Why I Let Go Of Labels

Has a label ever really done anything but sit as ink on a piece of paper?

Another good reason: “Scientists SURPRISED to find no two neurons are genetically a like”. 

Really? That was a surprise to you? Dude. IQ of 35 in these researchers.

It’s funny how research that contradicts the current belief that the same type of treatment for the same type of “psychiatric disorders” makes sense doesn’t ever hold weight against the industry. And it’s kind of funny that the researchers for the pharmaceutical companies with shitty, half-assed studies that literally reveal nothing and yet have more weight than the study above.

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Source: Google Images

I’m kidding, this shit isn’t funny, it’s just sad.

In high school I was obsessed with labels. I wanted one. I wanted one so people would believe me when I said I was having trouble–otherwise, no one seemed to care.

I wasn’t good with people, I couldn’t stand in front of the class without fainting, I was super sensitive (a teacher once told me not to put a pencil tip close to my eye and I started bawling because I felt so degraded and stupid), I couldn’t go to school unless I got up at 4 a.m to prepare for the day. I needed three hours, not for hair and make up or whatever, but because I knew the anxiety would hit. Then I’d meet up with a friend, smoke some weed, head to class, and bullshit my way through the day. I’d smoke again at break, then lunch, then after school.

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Source: Google Images

I found something called social anxiety disorder and resonated with it like I’ve never resonated with something in my life. I thought having that would solve my life. I’d see more therapists, correctly this time, things would be better.

Did that. Didn’t work. I was 14 and started thinking maybe this wasn’t the problem. Something else had to be wrong with me.

GAD? I was always anxious, after all. PTSD? I’d been through some shit. Dissociative disorders? I was blacking out, you know, and I couldn’t really remember my childhood. Avoidant Personality? I did skip classes to avoid the mind-splitting anxiety. Anti-social personality disorder? Well, I did have vicious thoughts and I didn’t really give a fuck. Selective Mutism? I never did grow out of my shyness and I always froze up when people talked to me. Higher on the Autism spectrum? Well, I did love routine, I struggled understanding social customs, I stayed in my own world . . .  Agoraphobia? Well, I never went outside of my room, I was too nervous. Paranoia? People were always talking about me and working against me, they all hated me. Or was that just low self esteem? No, it wasn’t, it couldn’t be something that simple. Bipolar? My moods were fucking whacked. Schizoid personality? I rarely showed real emotion and, again, I didn’t give a fuck. But wait, wouldn’t that contradict the bipolar? Hmm, well I did have very active fantasy worlds, I remembered a few hallucinations as a kid and I was totally paranoid . . . oh no: I was totally schizophrenic. Totally.

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Or, I was all of that, and one fucked up teenager.

I was terrified. I was going to go crazy. I had always been a weird kid, I was always being sent into conferences and therapists and teachers were always worried and I brought alcohol to school in middle school and someone snitched on me and I threatened to kill them and they were scared of me until senior year of high school and I knew a lot of bangers and people brought tazers to school and . . . and . . .

And my terror was justified. Because social anxiety was brought up. PTSD.Autistic traits” (Jesus Christ), Agoraphobia. Depression. GAD. Schizotypal. Prodromal Schizophrenia. Schizo this, schizo that, how many words can you put schizo in front of before it loses its luster?

And now, dissociation.

I gave up labels when I was 16 because they all overlap vaguely and the words never gave me the justification I was seeking. I wasn’t really seeking justification anyway. I was seeking help. Hopefulness and understanding. I didn’t really get any of that.

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Hanratty’s asylum

Dissociation isn’t really a label, but it has been brought up again because of what I’ve noticed in myself. The whole, you know, not remembering anything in my childhood. The whole, you know, blacking out and walking into intersections. The whole, you know, going in and out of these states, these states that were thought for a long while to be a precursor to psychosis, where I’m met with a challenge, a thought, stress, flashbacks, e.t.c and suddenly I’m interacting with Thoth, the Egyptian God, which is who I’ve actually spent this last two weeks with, he gave me a message to decode, or battling the impostor in my classmates who has left her body and entered mine, or I’d quit a job at an amusement park because the bosses are also impostors, planning to get me locked up in prison . . .

And what confused everyone was that you wouldn’t know it if you looked at me. And what confused people in the past was that the voices I did hear weren’t causing me impairment and I didn’t hear them every day. I didn’t see things everyday. Was it just stress? Well, I wouldn’t be eating or showering, but I’d look okay too. I’ve babbled before, but I could be focused too. You could have a general conversation with me; I might seem spacey but you’d just blow it off for tiredness or general strangeness. I’m a good trickster, huh?

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hahahahah kill me

There’s been a general back and forth about all this in the world of past psychological services that I don’t talk about because it’s all bullshit.

And my psychologist asks me why I didn’t tell the hospital last October what was really going on. Well . . . I really don’t want to get smacked on a cot and forced drugs, that’s why.  Had I been truthful, I would have lost control and anger would have replaced rationale. They already offered me drugs three times and I was only there for a little over 36 hours.

And when I’m back out of that fog, which could last a few hours, a few days, a few weeks, a month, two, three, whatever, I find I can’t remember what it was that happened before it all. I won’t be able to remember the thought, the stress, the pain, that pushed me to that point.

It’s a protection method, I know this now. After 21 years of bullshit, I get it. What exactly my brain has protected me from the past . . . well, only my brain knows. It must be in a hell of a lot of pain, and have a hell of a lot of empathy to protect me this viciously.

Does that mean I should be labeled with a dissociative disorder now? After all that in the above paragraph? I don’t think so. Keep that shit away from me. Next thing you know there will be a Schizociative Affective Generalized Attenuated Psychosis Post-Traumatic Bipolar Syndrome type IIX and I’ll be the first one labeled it.

I need to know all I needed to know now. It’s all about discovery and healing at this point.

A Comment On “Split”

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There are a list of movies, documentaries, Sundance films, and Lifetime drama’s that juggle carefully the topic of mental health and these things people still call “mental disorders”.

“Split” is not like any of them.

There are boycotts of this movie. I’m assuming that’s because they haven’t yet seen it.

If you’re new to this blog, you may not know I am someone who struggles day in and day out mentally. Were you to skim through old archives, you’d breathe in the demons and the angels: they’re spread liberally throughout this blog, like Neosporin on an open wound. If you do choose to dip your big toe in the pool of tar that is my daily experience, be warned you may be sucked down, you may be splashed with acid, burned, maimed, and/or killed. Be warned what appears angelic may indeed be the hybrid: Angehellic. Sign your name in the comment section and hit the follow button to agree to my terms and conditions, and to agree to the liability waiver: i.e, it’s not my fault if you die.

I would like to kindly ask the people who have been opposed to this movie simply because they believe it portrays Disassociative Identity Disorder in a poor light to go out and see it, or, at the very least, watch it illegally online: particularly if you believe it’s advocating the stigma we often face with mental health issues: we’re dangerous, sick, and crazy.

I saw none of that in this movie.

It’s M. Night Shyamalan. You really think it’s going to be a straight forward movie documenting the life of a “crazy” guy with DID going out and kidnapping young girls? Get real.

In fact, what makes this movie a great mental health movie is that it has absolutely nothing to do with mental health or DID. It has to do with pain, trauma, life, belief, and how all of that contributes to what we don’t know about the universe and our own brains.

There’s great information in this movie about DID that are true. I.e, different personalities harbor different health ailments, experience different memories, ages, the loss of time, and pupil sizes. One personality may have diabetes while the others don’t. One may have high blood pressure or high cholesterol while the others don’t. They have the capacity to know what other personalities think, they have the capacity to overpower one another and become the host.While I’m no expert on DID, as I don’t have it myself, I spoke once to a man with it, listened to his story, and I’m fully aware this coping mechanism the brain has created is both life shattering and fascinating just like any other mental health issue.

thinking-008What does something like DID tell us about the human mind? About life? About pain and trauma? About our own resilience and ability to adapt? If anything, Shyamalan is on our side with this. It’s not a matter of being broken or sick. It’s a matter of being pained, of being innocently human through traumas ( of any kind) that take away that feeling of humanity.

*SPOILERS*

Synopsis: A man named Kevin has 23 different personalities. Dennis and Mrs. Patricia (I think that was her name), now host the body of Kevin after stealing the spotlight from Barry. Dennis is highly neat and obsessive in nature with cleanliness because of Kevin’s mother’s abuse. He’s strong and punctual. He’s a protector; what Barry once was. Hedwig is a nine year old who spearhead’s the beast’s arrival alongside Dennis. Dennis kidnaps three young girls who he believes will be food for The Beast, as they aren’t “pure”. Several other hidden personalities reach out to Kevin’s psychologist hoping to stop it all. She is in the process of using his case, and others, to promote the reality of DID and the authenticity/power/possibilities of the brain.

In Dennis’ sense, pure means ” highly damaged”. He meant to kidnap just the two girls, but the third one came along by accident. The two girls he targeted for days, watching the ease of their lives. Those are the ones The Beast and personalities like Dennis believe need to be purified–i.e, made to suffer. What The Beast learns is the one girl kidnapped by accident has been sexually abused and physically abused, and as a result lets her go. She’s evolved, he said, and she should rejoice.

Of course there is a supernatural element that is greatly appreciated, and maybe this is where people get all huffy. No, he’s not insinuating that people with multiple personalities (or anyone with a mental health issue) are monsters like “The Beast”. Stop thinking literally and start thinking critically. In fact, “The Beast” isn’t a personality at all. The beast isn’t human: he bends metal bars, grows taller, more muscular, has veins of blue/grey all through his body, climbs up walls, runs and behaves like a lion or tiger, and devours the innards of the two impure (undamaged) girls.

The personalities within “Kevin” (the main character) all recognize The Beast as something greater than themselves, something greater than a human, and within that recognition they become the beast. The beast is the manifestation of pain and growth, and the almost egotistical strength which comes with it. That strength can be used for good or bad. Or both simultaneously.

I believe The Beast is correct. The things you suffer force you to grow in strength or succumb to nothingness, and you may unlock portions of yourself and your brain beyond average comprehension. You learn things others may never learn. That I do rejoice in. It’s not invalidating anyone’s struggle. It’s simply suggesting that maybe we don’t know all we think we know. 

When you’re in an introductory fiction writing class, one thing many professors or teacher ask you to do is think of a character. Think of their name, personality, likes, dislikes, e.t.c. Then, compose a story, or an outline of one, and plop your character in that realm. That’s what Shyamalan has done, and gracefully so. He’s created a multi-layer character (literally) that get’s dropped in a multi-layered story.

The story in itself isn’t about DID. The character happens to have it, but this isn’t Russell Crowe in “A Beautiful Mind”. That was a movie (based on John Nash) where the story was built around the ailment (schizophrenia) of the character. “Split” is a movie where a supernatural character is absorbed into a universal, and relevent story: two separate concepts merged together. This was a movie where a message was thought of, and the character most fitting was plopped in the story to explain.

So, before you jump on the bandwagon of hating this movie, twist your lens a little and dig a little deeper, particularly if you struggle mentally yourself. This isn’t a movie to portray you as a monster, as a crazy person, as a freak, as a sick criminal. It’s a movie that reminds you although you may be different, although you may suffer, there are many things in life we may never be able to understand. There are many things about the brain we may never understand. And because you struggle in the way you do, you get a sense of life, of the human mind, that most other people never will. And that is something incredibly special.

Painfully special, even.

What Is Writing?

Good morning.

That reminds me of how I start my emails at work. Two words and a period. Is it strange that my monotony comes through even through written word to other humans? You should have read the email I sent to the psychiatrist. I read it back to myself a couple days later and confirmed that I did indeed sound like a confused sociopath.

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Which gets me thinking: how much of your true self shines through in your writing? How much of a veil do you place over your face when you’re in public versus when you’re blogging? When you’re writing fiction? When you’re sending emails? How much does your interaction with other people contort your personality?

I’m under the overwhelming perception that we all adopt a separate personality of some sorts to help us navigate through the social aspects of life. People smile when they’re depressed, they compliment you when they hate you; they present one person and behave as another, sometimes on purpose, sometimes inadvertently.

reset_brain1In some ways I’m sure this mechanism is kind of like a reboot system for our brain. We’re constantly updating, constantly uninstalling, installing, and reinstalling programs, and sometimes we need to run in the background behind other systems to stay sane. When all else fails, we grab our trusty paperclip and needle the hell out of the restart/reset button. Sometimes we wake up with a major update like “no more bitch-face”, sometimes we wake up with subtle changes that protect us from outside predators that we don’t really notice.

I think our personalities run in the background. I think they learn things as we learn things and they’re the subtle changes that protect us. Life in itself is traumatic; who’s to say we don’t all have a little taste of DID?

Obviously not as severe as others. Don’t take that out of context like “oh Golly Gosh Alucard, that’s like saying everyone experiences anxiety or depression”.

Well, don’t take this the wrong way politically correct individuals, but everyone does experience anxiety and even depression. Some people have different levels of severity, for different lengths of time, for different reasons. We’re all human. I hate when people get overly sensitive about that kind of stuff.

If I were saying it to invalidate your feelings of anxiety and depression, then I could see you getting angry.

 

That being said, yes, I did compare humans to computers. They’re all different systems and I have to learn their algorithms in order to interact with them. Unfortunately, they short circuit often and I have no idea how to fix computers on that level. Go figure.

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So I find it interesting that when people in my creative writing class read my work, widen their eyes, and stare at me like I’ve just snapped someone’s back in half with my mind. Then they say “you can convey and amazing amount of emotion through your writing”, “your descriptions are amazing”, “your characters are amazing”. And I stare back like they’ve just given birth to fifteen children with all the same hair and eye colors.

I honestly despise the majority of my writing. The curse of a writer, am I right, am I right? No? No one?

I only write what I see in people because I all ever do is watch. That has it’s advantages and disadvantages. And I write from a place not of compassion or love or anything positive; the majority of the time I write from a place of turmoil and struggle. That’s not to say I couldn’t write a soppy love story like The Notebook, or something motivational, and that’s not to say I couldn’t write something based on positivity rather than actual life.

But News flash: since when was a life without struggle interesting to read about? Even Luke Skywalker’s damn aunt and uncle were crispy bodies by the door.

I took that from a song. It’s on YouTube. “Bushes of love” or something. It’s hilarious.

But I can see the differences in myself when I write. Emails I feel are an inaccurate source because I will change my wording depending on who I’m talking to and therefore put up a pretty thick veil over their eyes and my eyes.

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Take A Moment To Notice Which Traits the ONLY FEMALE has . . . I suppose prestige could be female, but they don’t give her hair and she has more of a male profile. Wtf kind of stupid ass picture is this. 

But in blogs I notice the difference dramatically. Particularly this one. My ideas aren’t usually as concise or organized as they are this morning, and usually I’m stuck in a perpetual state of suffocation. But today I am neither. In fact, I’m nothing. And that’s a sign to me that 1) I’m more stressed than I believe and that 2) my brain has come to the rescue the best way it knows how.

I base my characters off my observations, my experiences, but most of all these separate personalities. I consider them separate regardless of the “idea” that having “personalities” means you’re “crazy”.

I reject that hypothesis like I reject that picture above. I think it means I’ve been through a lot, I think it means my brain actually gives a damn and is trying to sort things out because I’ve failed majorly at doing so. I think it means it’s giving me a break so I can study and make it through work tonight and tomorrow morning. I think it means I actually got good sleep last night. I think it means, much to my dismay, that I am indeed human. I think that’s what having different personalities means.

This current me can be very prudent and conceited at times. It makes me laugh. I come across as arrogant but absent; at this point I’d walk into a store, avoid eye contact with everyone, grab my things, go up to the counter without responding to their “hi, how are you?” comment, and get the fuck out. Anxiety wouldn’t play as large of a factor. That’s why I consider this personality “the break”.

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It’s also the personality where I’d fuck with you. Oh I’d fuck with you so majorly, just for some amusement. That’s kind of how I wrote that psychiatric note I think. It’s how I wrote the note to the guest speaker when I had detention in high school for skipping class. It was all a joke: being put into groups to discuss our “feelings” because we were all troubled kids heading down the highway to hell. At the end we were required to write a reflection about the whole process and the poor speaker wrote me back a frantic note worried I was a mental case about to slash my wrists vertically, spray a gun through the school, or murder a teacher. I never said any of those things blatantly (for obvious reasons) but the darkness and thoughts I described were indicative of a disturbed mind, disturbed enough to scare the shit out of him and the school.

Little did they know I was rolling on the floor crying from laughter while I wrote it and while I read the guy’s response. Poor guy.

If I find something to be stupid, this is the part of me that will put a sarcastic twist on every little ounce of your feelings. Who knows why I/we do that.

Writing, any creative outlet really, is a way for our brain to bring together all the different parts of our humankind selves so that they all have a say. It’s a form of checks and balances for our sanity. So when people ask me why I enjoy writing, I simply smile; that’s a question that would take eons to fully explain.

“So what I’ve come to realize is, I will NEVER fit in, so it’s my duty to make sure, that I stand. The fuck. Out.” -Tech N9ne 2016 baby. 

Odd

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You know those days you go into therapy and you wonder if you will ever understand things, and then a couple words are exchanged and sudden realization pulses through your vein and hemorrhages in your frontal lobe?

Sometimes you can have moments in therapy that were slightly uncomfortable that you needed to have in order to breathe again.

I will try and rehash the experience. Unfortunately, dissociation took over and I can’t remember half of the conversation.

Firstly, you all know how I feel about diagnosis by now. It’s been a year. Which, congratulations on this blog and all of my followers who have been here from the beginning, and those who have been here recently, I appreciate every person who reads, likes, comments, or even just skims. Writing has been my only true connection to the human population I am apparently apart of (I still think I’m an alien), so when I say I’m grateful for you all, I mean it.

Anyway, if you’re new, I basically hold a middle finger to DSM and ICD-10 diagnosis.

bird-comeback-emoji-fangirling-favim-com-2590219And in particular, I hold ADHD on a special “fuck you” throne, simply because it’s handled so carelessly. They diagnose the children in elementary school because they won’t be quiet in class, and ignore the fact that schools are taking away recess and parents aren’t well versed in handling a child or well versed in what a nutritional diet is, and teachers aren’t fucking psychologists and don’t have the right to say “well, I”m going to recommend this child be checked for ADHD because she keeps interrupting me”.

Then comes the medication. Then comes behavioral issues, irritation, and the Zombie effect.

Then they say “ADHD is rising in America” and people believe it because they only see the surface. Because they don’t see that just because diagnosis is increasing, doesn’t necessarily mean true ADHD is.

So I don’t hold the idea of ADHD particularly high.

That does not mean I feel every diagnosis is fake. In fact, I’ve always noticed an abundance of the characteristics in myself, and that was confirmed yesterday in therapy. Yes, I do have some of the characteristics. It makes it very hard to focus or think. Is that part of a larger picture and not ADHD? Possibly. Who knows. The point is, for those with a true diagnosis of ADHD, I understand your pain, and it’s frustrating that the reality of the issue is hidden beneath a behemoth of misdiagnosis.

But when we began speaking about people and how difficult it is to express my ideas (even when I have them) . . .

and this is where it gets rocky. I don’t remember the conversation. 

I remember we spoke about perhaps not being positively reinforced as a child when it came to my ideas and therefore I developed a sense of “well, what does it matter what I say?” and it became a subconscious habit.

Then I remember we started talking about people and my connection–or rather, disconnection to them.

And that’s where it ends.

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A Clear Representation Of My Awareness

I remember staring at the bookcase in the back of the room and everything essentially melted away. I didn’t feel present any longer. I couldn’t pinpoint where my body was and the experience of sitting in that room didn’t feel real and whoever was speaking for me wasn’t me. It was like a light switch had been flicked . . .

Off.

I don’t remember what was discussed. I can remember the physical aspects of the room because I’ve been there so many times.

If you didn’t know already, if you’re a newcomer, I have a problem with dissociation. It creates breaks in reality for me when things get uncomfortable, when my anxiety is high, and although I am completely fascinated by the brains ability to find creative ways to protect itself, sometimes I wish it would fuck off.

I remember feeling like a few things were spilling out of me, things I didn’t normally say. Nothing too heavy, but just general things I keep pent up often. That was the feeling I got, but I wasn’t speaking.

I don’t believe I was tortured as a child. Put in bad situations, witnessed bad things, yes, but I was not tortured or horribly abused. I do not have Dissociative Identity Disorder, in case you were wondering.

Sometimes I am just absent.

And the rest of me handles whatever situation it feels I cannot.

That makes me feel like there are parts of me hiding things from me.

What makes talking about being disconnected from people and not really understanding why so traumatic that my brain feels the need to block me from the rest of the conversation?

I left feeling a little relieved, like I’d had some major realization.

I just wasn’t there for the realization.

That’s like getting invited to a party, arriving at the house, ringing the doorbell, and realizing they gave you the wrong address on purpose.

It’s a little odd.

 

How I see Myself

 

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How many times in a day do you confuse yourself? 

It’s a strange question,  I know.

I don’t mean confuse yourself by picking up an item, putting it down, and then asking yourself “where did I just put that?”

I mean in terms of personality. In terms of defining why your depressed, why you’re anxious, what situations make you anxious, what situations make you depressed.

How times a day do you have trouble managing your emotions?

Mine get mixed up so heavily I feel I’m on the cusp of insanity. I can’t focus on anything, I can’t identify any feeling, every sound infuriates me and I can’t even listen to music without feeling like the lyrics are confusing my thoughts.

Like right now. Which Is why I’m struggling to write at the moment.

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When I get this way, the only emotion I can truly identify with is anger and frustration. So I listen to aggressive music and think about how happy I’d be if I saw that one Laundry worker from the healthcare center on his knees in front of the three APS agents in business suits and sunglasses.

I switch personalities quite frequently. Not in a DID sense, and not in the average sense where you switch on your “charm” to go confidently into an interview and switch off your “bitch” so the interviewer doesn’t throw you out of her office. In public, we all switch certain traits of ourselves on and off. That’s average behavior.

I switch from generally content to unbelievably aggressive/disinterested to generally depressed and suicidal and each of them have a separate personality attached to them.

My content personality is the average, one. It’s anxious and unsure and insecure about the majority of decisions I make in my life, including if someone asks me “what do you want to eat?” That personality will always beat the rest of me to the punch and say “I don’t know” in fear of insulting the other person if I pick something they don’t like. That personality gets offended to the point of tears if someone says “No, I don’t want that”. That personality feels like it’s done something equal to the social crimes of Hitler. Yes, that is my content self. 

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The depressed personality is lethargic and generally not anxious. It may be brought on by the anxiety but generally that personality will keep me locked in my room, in bed, and ignore the anxiety of missing class and ignore the anger of missing class. I might cry out of anger or sensitivity.

Contrary to what many people believe, my emotions do not have a wide range. When someone asks me what makes me happy . . . I don’t really have an answer. I have to think very hard. When someone asks me what makes me sad . . . I don’t really have an answer for it, I have to think very hard. I know the things that typically make people happy or sad, so I just say those things. Things don’t make me happy or sad, they just make me satisfied or unsatisfied.

The truth is, I’m just really good at faking it. 

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The personality of “unbelievably aggressive/disinterested” is my baseline personality. It’s completely separate from the other two. It was never developed like the others, it was always with me, therefore I consider it the baseline.

The older I’ve gotten the more I’ve realized my “disinterest” is in . . . well, everything.

I don’t care much about other people’s opinions. I don’t care much about what they like nor do I care to discuss their interests in length. That, to me, is “chit-chat”. I hate chit-chat.

I listen to other people’s opinions. I give them respect when they’re based on fact. I do things they like or give them things they like because I know that’s normal.

And I know as you’re reading this, perhaps your eyebrows rose and you’re thinking “and you want to be a psychiatrist? You want to listen to people?”

Here’s the thing.

How many psychologists do you know who have given up therapy because listening to the horror stories of other’s lives took a toll on their own mental health? I personally know a few.

I might not convince you, but trust me: you want someone who is capable of separating their emotions from your emotions. You want someone who can help you find logic in your illogical thought patterns.  You want someone who understands what you’re saying, and can think outside of the box you can’t for ways to use your strengths and weaknesses to your advantage. You don’t want someone who will bathe you in sympathy and be just a friend. You want a helpful friend you can trust. 

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Helpful, Motherfucker!

I am a nice person. I’ve learned to be nice. I’ve learned social customs, I’ve learned how to make people laugh, and I’ve learned to tolerate things. I know that I have a gift in terms of the way I can relate to people (it’s a one-way street in this case, I don’t feel I relate/connect to anyone), the way they flock to me for advice or just so I can be an ear for them. Since I have this gift, I might as well put it to use right? That’s the logical thing to do.

My aggression got me interested in psychiatry. The blatant disregard for logic in the world of business and medicine also got me interested in psychiatry. The people get helped in the process and that’s my main goal.

This is how I see myself. A shoddy integration of three distinct personalities. How do you see yourself?

The Lion’s Den

I feel betrayed.

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Iheart and I have been so close for so many years, ever since the app first launched.

And they still play songs like “Twerkit” on my selected stations. Haven’t they learned I prefer anything that isn’t indicative of the generation I live in?

Anyway, I decided to take a shot at an internet radio server because I couldn’t figure out any other way to begin this blog post. I guess I could have just said that. Oh well, I make things much more complicated than they should be.

One thing I have realized, that I’m not entirely proud of, is my tendency to hide behind this persona I’ve created. It makes it shockingly (not shockingly) difficult to express true feelings, true motives, and an honest opinion to people as often as I’d like to.

For example, because there’s always been an expectation over my head to perform at my academic best placed on me by teachers more so than anyone, and eventually myself when I realized they realized I wasn’t a mute moron I’ve always tried to play myself off as if I have everything together.

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I minimize the mental stress I feel when speaking of it.

I minimize amount I struggle in certain subjects when speaking of it.

My perfectionism requires I do whatever necessary to keep order on the outside. I must not show a single crack, a single crease or leak to the world lest I am prepared to deal with someone thinking less of me and me thinking less of myself.

It’s my anxiety speaking more than anyone. I think it takes a long time for people to dig deep into themselves and not only recognize but understand that a lot of the time the pressure placed on them is stemming from their own mind. It’s easy to feel the whole world on your shoulders and not realize you’re the one holding it there.

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So I try to remind myself a B on a test does not spell out DEATH. Death doesn’t even start with a ‘b’, unless I’ve been spelling it wrong all my life which, let’s face it, I would never do.

Of course, someone was speaking to me through the lights tonight, I swear. The car on the street had it’s parking lights flash in a Morse code fashion and when I passed no one was locking it or in it or anywhere near it. Then the light at Walgreens right above my car, the ones that never falter, did the same. I’m telling you, it’s a sign.

But I digress. Of course I do, it’s me, I’ll always say some dumb shit in the middle of my post and interrupt eloquent language with a sailor’s mouth. 

I also try to remind myself it’s okay to say what you feel, or what you think you feel. It helps people relate to you. If it’s one thing I have trouble with, it’s connecting with other human beings on a human level. You can probably tell. Perhaps that’s because the person they speak to the majority of the time is just a manikin constructed with life-like features to fool them.

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And then other times I wonder how my ability to switch between a human and a manikin will help me in the future, career wise.

My brain is often more aggressive than my anxiety can handle. Therefore I strive for the best in everything. I make competition between me and someone when there shouldn’t be, and when they don’t know I’ve made one. 

If they get praised for their writing, I make it a goal to get praised more often. When I do succeed (I’ve won an essay competition at my college this semester with a 9 page essay I wrote in six hours) my anxiety keeps me from reaping the benefits. They want me to read it at a ceremony and network myself among other writers and college executives.

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Firstly, it’s nine damn pages. They said I could just read a passage but lets be honest here guys, I wrote the thing in six hours and I understand people are often impressed with my formal writing but I was not impressed with it. In fact, I felt it was one of the worst essays I’d ever written.

Secondly, I fucking suck at socializing. And I really suck at speaking in front of huge groups. I thank them for the recognition but I’m just not ready for that.

One of my past professors has pushed another one of my essays into yet another competition. I’m not arrogant about winning, but I feel I have good chances to win that one as well.

Yes, they pay you.

Why get a Bachelor’s when you can get an M.D? That’s my mindset. 

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I always feel the need to 1-up someone and it’s not healthy. It’s not healthy because if I don’t succeed in such a task, I spiral into a soup of self loathing.

It’s part of the reason I enjoy movies like “City of God”. If you haven’t seen it, it’s about some slums in Brazil in the seventies. It’s about cocaine, power, and if you know anything about philosophy, a lot of philosophy.

It starts off describing a trio of slum teenagers and children, some of which rob and loot and deal drugs. They get money to help their families who often refuse to accept dirty money.

But there’s one kid who stands out from all the others without standing out and as a child full of ideas who is sick of not being recognized by the older “hoods”, tricks the trio and sprays a reign of death through a hotel brothel. He shoots ’em point blank. He’s a brutal child.

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But eventually he rises to the top because it’s all he’s been focused on. He finds ways to overpower everyone, he runs his slums by particular rules and regulations and although everyone bows at his mercy, they are at a type of peace for once.

He falls prey to the arrogance that partners with power and the arrogance is his downfall. I want to experience his success, his power, without the downfall and the only way to do that is to slither to the top without burning people along the way. I’m not out to hurt people (physically or mentally) and I’m not out to show off. I don’t want to be respected because of a title, because I’m a manager or an executive or a bestselling author or essayist, I want to be respected for the actions and the message I spread.

Often to get into those positions you sacrifice your integrity. You sacrifice your morals for the position, for the gold that comes with the position, and you don’t realize what you’ve done until you’re falling flat on your ass.

atm-machine-scramble-1This is why I’ve always loved Kant: we’re rational creatures. We don’t want to be treated as someone with instrumental value–in other words, we don’t want to be treated like objects, like tools, like an ATM machine. It’s not just about treating others with respect, or the Golden Rule (do unto others as you would want done to yourself), it’s also about having self respect. If you let yourself be used, you’re behaving unethically. 

I lived by that motto before I even knew how to spell Kant. It’s why, no matter how bad my anxiety is, no matter how far my depression knocks me down, I’ve always refused to let myself be run over or treated badly. It’s why I could build up the courage over my social anxiety to speak to my boss about my accommodations.

Once you’re in the professional realm, there’s no room for being a piece of raw meat. You’re in the lions den.

 

 

WARNING: Nasty Ass Rant

Warning: If you don’t like bad language I’d suggest you don’t look at this.

This is not going to be one of my normal posts

I’ve been posting often and they’ve been long because I can’t shut my mouth up–err, the mouth in my head–and here comes another one so bare with me through this week people.

This one won’t be as long as the one earlier today or the one before that or the one before that, because I’ve only got a few things to say.

I don’t know what I’ve been rambling about the last few days–I mean I know the content but did I really have a revelation about myself, I don’t think so.

I can’t distinguish the emotion I’m feeling at the moment–I haven’t been able to for the last four days. But tonight is especially bad. I’m pissed off, I’m sad, I’m frustrated, I’m happy, I’m anxious, and I want to be social but I want to be in my little corner and I don’t know how to juggle it all.

People. Don’t. Get. It.

It’s not a joke. I’m not sitting here trying to sound dramatic and loopy and stupid. It’s fucking hard.

I want to cry and laugh at the same time and how the fuck does that make sense?

If I could leave the stupid fucking house without someone screaming about it (it’s 11:22pm) I would, but I can’t. I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. A drive maybe, but then I’d need to put gas in the car. I can’t walk down the street at this time of night, I’d be paranoid of shadows and the last fucking emotion I need right now is paranoia. 

I’m listening to music now. I was watching some funny YouTube videos because sometimes the laughter helps, but it hasn’t this time.

So now I’m ranting because maybe this will help. Feel free to completely ignore this post.

But all my other ones you better fucking read.

Just kidding.

Then I get into arguments with people about society and the value (or non-value) of money and the concept of human nature and how I need to get out of the house and explore the world or whatever the fuck. Wrong time to pick a goddamn argument with me. It’s only frustrating me more.

I want to talk to someone about it but what’s the point when no one understands it anyway? We’ve all been emotional right? That’s what they suppose it feels like.

This doesn’t feel like I’m emotional. This is like a trap. It’s a fucking trap. The slightest noise makes my heart race and my skin flinch and my mother smiling at me and telling me there’s food on the stove pisses me off because I want to be alone and no one fucking gets it but at the same time I don’t want to be left alone but I do because . . .

I don’t fucking get it. I don’t! I don’t get it.

In the middle of my text argument my phone keeps freezing and I can’t fucking take it and I want to throw the piece of shit out the window but I’m the one with the expert mask who probably shouldn’t loose her shit and wake the whole house up because I’m normal, I’m fine, there’s nothing wrong with me.

So I suppress it.

If it was day light I would have launched it into the closet door and punched something already.

The videos are so funny and I was enjoying them but not really. They kept me distracted.

I want to cry. About what? I have no idea. Everything is painful. I think about everything I’ve wasted this semester and all the time that’s passed and how fucking stupid I am and the depression hits–but only for a few seconds, then I’m back to seething anger and arguments and frustration because I can’t control it. I can suppress it, but it’s not controlled. It builds and builds and I know I won’t get to sleep early tonight.

Then I feel a little better. And I think maybe it’s passed. And then it starts all over again and I say FUCK!

NO IT’S NOT PMS. I WOULD KNOW.

I just don’t give a shit right now. I’m done answering messages on my phone. I don’t give a shit about money being necessary for the economy, I don’t give a shit about the economy, I could give a flying fuck about society right now and I don’t even remember what my argument was and I honestly don’t care what it was. I’m thirsty as fuck and there’s nothing to drink and no I don’t give a shit if any of this makes sense to you right now.

Yes I have a history of self-harm and yes, these are the moments I revert into that mindset. I don’t want to “punish myself” or “Get attention” or “feel something because I’m numb”. I’m the exact opposite of numb.

No, I need it to focus on just to bring me back down to earth.

I don’t do that anymore because it’s too noticeable and I’m the perfect one, right? I’ve got my shit together, right? I’ve got to make it look like I just have a little bit of social anxiety and maybe a little bit of occasional depression just so my parents don’t freak out. My father doesn’t even know I go to therapy–he wouldn’t remember anyway.

So instead I sit here bathing in whatever the fuck I’m bathing in wishing I could bang my head against the wall or slice open some skin or burn my skin or at least burn something–or fight. Fighting would be nice. I’d stab a motherfucker right now, I’m not in the mood for bullshit.

How do I hide this? I’ve become an expert at it because I tuck myself away in my room and no one questions it. My parents can go days without seeing me out of my room other than for food and the bathroom and they won’t question it–they’ll just wait until I emerge on my own. No one questions it. That’s how I get away with it. It’s not as if I have friends who would notice something different about me. Like I’ve said over the last few days, I don’t even want friends! 

Someone to vent to? Maybe. Friends? No. You can keep them. They fucking annoying me and that’s the truth. No one is true to their word and I don’t need to deal with that drama. They don’t give two shits if I leap off a cliff and blame them in this suicide note–they probably wouldn’t even believe it.

I don’t trust people. I don’t care if that’s not good, I don’t trust them. I think they’re motives are wrong, I don’t think they believe a word I say and in turn I don’t believe a word they say.

Everyone can stay the hell away from me for all I care.

I have a fucking headache.

I said this wouldn’t be long and it is.

I’m trying to breathe but my mind is spinning in circles thinking about how petty I must look in that argument on my phone, about how angry I am at my anger, about how I need to finish (start) my essay, how I need to stop being fucking stupid, how I need to cry, how I don’t want to cry, how I’m not depressed, how it doesn’t make sense that I feel depressed but I’m not depressed, how I’m going to go eat even though I’m not hungry, how I just wish I could punch someone, anyone, right in the face and just take them to the ground and keep hitting and hitting and hitting until maybe I loose feeling in my hands and then I’ll have something to focus on other than this shit in my head.

Music keeps me in reality right now.

I’ll always love music.

How do I hide this from people? I must be a fucking mastermind.

Jotting that down helped a little. I don’t think I’m going to murder anyone anymore. But damn am I fed up with this shit.

I said I was going to be more truthful to myself and this is about as truthful as it gets. I can’t take this shit. There’s the fucking truth.

That helped a little tiny bit. It did. For the time being.

Nope. Fucking WordPress froze as I was adding tags. Pissed off again. Thanks stupid motherfucker.

I swear to God. I swear. If this computer wasn’t 600 dollars I’d fucking smash it to the ground and jump on it and punch it and then throw it out the window and into someone’s car just so I could have justification to fuck up their car too. If WordPress was a person, they’d be fucked right now.

I Feel It In The Air

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How do you all put up with me?

Well, obviously most people don’t. They have the option to skim past and say wow, fucking loon.

But many of you don’t and for some reason a couple hundred of you decided to follow my loon-ness, even through my wacky suicidal ramblings and Isis rants.

Who the fuck says wacky?

No, no, really, pause on this post. Why did I even write that? Who the fuck says wacky? I remember a comic that asked that same question. It’s from the 90’s and I read it in middle school even though it was never meant for children. I mean it was really, really not meant for children and there were a lot of hidden (and very blunt) comments on society and mentality. I loved it. Maybe I can find it.

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Obviously you can’t read it unless you open it in a new window, but if you want to, it’s here if you scroll halfway down the webpage.

If you don’t like weird shit or murder or torture or suicide or black creatures in walls or Satan or evil Pillsbury dough boy figures speaking to you in your head or nails through rabbits on the wall or aliens or a self-centered, melodramatic creature with the motto of “Oh, the sorrow” than I’d suggest staying away from it.

Oh, you do? Than you’ll love it.

Anyway, fuck wacky.

What was I talking about?

Oh yeah. Thank you to all of those who put up with my bullshit babbles and harsh opinions and weak sarcasm. I’d hug you all if I could and if I wasn’t so awkward with humanely affection but I can’t and I am, so instead close your eyes tonight, imagine what I look like (however you like; maybe I really do have six arms), and then imagine me and my tentacles encasing your body in warmth and gratitude and peace and then imagine us on your couch watching T.V and me ruining all the plots and special effects of the movies and unrealistic characteristics and stereotypes of characters. Then imagine you kicking me out your door and muttering to yourself “never again”.

split-personalityMy humor has been lost these last few days on the account of major self-revelations. I think that’s what they were. So an apology to those who read for the entertainment and pick-me-up rather than some psycho-ramblings of a chick with split personalities who aren’t really split personalities and a vocabulary so poor she can’t think of any better description for her non-split personalities than “split personalities”.

Everything in my head has settled. The clouds are starting to dissipate. That’s what it feels like–clouds over my vision and on my thoughts. I get stuck in my head and I get a little confused and I start reading into shit and sometimes I tip into depression but this time I didn’t, this time I just spent a few days feeling “enlightened” and under-the-skin-irritated.

Do you know what I mean?

Probably not.

Probably because I don’t really know what I mean.

I call it under-the-skin irritated because it’s bubbling through my veins and in my stomach and in my head . . . but with no reason. In this I can’t focus on my writing because I end up with characters and scenes rambling with opinions and events inconsistent to the plot. They always end up seeming thrown into the piece and that’s not how I write.

You all probably don’t notice it as much in my posts because, well, you’re not in my head. But when I’m sitting there writing it’s like I’m lost in some other world. I go from feeling exuberant and confident to disgraced and worthless to enlightened in a few minutes and if people start trying to talk to me or engage with me I’m probably going to say something stupid or hurtful and not know how to stop the words from coming out of my mouth.

I haven’t ever talked about this with anyone only because 1) speaking is a Godawful chore when it comes to setting up words and explanations and 2) because the more I talk about it out loud, the more real it becomes. The longer I keep everything in my head, the more I can rationalize with myself that 1) I have it under control and 2) it might not even exist.

Maybe none of us exist.

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I was taking more cute personality quizzes the other day and one of the questions asked if I had different views on reality that other people never seemed to agree with and I wasn’t sure if I did or not, mostly because how the fuck are you supposed to answer a question like that about yourself when you don’t talk to other people. I asked my boyfriend if I did and he laughed and said I don’t even believe in reality.

I laughed too because he’s right. I don’t know how he knows that, but he does. I must have said something at one point.

I don’t necessarily think everything is a literal illusion, but I think everything is a figurative illusion. I don’t think there’s any point in taking things as seriously as people do and honestly I think that’s an illusion too. Keeps you from seeing life for life and instead makes you focus on yourself. Selfish ways of thinking.

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Anyway, I forgot what I was going to say again.

Hmm.

It’s hot as Satan’s balls in this room. Why do I have on a sweater?

Oh that’s right, the fucking book that’s sitting right next to me.

51vuencumkl-_sx331_bo1204203200_I started reading “The Suicide Of Claire Bishop” by Carmiel Banasky. If you don’t know, it’s about a woman in the 50’s who gets a portrait painted by a woman who ends up depicting her suicide rather than her portrait for reasons much more obvious once you read part one. In the 2000’s, West, a man with schizophrenia becomes obsessed thinking the woman who made the portrait is his ex-girlfriend and sees clues in everything. . . well, I’m only in part three so I can’t say much more about the book. That’s what I know so far.

Anyway, I’m not going to go into an analysis until I finish the book.

My point is two things:

  1. I always read older books, the “classics”, and it freaks me out and confuses me that people who write modern fiction include people who send text messages. I always ask myself why would they send a text message and then I realize it’s 2015 and if you want to sell shit you have to be “relevant”. Then I miss books like Song Of Solomon and East Of Eden so if you know any writers who still do stories with that kind of depth, recommend me some. We all know I ain’t going out to a bookstore any time soon to look for them. I’m trying to get into reading again.
  2. West and his clues remind me of my anxiety.

Let me elaborate on that a bit. I don’t see clues in everything like him, but I see it in people’s faces and their eyes and that’s what I mean when I say I have many misconceptions about people. I don’t think I see who they really are, I think I see what my brain wants me to see and in that moment especially, I become a believer. He explains it in his behavior better than I can with words.

Let me try still, because I’m a go-getter.

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You Heard Our Master, Lord Coca-Cola Corporation: Give Me Your Sodas

He sees reason for everything. When I talk with people, or they talk at me and they have little movements or gestures or squints in their eyes or shape of their mouth, or level of attention to my words, or amount of eye contact, all those subtle things that you notice but most people don’t consciously pay so much attention to. I do–those are my clues.

I guess I don’t read them with any real accuracy or else everyone I’ve ever met must really, really hate me and must really, really think I’m an odd ball.

They might all think I’m an odd ball but I find it unlikely they all hate me to the extent I think they do.

Even someone as simple as a cashier at a register freaks me out. They stare and they say hello and they are probably acting normal but to me they’re reading my level of uncomfortability, which in turn makes me very uncomfortable, and they smile and hand me a receipt and they think I don’t know that they’re laughing at me but I know they are.

If you ask me “do you really believe people laugh and think about you all the time?” I’m going to say no because I know that’s what I’m supposed to say. But really I’m convinced they are. If I wasn’t I wouldn’t be so anxious.

The people who pass you on the street like the woman the other night. I was with my boyfriend and she was middle aged with her friends. When I glanced at her she had already been staring and then she glanced away quickly. I got the feeling she was disturbed by my height. I’m only 5’7 and she was only an inch or so shorter than me, but that was the kind of look I saw. It’s because her eyes were wide and her face was stern and that usually means judgement.

That or she’s never seen a brown person who doesn’t look Mexican or black. Maybe she was confused.

best-pickI don’t like that I know what people are thinking. I know everyone says “you never know what they’re thinking” but bullshit, it’s not as if they can hide it. Maybe they don’t even know they’re thinking it!

I don’t know how to imitate this mask people put on themselves and I think that’s part of the reason I find it hard to communicate. I know how to act happy and semi-“normal”, because that’s what people expect, but I don’t know how to keep myself from talking about random things or asking random questions or laughing at crude things or keep my mouth shut when it comes to stupidity or being distracted or “aloof”. That’s just me. I don’t know how people stay interested talking about their jobs and their lives. I get bored with earthly things very easily.

I prefer jokes and space and philosophy and thinking and concepts and logic and opinions and nature and gut instinct and truth. And I prefer the space in my head to human interaction, even when it’s a black hole swallowing my life force.

This is why I love writing. If you meet me in person I’m going to sound the exact opposite of all this chaos, mostly because I don’t know how to put it in speaking words. I’ll generally say things that are normal (I’m very cautious about that) and appear normal and if you ask me how I’m doing I’ll say fine. But if you read my writing you’ll meet a different part of me you never expected.

I do love you all.

But I must say this:

People. Bore. Me.

Thank you for not being bored with me.

Yet.

 

 

Hotwater Cornbread Isn’t A Muffin, Ya’ll

One of my greatest comforts in this world is food. I admit it. I’m spooning chocolate ice cream pie into my face hole as I type this. Contrary to what you would think, I’m not overweight. I have the knowledge of nutrition and exercise. I don’t stuff five thousand calories a day down my throat, I probably eat a little under than what I should. I will snack on almost anything and I will try almost anything. I have never been a fish person but I gave sushi a try at a birthday party and hacked it back up. So I learned I don’t like raw fish either.

Being where I live there’s a lot of different Mexican foods to try. For example, I learned they don’t put cheese on their tacos traditionally.

I know, overly excited cat, I was surprised too! After eating a million of them I finally realized hey . . . there’s no cheese on this. It’s not yellow corn tortilla either, it’s white tortilla with the meat and some cilantro and onions maybe, some type of salsa and you call it a day. They’re just as delicious with cheese as they are without cheese.

I like spice. And steak sauce. I put A1 on my chicken, on my fish (it makes it taste like real meat), on my steak, on my burger, whatever. A1 is the shit. Hot sauce is the shit. I want to sweat when I eat, that’s how you know it’s good to ya.

That being said, I never understood why no one in my tiny, Californian coastal town of mainly Caucasians and Mexicans had never heard of grits or hot water corn bread. I mean, I literally spent the majority of my high school years baffled. Just like they’d ask me if I’d ever tried Posole and at the time I was like I don’t even know what language you’re speaking and they’d give me a look like I’d just run over their whole family with a tour bus. I’d give them an equally confused look when they said “You mean .  .  . the muffins?” when I mentioned hotwater corn bread.

So let me fill you in. Hot Water Cornbread is not a muffin. Hence the “hot water” part. You take cornmeal and put it in a bowl. You boil water. You pour just the right amount of the boiling water into the cornmeal until it’s just enough for the cornmeal to suck up the water and clump together. Then you cup it in your hand and press it into a puffy hand shaped patty and toss it in a skillet to fry. My family usually fries with left over bacon grease or vegetable oil. When you google hotwater cornbread you get this little perfect patty all rounded and shit . . . fuck that, it’s meant to be handled with you hands with love put into it that you viciously fry away until the outside is a deep golden yellow. Then you slice it open and put some butter and munch out on it with some blackeyed peas, some mustard greens, some potato salad, and some baby back ribs.

That’s how I grew up.

Grits is also not a type of rice soup. I . . . I don’t even know where people come up with this stuff. It’s also a type of corn. It’s good with eggs and sausage and bacon and toast.

I could eat hotwater cornbread and grits with anything. It’s one of the reasons I want to visit the south where half of my family grew up. Hotwater cornbread started with Native Americans (in the southern region like Tennessee and Mississippi and such) frying these concoctions on the iron skillets from the new comers. I would love to walk into a restaurant for once and order a plate of what I grew up with, surrounded by people who also grew up around the same, with people I might actually be able to relate with.

I love Mexican food, I love burgers, I love curry, I love vegetables, I love fruit, I love grits, I love hotwater cornbread, I even have learned to love the fish Tilapia. I used to fish for crawdads and kept one as a pet. I watched my father clean fish a lot. We went fishing often when I was younger. I love gumbo, particularly the crab and sausage kind even though I don’t even like crab. Haven’t tired the one with fish head and brains in it, not willing to go that far. I’ve also never eaten pig feet or hog head cheese. I guess you could say I’ve been westernized.

I love everyone and I love them even more when I try their food and it’s good.

I don’t like when people try to push cultures on me. I know I’m all jumbled together, but that’s who I am. I’m not going to become “white” and eat hotdogs and hamburgers all day, I’m not going to become Mexican and eat tacos and fish and I refuse to drink grape soda and munch out on fried chicken just because you think I need to be more black. Just let me be who I am. Why is that such a hard thing for people to do?

Food heals the soul. What you eat is part of your identity. I eat a lot of different things because I am a lot of different things. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

What’s your favorite childhood snack? If someone says hotwater cornbread I’ll forever love you.

No pressure.

Is My Phone Gunna Do What? Smack You? Probably

It’s always the not-so important things that bother me the most.

For example, one Thursday afternoon a friend and I wandered through the library looking for an open “study room”. These are rooms in the sides of the library that are almost sound proof (as opposed to the upstairs rooms that are sound proof) and that you’re allowed to talk in (as opposed to the upstairs rooms where you’re not allowed to). They’re specifically for groups of 2 or more.

Well, they fill up pretty quickly. I don’t know people at this school even though I’ve been attending for three years but my friend recognized two women in a far corner room. We asked if we could also study there. One girl had her ear phones in her ear, the other just had her nose in her book. I set my phone on the table. It buzzed once. One time. I hadn’t got a text all day. The chick with her face buried in the book looked up at me and said “is your phone going to do that every time you get a text?”

Bitch, What?

Is your fucking pencil going to sound like nails on a fucking chalkboard every time you write an integral sign? Is your voice going to sound like a fucking bear cub with it’s leg caught in a trap every time you open that gaping mouth of yours? Are you going to keep fucking whispering to your friend every five fucking seconds?

What kind of dumb ass question is that?

My blood boiled, as usual, and I was ready to “Is Wayne Brady Gunna Have To Choke A Bitch?” the shit out of her, as usual.

Instead, I responded, “I’ll put it on silent right now.”

I know I shouldn’t really care about all the attitude in her voice, and I understand we were the ones who entered their room, but she could have kindly asked, “can you turn your phone on silent? Sorry, it gets on my nerves” or something.

I mean, don’t get pissed off at me because you don’t understand your calculus homework. That sounds like a personal problem.

See why it’s just so much easier not  to talk with people? I don’t have to deal with attitudes or stupidity or promises or anything. If you’re only ever with you, the only thing you have to deal with is yourself. I mean, that’s a challenge in itself, but at least if you cop an attitude with yourself, you can slap yourself without some cop charging you with assault.

So maybe I have a slight irritability problem. The smallest things light my very, very short fuse; it’s always been that way. If you do something to piss me off, chances are I’ll remember it even when I shouldn’t. That girl probably couldn’t recall that day in the study room, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

I try not to hold grudges against people. Just because I’m mad at them, doesn’t mean I’m seeking revenge or that I’m obsessing over their stupidity. Regardless, I can’t say with confidence that if the opportunity to fuck with her presented itself, I wouldn’t take it. I probably would. But I’m not planning or waiting for that day. If it comes along that’s when I’ll make my move. I’m sneaky.

I also try not to manipulate people or make them feel bad or make them do what I want them to. But the temptation is great. I mean . . . if you can’t see that I’m messing with you, If you can’t see that the socially awkward, socially inept, socially anxious chick is fucking with you, if you are so blind that I see what’s good for you when you can’t, than you deserve to get fucked with. Does that sound conceited? Probably. Whatever.

There’s a reason why I say it’s a good thing I have social anxiety disorder. If I didn’t, I’d be blurting shit every which way, probably stacking up enemies, and metaphorically pushing people off bridges. I care about people, I really do, and I’m very in tune with myself, with others, with our surroundings, with the universe, but if you piss me off it’s all over; no more feeling, no more anxiety, no more second guessing my words. And you better not catch me in a week where I haven’t gotten very much sleep for the previous five days (A.k.a THIS WEEK) because I’ll lay you flat on the concrete without hesitation. My anger is very freeing.

Sometimes I do feel like I’m better than everyone else. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t. One of my issues with authority, and one of the reasons why I’d still have problems working even without this fucking social anxiety bullshit, is that they’re all idiots. They are! Not one of the seven managers at my last job had a lick of sense in their thick heads. I want my M.D because 1) adolescents deserve better care than a pill-pusher (Everyone does) and 2) because I can’t handle people telling me what to do. I don’t mind it when I’m learning, but once I’ve learned it back the fuck off. I don’t want you over my shoulder, I don’t want you re-telling me things or insinuating I’m stupid and most importantly I don’t want you acting like you have the right to assert your power over me because you have a different title on your name tag. We can take this shit outside, if it’s a problem.

I can’t be an elf. I just can’t. I have to be Santa Claus. Once I nip this social anxiety in the bud, it’s on. Move bitch, get out the way! For real, if you’re standing in my way, I’m going to smack you to the side.

I have a feeling a lot of this is my mindstate talking more than me. No sleep = aggressive, narcissistic, confrontational, and little patience for stupidity.

My eyes might hurt like a bitch but I feel pretty good about myself at this moment. I’d rather be willing to punch someone in the teeth than curled up on my floor ready to blow my head off. Not that I have a gun. I don’t. Guns creep me out. I’d like to go to a shooting range one day though, that’d be fucking awesome!

I also want to invent a dashboard camera for your car that records your speed limit in the tape so that when you get pulled over for being black or brown–oops, I mean speeding–you can prove that you weren’t speeding. If we have google cars driving people around, than what’s so weird about a camera that catches cops being liars? I really want to get a dashboard camera and rear camera for my car. I’m sick of cops fucking with me.

I don’t even know how I got on that topic.

I haven’t eaten yet today: it’s 5pm. Shit, I think I forgot. My stomach isn’t happy. I’m going to go shove something in my face hole.