Rants and Rambles

Songs have a beautiful way of expressing things we struggle to speak. Tonight I am listening to The Strumbellas, and I fell in love with their songs “Spirits” and “Shovels and Dirt”. I think each line has something impressive to offer. It’s hard to miss the main line in spirits: “I’ve got guns in my head and they won’t go, spirits in my head and they won’t go”.

And I think “it ain’t worth livin’ if you don’t get hurt” and “I’ve got a head full of darkness and darkness is good” is also two of the most beautifully truthful lines I’ve heard, along with “Well demons pull me side to side again, yeah well I’m scared to sleep and I hate my friends . . .” I never knew it was so easy to sum up psychological pain.

Is darkness good? A lot of my depressions have been bad, the episodes have driven me into self-destruction and put me through a lot of pain, but the beauty that has come out of that pain has been magnificent. I’ve done some of my best writing. I started this blog. I played some of my best on the piano. Without that little bit of darkness, half of me wouldn’t exist. The darkness is me, and it’s a part of me I couldn’t live without.

That being said, I’ll be in the Santa Monica area tomorrow. Sometimes it’s nice to push aside the darkness and have a little fun.

I don’t talk much about my writing projects on here, but most people know I write short stories as well as some poetry that I think is shit. I’ve been to some fiction workshops, and I’m taking yet another fiction class this semester, but I’m shit at communicating with other writers. Maybe if we write back and forth, I can communicate with them, but not many are willing to do that.

So, if there are ever any fellow writers out there who are serious about their writing, and would be willing to give me some thoughtful, constructive criticism on my work in return for a batch of my own thoughtful, constructive criticism on their work, please get in contact with me. I have a few writing projects that I want to push forward, but I need some more reassurance and criticism before I do.

I’m not quite sure what this post is. Remember when I used to do these kinds of vagabond posts where each paragraph is something completely irrelevant to the previous one? I took some Melatonin and I’m hoping it will knock me out soon so I don’t have to torture you all any longer.

Love yourself. You are enough.

And that’s today’s mental truth. Well, tonight’s mental truth. It’s almost tomorrow’s mental truth. I’ll blog about my Santa Monica experience. I’ll be sharing pictures on instagram, you can follow me there @ Written_in_the_photo, and my twitter @Ipenned. I don’t use Twitter much, and I just created a new account, so there’s not much there, but if you’re a big twitter person, you might get a kick out of things I retweet.

Anyway, enough of this shit post. Ali, Out.

Kanye, Toss Me 50 Mill, Let’s Change The World Together

d39146bc8bc845478890583accb3f0bf*Ahem*

I’ve been writing on this blog since July 2015, periodically at best, fragmented at best, turned it into a domain I could own, lost the domain because I couldn’t afford it, and now here I am, back to square one, reintroducing myself to the world of rants, vents, and sarcastic musings.

I realized how good of an outlet this place is, and I miss the interactions between new people, old people, and people in general. Fuck building an empire, fuck pleasing people, and fuck everything, in general. I think that’s a good way to start off this post.

In reading back a lot of my old posts, I laughed at my own jokes, humored myself with my own sarcasm, and cherished my vulnerable moments: essentially it was a huge ego trip. Isn’t that wonderful? How conceited can I sound? I could probably be worse if I tried. But what’s life without having a bit of an inflated self-esteem? What’s life without trying to convince the world you’re a god among men? Kanye knows what I’m talking about, right? No? No one? Okay.

Love Kanye. What he say in his new song, Yikes?

“Shit could get/menacing/frightening/find help/ sometimes / I scare/ myself.”

And

“I can feel the spirits all around me/ I think Prince and Mike is trynna to warn me/ they know they got demons all on me/ devil been trynna make an army/ they been strategizing to harm me/ they don’t know they dealin with a zombie. ”

I resonate with that on a spiritual level. That’s not sarcasm.

And, of course, the most influential line of his musical career:

“Scoopity Whoop.”

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That song took me to higher levels of consciousness. I sat at the computer listening to Lift Yourself, nodding to an average beat, but that next verse? That NEXT VERSE THOUGH? Damn, I just didn’t really realize, I guess. I don’t think I’ll ever find another set of bars that chills my veins like “Poopity Scoop, scoopty whoopty poop”. Or, whatever.

In 2015 I was twenty years old, barely out of the terrible teens, and in 7 days I will be twenty three, still barely out of the terrible teens I guess, and in my own apartment free of the reign of terror that has been my parents’ apartment. I have good memories and bad memories. The good memories are pretty good, the bad memories are pretty bad. Read previous posts for more info. I’ve basically put the last three to four years of my life in a chronological order on this blog.

I remember writing a post about my predictions for the 2016 election, and how if that base head neurosurgeon Ben Carson dropped out of the race, Trump would win. Well, what happened? Without Ben there to cancel out Trump’s stupidity with his own, nothing could stop Trump. Don’t agree with me? No one’s asking you to, but I basically predicted the future, so . . .

Now what I’m trying to predict is when I will find a competent psychiatrist. I’ve sort of come to the conclusion that it’s impossible. I had a good two months with a county-funded psychiatrist who listened to what I said and, for the first time in my life, found a set of medications that worked well with me, but when they kicked me out of the Mental Health building K because I didn’t want to actively kill myself anymore, because I still had a job, I got stuck with a regular county psychiatrist who, when I told her I’d stopped hearing voices, told me I was lying and sent out a prescription for a higher dose of my medication.

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If you’re wondering, I stopped seeing her.

If you’re reading this and are really confused, I’d suggest reading through a couple previous posts. I would also like to remind my audience that not everyone who hears voices hears them all the time, and not everyone who hears voices has/or identifies with schizophrenia–two common misconceptions. And not everyone with schizophrenia hears voices.

The fucking point is, if I tell you I’m not hearing voices, I’m not hearing voices. If I tell you I’m not seeing shit, I’m not seeing shit. If you don’t believe me, go to the back room, take your head out of your ass, and breathe the fresh air of reality, because you’ve been missing from it for too long.

If I don’t want my medication dosage raised, don’t fucking raise it. 

Now, here’s the tricky thing. In leaving that shitty psychiatrist and stopping all my medication, I not only put myself through some serious mental hell, I also lost the ability to find a psychiatrist or therapist at all.

*For global readers, insurance is what the United States scams it’s citizens with to get more money.*

With my propensity to freeze up talking to doctors, psychiatrists, and therapists, I often get help calling for new appointments because the anxiety paralyzes me. So I’ve pushed my family to help me call. We’ve been calling for two months now.

One psychiatrist has gotten back to us, after a week of him leaving voicemails, us leaving voicemails, and both of us missing each other. He asks how old I am, and what’s going on with me. My mother takes the call, and explains what I’ve described, and he suddenly has too many patients.

Liar rubber stamp. Part of a series of stamp concepts.

Every other mental health professional we’ve called and who has called us back and left a voicemail always, always said “I’m sorry, I’ve got too many patients right now” without needing to know any information about me.

This motherfucker said that after he learned what I was going through. What does that make me think? That he can’t take on a challenge. And, if that’s the case, at least have the balls to tell it to my face. Tell me you don’t want to deal with me. Tell me you can’t handle it. If you can’t admit that, fuck you, you’re a coward.

And most importantly, don’t ever waste my fucking time again.

If you’re wondering, most recently I’ve breezed through 5 new diagnoses (not counting the ones I had as a teenager) after seeing 4 psychiatrists and a few therapists since December 2017 (six months total) , and I only found out the most recent one because I sat in my psychiatrist’s seat and read her notes on her computer while she went to go talk to a colleague. If they won’t tell you what they write, read it yourself–a tip for anyone new to the mental health system. Just don’t get caught.

The diagnoses have been: GAD, PTSD, Depression, Bipolar 1, Psychosis NOS from oldest to newest.

Some psychiatrists haven’t agreed with the PTSD–how is that something to refute, anyway? They ruled out schizophrenia and depression with psychotic features. The psychiatrists in the hospital were bent on Bipolar 1 even though I’ve never been manic in my life, the one I saw immediately after my hospitalization wasn’t sure at all what I was dealing with (finally, an honest fucking response). The last one is hell bent on psychosis NOS. They all agree on the depression and the anxiety.

So, what have I learned over these last six months besides the fact that if I’m not actively suicidal and/or psychotic I won’t be taken seriously as a candidate for steam-lined mental health care? Other than, if I’m still working I don’t actually need any real help?

Absolutely nothing.

If I didn’t love my job, I would have quit just to add the dramatics they obviously want.

I welcome myself back into the blogsphere.

Healthy Obsession

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These last few days were some crazy days.

But everyone could use a crazy day every once in a while, right? These are the days that remind us we’re alive, that we can live, that we have the right to have fun and to push ourselves.

A few of you are aware that I had an interview with a place looking to hire for a peer counselor. It went great: I’ll make sure to tell about it in a later post.

vcw_d_sjose_t4_winchestermysteryhouse_christysharp_1280x642None of you are aware that I took my boyfriend with me to one of California’s registered “haunted houses”, the Winchester Mansion, for their infamous “flashlight tour”, and one of the actresses scared the shit out of my boyfriend. And managed to creep me out just as well. I’ll make sure to tell that in a later post.

But this post I want to be about fun.

We all deserve a little fun in our lives. If you’re anything like me, you struggle to get through the day, to get out of bed in the morning, to make food, to eat even. Days are often the same with the same cycle of thoughts in your head and the same old coping mechanisms are used to try and stop them. Sometimes with success, sometimes in vain.

Some of us struggle to be around others, some of us struggle to be by ourselves, some of us struggle in telling what’s physical reality and what’s mental fantasy. But the point is, we all struggle.

So whether you suffer from anxiety, depression, a personality disorder, bipolar, schizophrenia, Autism, Narcolepsy, whatever: you deserve to have a little good time in your life.

Even if you don’t feel like you deserve it (talking to all you depressives out there; don’t worry, I know the struggle, I’m not calling you out without having experience with it) you deserve it.

You deserve to have a moment you can look back on when times are rough that help you remember happiness exists in the world and in your life even when it doesn’t feel like it.

That’s why I’ve reserved one day out of every year for the last 5 years to go here:

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And tonight was that one night:

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Now, you’re probably thinking why would someone with social anxiety disorder ever go that far out of their comfort zone to attend a concert.

And my answer would be another very important question: Do you know Tech N9ne?

 

 

If you don’t know who Tech is, or Strange Music, than I suggest you climb out from underneath that 100 year old rock you’re under.

I’ve been listening to this guy since I was 11 years old, almost ten years now, and I’ve seen Strange Music get off to a slow start and steadily climb it’s way to the top of the independent charts.

I haven’t been there since the beginning, because I would have only been a few years old. And I haven’t been there since Tech started rapping because I wouldn’t have even been born.

But that being said, I am a very dedicated fan because I enjoy the philosophy behind their business, I enjoy their music, I enjoy that they explore deep concepts and mix in a little “club”, metal, or “ghetto” hip hop in with their tracks every once in a while, and I enjoy that they don’t sound like Lil Wayne, Drake, Trey Songz, Fetty Wap, or any other motherfucker who can’t seem to understand what music actually is, any motherfucker who is a puppet for the company that owns them, their songs, and their life.

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I don’t know where all of you live, but around here we have a little radio station called Kdon. And whenever a “rapper” or a hip-hop “artist” comes on, I can’t tell their voice from the person who got played just before them. Everyone sounds the same, looks the same, acts the same. That goes for pop stars too.

So I’ve clung heavily to Strange Music once I was saw the direction music was heading.

Now, some people might call me obsessed. I have two of their emblems on the back of my car, I have their license plate frame that says “Strange Music, Estb. 2000” (I was born in ’95), I have three of their lanyards, I have their mugs, I have their attire, and I have their keychains. I listen to Ces Cru, Krizz Kaliko, Rittz, MAYDAY, Stevie Stone, and Murs, and have heard at least one song from everyone signed to the label, and I’m getting a Tattoo of the labels symbol:

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There is only one person who I don’t agree with being signed, and that’s this little motherfucker right here:

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I never dis Tech for trying new things, but fuck man, this guy does not fit with the label’s sound at all. He sounds like Trey Songz and Fetty Wap had a mutant baby together that looks like Yelawolf: how does that even work?

The point is, some people say I’m obsessed. And I’m fine with that because this is something that soothes me when I’m angry, that hugs me when I’m sad, that hypes me up when I’m excited, that makes me calm when I’m anxious walking through a crowd or talking to a cashier: it helps me through the little things most people on the outside don’t get to see.

When I’m having a particularly bad day and feel like I need something or someone to understand how I’m feeling, I’ll listen to “Low” or “Alone” or “suicide letters”, when I need someone or something to understand my life with my family and health problems and memory loss I’ll listen to “Meant to Happen” or  “Fear” or “Mama Nem” or “Show Me A God”. When I want to let loose, I’ll listen to “Beautiful Music” or ” Hood Go Crazy” or “Einstein”. When I feel like being sly and gangster-like, I’ll whip out “RedRags” or “Bitch Sickness” or “JellySickle” or “Check ya Temperature” or “Questions”.

There is always a song for one of my moods. And that’s hard to accomplish because I have many of them several times a day.

It’s my comfort and in a way Strange Music saved my life. Going to the concert every year also saves my life. It’s one night for me to scream and act ridiculous and, even though I’m thinking about the 799 other people around me (we have a small club, alright?) I try to force myself not to care. I focus on who is on the stage, on the way it feels to hear a song that you’ve laughed, cried, sung, or smiled to right in your face with so much energy and heat and sweat.

I lose my voice and a lot of my stress.

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The show sells out a month before the concert every year. The lines wrap around a block in both directions: one line is for physical tickets, the other line is for VIP and on-Call. There are mosh pits (as a teenager, my first Strange concert I got thrown across the room and into the wall and my other friend and I must say, I picked myself up and told the guy who was helping me I was okay and made up my mind that I would definitely be coming back each year) and drunk people, shirts are coming off, people fuck on the balcony, the artists bring smoke machines, so when people start lighting up joints, the machine will cloud over whoever has the drugs so security can’t find the culprits.

It’s a night to go crazy before we all return to school and work and whatever other responsibilities are out there. For me, it’s a night to go crazy and ignore my anxiety and ignore everything else floating around in my head and just feel the energy in the room, feed off it, and let it, for a moment at least, melt my stress away.

Everyone needs memories like that to help them through the bad times.

If you don’t have anything, I’d suggestion going out and finding something to become healthily obsessed over.

Together we are a powerful force

As one mind, body, and soul

Let no evil enter or attempt to reduce us

Because of the beliefs we hold.

And with this love, combined with our strength

we ward off pain and stress,

Technician I am, Wholeheartedly, 

In life and in death.