Writer’s Block

Do you all remember a time when I would bust out posts every day, sometimes twice a day, sometimes thrice a day? That time ended many months ago, and this writer’s block has continued something fierce. Every once in a while I come on and see how everyone is doing, what’s going on their life and where they are heading and I wonder why I just can’t kick my ass in gear and write.

I’m a writer for God’s sake, that’s what I do.

So, as I sit in class right now, it got me thinking about my writer’s block, others writer’s block, and how people just push through it. So that’s what I’m trying to do, for the sake of the cathartic process, and for the sake of my writing future.

Because I am such a broken human being unique individual with a variation of experiences, I decided to do something for myself and attend an outpatient group. This group meets three days a week, for three hours each day, and I’m on the evening schedule. We learn a lot about coping skills, about forming and maintaining healthy relationships, as well as being open and honest about what’s going on in our head. Some people have substance use issues partnered with their mental health, others don’t.

I’m not sure what I’m learning from it. I know that it gets me out of the house and prevents me from isolating, which is good for me, and I know it’s good for me because I absolutely hate doing it. And I seem to hate doing anything that’s good for me. Ever get that feeling?

Meanwhile, the outside world is falling apart and we’re all sitting around twiddling our thumbs like:


When we should be doing something like this:


Kanye West is trapped in a perpetual state of “mania”, or at least he’s addicted to the “manic” behavior, Trump is still president, sexual assault victims are coming forward and getting pushed back down, people are putting guns to their heads, overdosing, throwing themselves off bridges and the ages are getting younger and younger, there’s rarely anything positive on the news (in America), everyone kind of flipped the bird to school shootings, cops are still shouting “break yourself fool!”, cocking their gun sideways, and blowing seven holes in innocent people like they work for the crips, and meanwhile I’m sitting here on this computer documenting it all, processing it, and thinking back to similar times.

I think maybe, just maybe, we’re all stuck in a pretty serious delusion about our lives: That we can continue moving forward with all of this baggage on our back. Nothing is being discussed, and when a discussion does arise, it turns into nothing more than the internet being divided on the subject for a couple days. Racism is a hot topic, until a school shooting happens. We’re all crying for the students until a cop shoots another unarmed white, black, yellow, blue, brown, rainbow man/woman. As we writhe from the shock, Trump says something outlandish and/or stupid (mostly stupid), and all cameras point to him. They’re so busy photographing his orange face and blonde toupee that they miss the guy standing on the bridge behind them, tears streaming down his face.

There’s no soft way to put things: we’re living in a society in which things are swept under the rug.

I guess it’s nice that you and your friend on Facebook have these deep philosophical conversations over messenger that ultimately ends with one of you quoting words you don’t understand by some unnamed author, hoping that the way you’ve carried yourself and your political stance will help you sound like an intellectual.

And it doesn’t help that when something serious on social media is trending, it doesn’t get taken serious and its fifteen minutes of fame go by in five. This is my argument against May Mental Health Awareness month. There’s nothing impressive about a month of people saying nice things to each other and being supportive when that mindset falls apart in June.

At this point, I’m ranting, because if there’s one thing we all understand about writer’s block, is that you can’t pull the right fucking words out of your head even if your life depended on it. Something has them stopped up like hair in a drain, and I don’t have a long enough whatcha-ma-call-em to dig the mess out. The only solution is to pour corrosive bleach down the hole and let it set. So, I’m pouring bleach on my brain and waiting for the magic to happen.

What will happen to this blog? I’m not entirely sure. I don’t want to get rid of it, I want to help it blossom into what it once was. I want to communicate to real people about real topics and still promote mental wellness. I want to commit to writing at least once a day to gain back old followers and shake hands with new ones. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem, in my own life and in relation to the rest of the world. I want a lot of things, as you can see, and I’m not quite sure what that means.

And that’s today’s Mental Truth.


Asking For Help

Things have been troublesome for me. My relationship of 4 years has ended, and I’m still heartbroken over that fact. It’s only been a couple days, and so the feelings are still very raw. It’s difficult to have 4 years of good memories in your head, only to be trumped by the memory of one incident: the break up.

I’m okay with having to move forward. I mean, I’ve been through a lot worse things in my life than a breakup, and have had my heart broken on the same level once before. I’m used to the pain. I’m used to the random crying that hits you when you hear a song that reminds you of everything, or see a couple, or hear about people and their love, or see all the pictures we have. I’m used to the constant feelings of “wow, this is all your fault” because I’m used to things getting ruined because of my mental health. And that’s essentially what all this boils down to.

I still have my cat. I love her, and I will forever love her. And I thank him for buying her for me those 2 years ago, she’s been a great addition to my life. So that’s one thing to be thankful for.

On top of that, the program I work for is also closing in December. I feel I am no longer welcome in this town by way of the universe, and that because both my job and relationship are essentially over at the same time, it’s a sign that it’s time to move on to bigger and better things.

I plan to move down to Los Angeles where peer support jobs are rampant in certain areas, and where I can really use my creative talent: my writing, my photography. I want to be able to blossom in this crazy life, and I’m sick of being stifled and stagnant. All of this stress is really kicking up my mental health issues, and so is not having the money to even pay for my prescriptions right now.

I started a GoFundMe. Hear me out: I hate taking money from people. I hate taking offers from people. I hate doing anything that requires me to beg. But I am in a situation where I can’t just up and leave town and not risk being homeless. I can’t stay in town and not risk being homeless. Again. I’m trying to avoid that. Again.

I would use the funds strictly for moving expenses and nothing more. That means the U-Haul to get my stuff down there, the deposit and first months rent on a place ( a room for rent, of course), and food along the way. I’m asking for 2k. Not too much, not too little.

If you know anyone who is willing to donate, that would be amazing. The link is here. I’m just a young 23 year old trying to make a new start in a world that has beat me down from the beginning. And I’m not trying to act helpless. I’m not even on disability, although with my diagnoses I could qualify. But I want to do things on my own, prove to myself and the world that I can be who I need to be without second guessing myself or degrading myself.

I am just in need of a little help.

I’ve been apart of this wordpress community for three years now, and have been thankful to every single person who has ever liked or commented on this blog. And now I’m finally reaching out to every single one of you and asking for just a bit of help. You don’t have to donate, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking for you to share the link on Facebook, on Twitter, on LinkedIn, whatever. I only have so much of a following, and could use more help in that department.

If you do donate, thank you, thank you. Every little bit helps.

Now, I’m going to try and get ready for my day, as difficult as that’s becoming.

Thank you.

Murder-Suicide Close To Home

I’ll catch up on the challenge post tomorrow. There is something I feel that needs to be said that has a little more priority, simply because of the context.

The town in which I live is relatively small. Tourists come from wherever they come from (hell, I think), and there are about four or five different . . . regions? I don’t know what to call them. I live in an unincorporated area of the town, but I’m still part of the town. That makes sense.

There was one man who parked his truck in the cliffs a while back. I guess the police had been informed he was feeling the need to end his life and before they got to him, he’d shot himself through the temple. I have no clue if the police knew where he was or not. This was maybe five minutes from my house, and probably a few months before or after (I can’t remember) some other guy was running around swimming in the nasty lagoon with a gun trying to hide from the cops. I don’t think he could hold his breath or stand the stench long enough to NOT get caught, because he got caught.

Yesterday there was a shooting at the mall about ten minutes from my house. A woman, her husband, and daughter had been shopping at the mall earlier in the afternoon, and now the woman called the police about her husband making “suicidal threats”–he was still at the mall with their daughter. I don’t know if the woman had left or not, the story is still rocky.

Regardless, the police didn’t make it, and I guess mall security isn’t trained and/or wasn’t notified, because the man shot himself and his daughter in the back of their Kia Soul in the middle of the parking lot. The girl was 8 years old. They both died in the car.


Crime scene investigators survey the Capitola Mall parking lot Sunday, where a man killed himself and his 8-year-old daughter. (Stephen de Ropp — Contributed).

I’m not going to blame anyone here for anything. People can nitpick at the speed of the cops/security, they can nitpick at the man’s wife, and most likely they’ll nitpick at the man too. But the truth is, we’ll never really know why this man shot himself and his daughter or if anything preemptive could have been done.

Instead of blasting suicide hotlines at you, I think this is a perfect opportunity to remind everyone how hidden these feelings can be, and how serious the consequences are when they’re hidden for too long. People can blame it on “mental illness” or whatever you want to call it, but there’s much more too it. People can say he should have been shoved into a hospital, but even statistics knows 50%-70% of people who go in feeling like they should end their life come out feeling they should end their life tenfold. It’s not about being a sick bastard disturbed enough to kill his daughter. It’s about being a person who got fed up with whatever he got fed up with, or was struggling in some other way perhaps no one knew about, so he turned to the only logical thought in his head at that time.

It’s logical because it’s about taking control of things that are out of control, and that’s what he did. That’s a very human response. It’s not the response we generally like to hear about, nor is it the response I wish anyone to have, but it’s a human one alright.

That being said, had the cops arrived, would what they have done prevented anything? How much do they know about wanting to end their own life and what would they have said to him? Would the man have shot his daughter anyway, so they shoot him? What difference would that have made? Where the fuck did the gun come from? I didn’t know people who drove fucking Kia Souls were gun wranglers, I’ll never tailgate another Prius in my life.

There are so many assumptions to be made here, and that’s where the danger and the stigma and the stupidity starts, especially in murder-suicide incidents.

People get scared when the ones around them are spewing things like “suicidal threats” and I think that’s because of the panic and the fear that comes with losing someone they care for and the thoughts of what could happen. That’s also a pretty human response. But I think it’s also helpful to remember in that time that this person is telling you these things for a reason, and it’s not always just to let you know what their plans are.

That’s a lot of pressure–for someone to come to you and say they’re going to kill themselves. Now all of a sudden you feel it’s up to you to stop them. Is it? I don’t know. I don’t know if anyone has any kind of responsibility for anyone else’s life. What I do know is that if you’ve experienced that kind of despair, or even if you have experienced any kind of deep pain at all, for any reason, you know how hard it is to see past it and how lonely it is. Maybe it’s not really about stepping in to save their life and be the hero walking away from the fire.

Maybe it’s not about convincing them to stay alive or being responsible for them, maybe it’s just about using what you know, what you’ve felt, to connect for just a moment. Maybe it’s not your responsibility to make them change their mind, maybe it’s their responsibility to change their mind and maybe you can support them through that change.

I would consider this situation at the mall very high risk and that’s why I say I don’t know if anything would have changed had the police reached that man and I’m not going to sit here and criticize people for things they should have done: that doesn’t bring either person back to life. I don’t know what kind of threats he said to his wife or how long he’s expressed these kinds of things. Maybe he never has. Maybe a slow growing brain tumor finally cut off some blood supply to a specific area of his brain and suddenly he didn’t want to live anymore and no words could have ever made a difference. You don’t know.

You can’t save everyone. That’s not meant to sound morbid, just truthful: some people have made up their minds and you could be the best connector in the world and they’ll still put a barrel to their temple.

But, a good try is better than not trying at all–or, you know, chalking it all up to being “sick”.

Not Fake News

We need some good stories. Especially these days.

With Trump claiming he got the most electoral votes since Reagan, and then being contradicted immediately by a reporter who listed Obama’s stats, and George Bush’s stats when Trump tried saying “he was talking about republicans”, it’s nice to be able to talk about something much more positive than this moron.

His response to the reporter was “well, I’m just told these things, I don’t actually know”.


Anyway, enough of that. I watched a video on the YouTube channel VICE news the other day, about a shelter for the “mentally ill” in Mexico, created by a Pastor named Jose Antonio Galvan. I was interested because the title used the word asylum, and I honestly thought they were going to talk about horrible conditions and horrible treatment of the mentally unstable in Mexico. That was my stereotype and assumption.

It was the exact opposite.

Galvan started this shelter in 1995 with the intent to provide home, care, understanding, and compassion for those living on the street who struggle mentally either because of drug induced illness (something like meth psychosis for example) or not. He himself has a history of such things, including an incident which he talks about in the video: seeing hallucinations telling him to attack a preacher on the street who was spewing the word of God. He attacked the preacher with a bottle, cut the preacher’s forehead, and the preacher placed his hand on his head and prayed for him. That was a defining moment for Galvan.

Their government isn’t the most stable. Everyone and their mother knows the country is controlled more so by drug cartels than actual political officials. There’s not a lot of funding or wealth, or solid community structures. Galvan does point out, however, that everyone else gets some kind of care: except those struggling mentally. So he decided to change that. He said only those who had been through such things could understand. He said at Vision En Accion (Vision In Action) the point was to treat humans like humans, to have compassion for those struggling after having been through similar struggle yourself.

Peer support; that’s what he’s doing. Can you imagine how excited I got? You all know me. I found their Facebook page and their website.  Click them. It’s good to read stories like these today.

Now, the landscape, the available services, the healthcare, it’s all different over there where Galvan is compared to us here in the U.S, so they still use terms like asylums and they don’t have proper housing for people who are particularly violent. They’re kept in rooms with bars according to the video. That’s not preferable, but this man and his team are doing more for those citizens than anyone else probably ever has. They don’t treat them poorly behind the bars, they at least get good food and can stay clean and get compassionate support mentally . . . they just kinda, you know, gotta stay in a cage. Like I said, not preferable.

But when you think about it, it’s not much different from isolation in hospitals over here. So get off your high horse and let’s not be so quick to judge. Just because we paint our bars a nice pretty white, call it a door, and decorate the halls with “trained and educated professionals” doesn’t mean a thing. Remember, America is notorious for embellishing shit to make it look like blooming roses.

If you have a passion, if you have an idea, don’t worry the idea into extinction about how you’re going to do it, what you need to do it, or if it would even work. Just do it. That’s how organizations get started, that’s how lives are changed. At one point in my life, I would love to volunteer here and include Vision En Accion in the growing spectrum of compassionate healthcare.

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.


Moving Forward Together


Let me outline this very clearly, because it seems people who are outsiders, people who don’t struggle with their mental health on a daily basis, still don’t get what we mean when we say we need your “help”.

By help, we mean “support”.

By “support” we don’t always mean “advice.”

In fact, very rarely do we mean advice.

If you feel like you can’t “help” us, that’s because you can’t and that’s because you don’t need to. It’s not your responsibility, as someone on the outside, to cure us of our depression, our anxiety, our voices, our paranoia, our thoughts about suicide, or our self harming tendencies. That’s not a burden for you to carry.

If someone in a wheelchair is pushing themselves down the sidewalk just fine, not asking for you to push for them, would you just walk up and start pushing them? No. The same applies here.

3740df239005007563e2530671cf1e58We’re looking for someone willing to walk with us through the fire of the moment, not someone to toss water on the fire with good intention, not caring to pay attention to the fact that the fire is a grease fire, and then storm off offended they couldn’t put the flame out.

Say you were working in construction and you measured a beam wrong so that when you tried to put together the side of a house, the boards toppled on you. Your right leg is being crushed, along with one of your hands and your chest. You’re struggling to breathe, the world is turning black, and off in the distance you see a possible savior. You use your last bit of energy to wave them over and they come running, chest puffed out. When you tell them what happened, they look at your measurements and say “well, you should be more careful when you measure next time so this won’t happen”.

And then they walk away like this . . .


. . . feeling like they’ve completed their good deed for the day.

Then they get offended you didn’t say thank you to them when they come visit you in the hospital.

That’s what it feels like to us when the people we confide in get frustrated that we’re not responding to them the way they want us to when we’re already struggling to hold our head above water. It creates this feeling of isolation on both parties. You feel like you’ve failed someone you care about, we feel like we can’t ever express ourselves without getting turned away or bombarded with things we don’t need to hear.

This is a gap in a bridge that needs to be sealed.

This is where understanding comes in. Giving people pamphlets about the “symptoms” of “mental disorders” is “education” I guess . . . although not very effective, and your #stopstigma tags on twitter are amazingly popular for about five internet seconds, but if people on the “outside” aren’t around us, if they can’t see that we’re just the same as them, if they can’t see us in our best and our worse, and if they can’t come to us and talk with us and dip their toe in the fire for just a split second, then they don’t truly understand what support is. And you can’t #stopstigma without people having a clear understanding about what’s being stigmatized.

dreamstime_xl_52335624And it’s not about us tossing all our problems on someone with no problem, because at that point we’re using them as a scale to measure how “fucked up” we are, we’re using them as a landfill to throw all our trash, rather than a human being to relate to. And that doesn’t make anyone feel good.

It’s about mutuality in the relationship. If they feel you are burdening them by constantly venting without ever letting them a chance to speak or a chance to attempt at making a connection or a chance to express their grievances as well, they should be allowed to tell you that (politely) and you shouldn’t be offended. You shouldn’t turn them away and say “I’m crazy, that’s probably why they don’t care about me”, because what you’re doing is invalidating how they feel, and how they feel is pertinent to the relationship. If they didn’t care about you, they wouldn’t have spoken up.

In the same way, if you feel you aren’t being heard, if you feel something isn’t right, you have the responsibility and right to speak up and tell them so (politely) and if they get offended and take it as “this person is just selfish” than they’re invalidating your feelings, and how you feel is pertinent to the relationship.

Do we all see how this works now?


We don’t need to reform “mental health” necessarily. We need to reform how we interact with people who experience things differently. Categories, diagnosis, medication, none of that is the fucking issue. The issue is what we perceive as a result of categories, diagnosis, and medication. Let’s face it folks, that stuff makes money, it’s not going anywhere. So lets use it to our advantage rather than our disadvantage.

And that issue of perception doesn’t ONLY fall on the shoulders of people who DON’T struggle with their mental health. It’s our responsibility as the strugglees (not a word, don’t quote me) to be honest about the struggle and to be honest when we feel someone has stepped across a line. Don’t take it as a slap across the face because “you’re crazy” and therefore don’t have a right to speak up.

And if all else fails, if mutuality never develops–because, let’s face it, not everyone is meant to be in your life–if things can’t be worked through, separate from each other in the most respectful way possible so as to preserve their feelings and your feelings. Just because someone disagrees with you or you with them doesn’t mean you have to part ways by hurting each other.

That hurt only carries on into the next mutual friendship/relationship, and the last thing we need is a chain reaction.


Inspiration from this post came from a struggle in my own personal life just recently and by being honest, without getting into an argument, without screaming, without cursing each other, we managed to come to a conclusion that we both care for each other and want to move forward together.

I only have Intentional Peer Support to thank for this. With my inability to understand how to interact with humans in general, being there for that week laid it out to me logically in a way I could attempt to understand and duplicate. I may be a little robotic about it still, but I’m learning.

I was wondering where all my anger went. . . and thinking back on it, it really calmed down after being surrounded by everyone that one week in may. It’s amazing what taking the time and thinking about how other people feel, and how you react to their feelings, can do.


In The Name Of Remembrance

Often I don’t speak about serious topics on here that are unrelated to mental health, but this topic, this topic is a disgusting exception.

As every good story starts, I was browsing Facebook this morning and came across an NPR article on the current Pope visiting Auschwitz concentration camp memorial museum. The article is here if you would also like to read it: click.

I have always been aware that the former concentration camps like Dachau and Auschwitz were open to tours. I went on Google Earth to creepily ride past in my virtual google car to see buses upon buses upon buses of school children and regular people walking into the Auschwitz entrance. It looked as if the whole of the Polish education system was there.

Across the street were some Restaurants and a Hotel. Cool bro.

After reading about the way both former concentration camps choose to educate those who come to mourn, to remember, and to learn, I came to the understanding that “tour” wasn’t really an appropriate word. It’s a memorial experience. It’s a “path of remembrance” (that’s the name of a specific route you can walk through at Dachau).

They Have Historical Information Signs Along The Path, Hence The Name.

I respect these people for that. They take what has happened in their past and to make sure it will never happen again, they teach people about it. They have survivors share their story, and it’s part of their children’s education–extensively. A lot of Germany and Poland has healed as a result, they have been for the last 50 years. Say what you will about Germans, they’re not so ashamed of their own history that they hide it under the rug or play it down.

Reading all of this got me thinking about the United States. I wondered how many of the old slavery plantations are still resurrected today, and if we have any similar programs. There was a portion of my heart that hoped, with naivete, that America would have the scant amount of decency needed to partake in something as healing as the aforementioned. The other portion of my heart knew better.

The other portion of my heart knew with the amount of race-related turmoil going on in the United States today, there was no way in hell any amount of healing from the trauma of the south has happened.

August 12, 1959


February 19, 2016 Source

The first plantation that popped up in my search was Pebble Hill. I’ve heard of it, but don’t know much about the history of the slaves. According to research, the land for Pebble hill was bought from the Creek Indians. Fraud and scandal was used later to steal the rest of the land and leave many Creek homeless.

I read this information on a Southern University website, particularly this one: click here. I admire them for adding the Indians into their history, many people do not. However, I critique their title of “African-American’s at pebble hill”. I critique their explanation that “African American’s helped build pebble hill”.

Pebble Hill As It Stands Today

Those were slaves. Not “African-Americans”. Say what it is. Not what you wish it was.

That website also contains a list of families who lived there and took over the plantation, if you’re interested.

Continuing my search, I came across a website with an article where you could “Tour the South’s Best Historic Homes”. Pebble Hill was listed.

In fact, under the “Inspiring Ideas” category, it described the house as: “This classic plantation [with] breezy, colorful interiors with chic chinoiserie elements that feel au courant.”



Let’s think about this for a moment.

Plantations did not kill as many as Hitler’s and Stalin’s concentration camps. Unless you include the generations to come after that. Particularly if you include the Native Americans . . . in which case, we’re at about the same level of indecency and murder as both Hitler and Stalin. So I suppose the only difference is ours was systematic and generational, and their was all at once.

To describe an area where people’s lives were shattered, where people served and got whipped and hanged and had to pick cotton and run your fucking house for you because you were too lazy of a piece of shit to do your own house work and take care of your own kids or pick your own cotton, as “breezy, [with] colorful interiors . . . that feel au courant” is a disgrace. Whoever has done this needs to feel the shame they deserve.

My anger fueled me to go onto their website. That’s where I learned weddings are held there.


“I’d love to get married in a concentration camp one day” said no one ever. Why? Because that would be fucking DISRESPECTFUL, that’s why.

“I’d love to get married on your mother’s grave” said no one ever.

Would you do this shit at a concentration camp?


No, Because You’re Not An Insensitive Prick.

Than don’t do it at a plantation.

Their “history” section on their plantation webpage talks only about the owners, and never the slaves.

Google reviews reiterated that the house was beautiful. A few commented on how they never mention any history of the slaves or give any types of remembrance for them. One individual who wished to at least see the grave sites had to ASK DIRECTIONS to find them, because it’s not included in the tour.

Texan textbooks described the slave trade as people bringing “millions of workers”.

The publishing company offered to send stickers to cover up the word “workers” in the printed books while they worked on more accurately depicting the slave trade.

The author of the article I read said it perfectly: “It will take more than that to fix the way slavery is taught in Texas textbooks”. You can read more about that here: click. It’s worth the read, I promise.

raf220x200075ffafafaca443f4786It’s not about political correctness. I’m not being PC principal here. It’s not even about bashing the South. I just want the truth. Don’t cover up the truth with a slightly, less severe way of telling it because then it becomes a lie. And if you want your country to be built on lies, than don’t act surprised or disgusted when citizens start rising up against you.

We need to give these people remembrance so their spirits can rest and ours can be healed. Stop beating around the bush, stopping putting stickers over the things you don’t want to read: we all know what happened, we might as well talk about it.

The goal isn’t to forget. It’s to remember. 



What Are You Worth?


I hate to be the one to beat the horse with the dead stick , err . . .

That doesn’t sound right. Beat a dead horse with a stick?

Stab a dead horse?

Stabbing? I don’t know.

I hate to be the one to beat this subject over the head (that’s better, right?) but because it is mental health related and because I’ve some how become a regular, contributing blogger of such savory issues, I must speak.


If you don’t have experience with mental disorders, if you don’t have something to say that progresses the path of those of us with mental disorders, don’t write about it.

It’s a simple concept, it’s like 2 + 2 = 4.

It’s like learning to raise your hand when you want to talk in Kindergarten.

It’s like swallowing after you chew your food.

baby-boy-eating-healthy-food-isolated-19606475There are people in the world who don’t know what 2 + 2 is, there are children who never really understand the concept of “taking turns” to speak in Kindergarten. But I have never met a human being on this planet who doesn’t understand that after you chew the food that you’ve just shoved in your face hole, you’re suppose to swallow. If you have, let me know in the comments.

I’m talking, of course, about that hideous article written by Amanda Lauren. Now I’ve seen a few of you have written on the topics all ready, the majority of whom I agree with, so I’ll do my best not to repeat the same opinion for those of you who also agree with those bloggers.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking and are about to click that exit button because you just realized my intro is a quick inner dialogue on stabbing dead animals and that makes you wary, Amanda Lauren is some kind of blogger who wrote an article for the website xoJane.com on how her former friend’s suicide was a blessing (Xojane has since removed the article and sent out a formal apology).

Amanda’s reasoning was that “some people are so sick, they are beyond help”.

Amanda had reconnected with this friend of hers in Los Angeles and got her a job. When her friend quit the job, their friendship fell apart again. Later Amanda looked her up on trusty old Facebook (Facebook: finding the friends you sorta, kinda, never really cared about since February 4, 2004) and quotes her posts as being “like the diary of a fourteen-year-old girl with an eating disorder from a Lifetime movie circa 1993.She talked about seeing doctors, specific meds, and being diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder.”

A mutual friend then mentioned the girl had committed suicide.

How ironic, a day after I get done talking about stigma and misunderstanding against schizophrenia spectrum disorders, this author comes out and slaps me across the face with the exact type of disordered thinking I slam on a daily basis.

Why do I say that? Well, because her friend suffered with this disorder, Amanda claims she is better off dead. She says her friends death isn’t a tragedy, her life was. She said “schizoaffective disorder robbed her of her potential” and “she was alone and terribly unhappy when she died”. She said there was no chance for her recovery without family or support.

Head in Hands

She wrote: “There was just no way she would have survived on her own. Drowning to death was relatively painless compared to what she had to endure in life.”



I will go at this gently no matter how hard I feel like ripping the hair out of my head.

The fact that someone who has obviously had no struggle with mental illness, someone who has obviously let a little internet success wipe away her common sense (she blogs for many websites, and has been on Psychology Today, check her website here.), someone who probably couldn’t even spell schizoaffective without the help of Google had the audacity to indicate to the mental health community that there are some people who are too far gone, that a disorder tarnishes the worth of your life, has to be about the dumbest person who isn’t Trump.

If you don’t have experience with it, shut up about it. 

No one can deny schizoaffective disorder is a serious disorder. No one can deny it impacts functionality severely with or without treatment. No one can deny that’s not a hard life. But if everyone who experienced hardships of that level and greater had no worth to their life, 90% of the population would have no reason to live. I would have been dead a long time ago.

Since when do our struggles, and the hiccups within our struggles, define our worth as a human being? Since when are those of us with mental disorders hopeless?

Now, what really pins the tail on the donkey of this story is that Amanda admitted, in the “essay” about falling outs with her friend and that her former friend had “blatantly tried to hook up” with some guy Amanda had a damn crush on.


Well, if you really care about something like that to the extent you feel the need to mention it in an essay you’re writing about a former friend from years past who committed suicide, than you really have a personal,  vindictive agenda here, don’t you? You like creating drama, don’t you? You’re subscribed to Nicole Arbour’s YouTube channel, aren’t you?

If this woman wrote an article for the sake of a “last laugh”, or a “ha, you had problems” than I believe I’ve now gathered enough evidence to prove there are some so-called “neurotypicals” who are more disordered than those of us considered disordered.

But I digress as usual. You should all be used to this by now. 

The fact is, whether the woman wrote this article out of spite/high school drama or out of pure ignorance or because she doesn’t have a filter, this is a rampant issue in the mental health community. 

I’m not talking about stigmatized behavior/words (which is still a major issue), I’m talking about people getting involved in mental health services without a real understanding of it. I’m talking about people with no experience speaking for us. That’s what I’m talking about.

thumb_colourbox10510942Psychiatrists make good money. Many of them switched during medical school and have no background in psychology and no personal background in mental health. Does that mean they don’t care? Not necessarily. But it does mean they can only sympathize or pity, and never empathize. And that’s a problem.

I’m proud to not be one of those.

In fact, I’m proud of the mental struggles I deal with every second I’m awake. I’m proud I see the world differently: that gives me absolute certainty I will never think like Amanda Lauren or ever be associated with people who do.

Don’t let idiots with skulls as thick as kevlar is strong speak for us, because some of those idiots will see you as a liability. They’ll see you as lazy, pathetic, and worthless. And they’ll tell you. They’ll tell you so much you’ll believe it. We don’t need to lose someone else, we need you, all of us. So share you story and be proud of it, even the darkest moments or the most twisted psychosis.

The real tragedy here is that Amanda’s friend didn’t get the chance to see how much worth she really had. 

*P.S Do not, I repeat DO NOT click on the link to Amanda’s website I provided and spam her with hate or opinions. That’s childish and petty.*