is irrational is the idea that any one human being could understand all there is to understand about Earth, The universe, or even themselves. That’s irrational.

So I’m caught in a crossfire.

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The Monarch isn’t just a butterfly, or a symbol of delicacy (for those bunches of you that like metaphors and similes and analysis), I see them as remnants of ancestors, of good spirits, of watchers. I don’t know where the thought came from, it just happened the instant I saw that first monarch.

More monarchs followed me along my path and that made me feel good because it lets me know I was wrong; the universe isn’t leaving me alone.

But something isn’t right. There’s a disconnect somewhere, a war. I mean, Trump is running for president. Come on.

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Then I saw the ripped in half tail of a squirrel and it all made sense again. Those portions of the spiritual world that I feel watch me, that follow me, are at war with the portion that’s been guiding me. Both follow me along my path: a ripped bird wing lay in the middle of the walk way, along the path the monarchs followed me.

I wished I could speak the language of the Monarchs and understand more about what’s going on. I asked them to speak with me, but didn’t get an answer (is that a good thing?). I know these spirits embody every living thing on earth, including people, and I met a benevolent one in the form of an old man pacing back and forth on the grass of an apartment complex. He paused just to stare at me and smiled and I felt like a part of his spirit was related to the monarchs.

The problem I see with this is how can you tell the malevolent from the benevolent? Those “evil” ones, the ones that follow me and haunt me and rustle noises outside when I’m at Second Story at night, are tricky. They can play so many different forms.

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Like I said, I’m caught in a crossfire. I’m in the middle of a war and maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe I need to exist for that war to exist and maybe that war needs to exist because I exist and maybe without me and the war, life itself wouldn’t exist.

This is what I thought of while I walked and picked out sign after sign of the war. There are many.

And as I walked, one of my other thoughts was “how could I turn this into a story?”. 

And that’s when it hit me.

I’m aware that how I see things isn’t how everyone sees things. To me it’s truth, to everyone else it’s nothing. I’m not incompetent, much to the hospital’s dismay. I’m also aware that sometimes people get a little turned off and confused when people say things like what I’ve said above. But when it’s turned into a fictional piece, when it’s suddenly labeled “fantasy”, that’s when we get to call things symbolism. That’s when we regard it as a deep piece of literature.

And maybe that can help those of us who think differently and can turn our experiences into a piece of history rather than our own personal nightmare. Maybe it can help us show others that there’s nothing to be scared of. Maybe it can help us show ourselves that there’s nothing in our mind to be scared of.

Writing isn’t just a form of therapy. It’s a way to communicate.

The monarchs, by the way, followed me home. 

 

What is This.

Good Evening, all. 9/6/16

I read a very touching story for my creative writing class entitled “Two Kinds” by Amy Tan. There’s a PDF of it floating around the internet ether if you’d like to give it a read. It’s a short six pages.

For my American Literature class, I was supposed to read and skim through a section entitled “First Encounters: Early European Accounts of Native America”.

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You can guess I took one read of the bullshit and set it down.

My more recent followers may be a little confused by my discontent, and I’ll briefly explain: I’m mixed race, a portion includes Native American, and I’m no stranger to the mountain of hell historical truama has put that part of my family through. I come from a steady line of slaves and ancestors who were forced along the trail of tears. I therefore come from an open, unhealed wound, riddled with alcoholics, depressives, and oppressed people. The last thing I feel like reading is a piece of shit from some old “explorers” who felt entitled to do what they did.

I know there are natives and aborigines all across the world who still feel the repercussions of similar histories. And one day I’m sure it will happen again. And again. And again. If there is life on other planets, I’m almost certain it’s happened there as well. There always seems to be a power struggle between creatures somewhere, somehow. Plants fight for the beams of the sun and there are vines that suffocate other brothers and sisters of theirs for just that.

Perhaps the other planets have found a way to heal. There are some countries on our planet who have learned to heal from that kind of truama, but America isn’t one of them. And therefore I don’t take lightly people saying “that story doesn’t make sense” and then laughing at the world resting upon the back of a giant turtle in an Iroquois story. I don’t take lightly the fact that when some European described watching some tribe wail every morning at a certain time at the death of their son for an entire year as “ridiculous” or hearing them laugh at that.

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A Representative Picture of Me In class

Whether or not there was something lost in translation, have some fucking respect.

Sometimes it takes three generations to heal from truama. It’s not inconceivable that there were different forms of mourning in different tribes. Mourning too long isn’t always a sign of depression you spiritless idiots, it’s also a form of healing. You have to feel that pain, you have to let it out, and you have to reconnect with yourself and your surroundings. Grief is extremely powerful and it needs to be treated as such. Trauma is very powerful, and it needs to be handled as such. If you can’t understand that, they keep your mouth shut.

I should have spoken up in class. The way they were talking, I could feel my blood boiling. But something held me back. Remnants of oppression, perhaps? Habit? I’m used to people talking that way about cultures I’m apart of. They don’t ever seem to talk shit about that straight up Polish/Irish part of me though.

I fell silent that class period. I refused to speak or participate or listen to a word anyone had to say. Maybe it was my anger, maybe it was my way of rebellion: maybe it was my middle finger to the world. I don’t know. But if it happens again tomorrow, I won’t hold back.

My professor said the book does a good job of expressing native american views. Among the hundreds of settler stories, there is one native american creation story that was probably written down by a settler.

Yes, there are tons of documents by natives believe it or not, because I read many of them in high school when I took a college american history course.

How I see my professor at this point:

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9/7/16

I stopped that post last night. This morning the tides turned and I awoke how I always do: balanced on the edge of my mind willing to either fall and land steadily on the surface to my left or the abyss to my right. I ended up fighting a little harder than usual and the result went something like this:

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Man in pinned stripe suite falling off a cliff.

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And yes, I switched gender and race in the process.

Something took over my mind today and I ended up not going to that English class I specified above; I sent an email saying I had an appointment I couldn’t miss. I got a call from work for a shift, and for some reason it spiraled out of control after that. I had to spend a lot of courage attempting to call them back (to which the phone wasn’t answered) and it just reminded me of the fact that I have a letter to still give to the accessibility center, an appointment to reschedule because someone gave me the wrong room for it and I missed the appointment, and that I still have to dish out all of the accommodation letters to my professors  which means I have to approach them during office hours.

I got extremely overwhelmed. And when I get overwhelmed I have no tools to stop my mind from freaking out. I try explaining the process but I’m assuming people think “why are you freaking out about nothing” and then decide there’s no point in talking to me about it. That frustrates me even more as I don’t tell the inner workings of my mind to just anyone. In fact, I rarely tell them to anyone. So to be blatantly rejected when I do manage to share some of my stress only pushes me further downward.

It’s like climbing up from a hole and getting your knuckles stomped on and your face kicked back down.

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In my creative writing class I couldn’t focus. My mind does not have the capability to shut up. I think there were a few times I whispered something to myself or I started rocking, I’m not sure, I wasn’t really present for the class.

Then comes the suspicions: is that person next to me asking the other person next to her a question to spite me? She knows it pisses me off. She’s doing it on purpose. She was nice to me earlier but now that she knows I’m insane, she’s refusing to speak to me.

I figure both people at my table can hear what’s going on in my head and that’s why they were quieter this class. Maybe I was whispering too loud, I don’t know.

Maybe I didn’t whisper at all and it only felt that way because my mind was so loud today.

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To be quite honest, I don’t know what the fuck went on in class.

It’s been very stressful lately, and I know what happens to me when stress hits me: my moods jump around like a ten year old on a trampoline for the first time, I’m suspicious of everyone around me (have I told you at this point I only trust my manager at work?), I shut down . . . and during that shut down I force everything in the back of my mind, putting pressure on my subconscious. Then she erupts with fury and vengeance and that, my friends, is what I call a panic attack. Then I get sent to the hospital, miss classes because the Ativan IV puts me to sleep for a good day and a half, and then I wake feeling like a complete fuck up of a person.

I would know as this has been happening systematically for the last two years. It’s the reason I am not yet out of this mind fuck of a junior fucking college.

So I try to let my stress out. I try to talk to people. But what happens when that fails as well? Where do I turn? This blog? And bore all of your eyes to death?

I don’t know.

What is this blog anymore, even?

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