Reality Vs. Fantasy

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Sometimes I question whether we really can make a distinction between the two.

I liken it to the idea of normal versus abnormal. And the idea of stupid questions. Those of you who have been following me for a while can either guess where I’m going with this or you’re getting ready to flip away from this post because fuck she’s at it again.

The brain is a fingerprint. We’ve established this, correct? Either you have established it through your own observation of the world, or you’ve established it through the multitudes of neuroscience research supporting it. So the idea of “normality” is simply a social construction: it changes over time and it’s defined by a culture. To say that I’m not normal is to remind yourself that neither are you and neither is anyone else. That in itself nullifies the idea of abnormality and normality in one fellow swoop.

I drive a white car. If you walk up to me while I’m in my car, and you are not in any way color impaired, and you ask me if my car is white, well, that’s a stupid fucking question.

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Don’t believe all your grade school teachers who used to say “no question is a stupid question”.

There are tons of stupid questions. Like when the professor clearly says “don’t pay attention to the statistics” and you raise your hand a second later and ask if you should pay attention to the statistics.

What am I talking about again?

Fantasy and reality, that’s right.

The last time I checked, there was no clear distinction between either. We can only live in the reality that we observe, so to be bold enough to say that this reality is the only reality makes me wonder how you walk around with those hundred pound balls between your legs.

This makes me wonder what in the world I could be missing–what we all could be missing. We’re such limited creatures, stuck in a world where all you know is what’s in front of your eyes, and even then you don’t really know those things, you just see them. Is seeing really indicative of every truth imaginable? From my experiences, definitely not.

What’s the point of this, you may ask?

Well for those of us whose reality perhaps is not the best, who wish they could get away from their parents, or their spouse, or themselves, I think it’s best to remember that it’s okay if reality doesn’t make sense. There’s nothing in the Book of Life that says you have to be %200 sure of anything. There’s nothing that says your reality has to mimic everyone else’s and there’s nothing that says if your reality is horrible now it will always be horrible.

There’s nothing in the Book of Life that even says any of us are really human. I’ve known since I was a toddler I wasn’t from here, no way in hell. And the older I got, the stronger that sense became. And no, it’s not because of fucking Trump, and if I hear one more thing about him, I’ll explode.

I’m not telling you to be happy with whatever shitty situation you’re in right now. What I am saying is understand it’s okay to be there. And it’s okay to hate it. And it’s okay to be confused. Because it’s okay to live, whatever that means for you.

Illusionary Tales

Hello all and good evening.

The experience of NaNoWriMo has been well so far, I would say. Putting myself into the shoes of a character I would never dare to embody brings out conflicting emotions within me. My characters are always an extension of myself, no matter how ridiculous, no matter how fantastical, and pertaining to this one particular character in general that’s a little disturbing. I love having the ability to create falsity in a world bent on “reality” and still have it relevant and meaningful.

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I wrote a stage-play for my English class and used that idea as the basis of this month’s novel. I didn’t start until yesterday, so I have a bit of catching up to do but I think I can manage. I write in my head when I’m not writing on my computer.

But taking part in writing about something that twists and bends reality got me thinking a little more about reality. It got me thinking about quantum mechanics and multiverses and the idea of Synchronicity–that’s basically the “scientific” or at least “textbook definition” version of what many indigenous tribes and people have known for years: there are no coincidences without meaning; you are the universe and your belief creates your reality.

As I thought of this, a notification popped up on my second cell phone. A new article came out in regards to illusions, reality, and consciousness. This article, which you can read here, talks mainly about how rather than thinking of death as an end (which it probably is not), we could more logically think about it as a transfer of energy.

Now, I realize I’m crazy–or at least I’m supposed to be. But I’ll summarize this article and we can think about this.

We have very limited range of observations of the universe, compared to what’s probably out there. However, each observation we do have comes with different probability. The possible observations we do have each correspond to different universes in multiverse or “many-worlds” theory.

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In that case, there could be an infinite number of universes and “everything that could possibly happen occurs in some universe”.

Hmm.

I can’t refute that as a hypothetical possibility. In fact, anyone who does is much too solidified on the idea that our understandings of physics is the only possible understanding of physics. That arrogance, to me, would defy the very core of something like Quantum Mechanics.

Now, let’s get into the idea of death.

Every possible universe would exist simultaneously: there is no end and no beginning, everything loops. Rather than thinking of the big bang as the “beginning of the universe”, as I was taught in elementary school, I often thought of it more as both the beginning and the end. I didn’t tell my teachers that. I also used to doubt the theory of Pangaea but that’s another story for another time.

At any rate, consciousness makes us aware of who we are, and perhaps creates the physical things we experience. Without consciousness, would anything physical exist in relation to us? No. Than how could we conclude it exists at all?

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Our bodies also thrive on energy. So does our mind. I’m pretty sure ATP, the transfer of it, and the real substance of it is still a mystery to the medical world. We know that it’s part of the energy process in the body, but that’s about all we know. Correct me if I’m wrong; it’s something I remember learning from a professor a while back.

That being said, if our body is fueled by something as enigmatic as energy, something we can only define as “the capacity to do work”, something we’ve never seen and will never physically see, something that can never be created or destroyed per our laws of physics, how would death make logic sense? The energy of ourselves can’t cease and poof out of existence. It has to transfer somewhere.

You could probably make several arguments of this. Perhaps our laws of physics are completely bonkers and there is a way to destroy or create energy. Perhaps some of the energy is transferred into the decomposition process. Perhaps this, perhaps that. If you have an argument I’d love to hear it. I’m sure there are many. 

double-slit-experimentIn the article, they also talk about the double slit experiment. I feel this is something a lot of these “exotic” science websites speak about and I wonder how much they really know about it. But essentially, when observed a subatomic particle will slip through individual slits of a barrier and create an interference pattern that hits like a solid through one slit at a time on the area that measures the impacts of the particles. If you don’t observe them, they behave like a wave and pass through both slits at the same time. Conclusion? Reality is impacted by our consciousness.

And How could death exist in a universe, or many universes, or space in general, when time, when the distinction of the past, the present, and the future does not exist past our man-made definitions of them?

I hate when people say “time-change” in regards to daylight savings. You’re changing your clocks. Your clocks. Not time.

Could death perhaps be a case of yet another loop? In Daoism, yin-yang is simply a representation of the connection of everything. You cannot have good without bad or bad without good. They exist because of each other and they could not exist separately without each other. As humans, we certainly haven’t found a way to live without dying, or dying without first having lived, and perhaps our death is our life. Perhaps they’re one in the same.

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The point is nothing is what it seems. The deeper we reveal in the world of physics, the greater we theorize, the more I’m convinced our discrepancies in reality that get rode off as “lunacy”, as “unreality”, are more real than previously believed. It’s real because it’s a perception of our consciousness and the perception of our consciousness is the only reality we really know.

For a doctor to sit there and tell me something I hear, something I see, something I smell, is not real is illogical. It is real. It’s real until I don’t perceive it any longer.

My first argument against myself would be: well, what about tumors? What about tumors or other physical things that create things that aren’t there, sounds, smells, e.t.c. I’ve thought about this more often than I’d like to admit and the answer I’ve come up with is that removing the tumor and having the perceptions disappear doesn’t say anything about their reality when the reality we live in isn’t even confirmed. If something is an illusion within an illusion, how could we claim one unreal and the other real?

Just some things I think about on a daily basis. Back to writing.

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Dreams–Not The Influential Kind

And it begins.

You all didn’t know me when I struggled with nightmares inside of nightmares every night. In fact, I started this blog at the tail end of my nightmare tirade.

It’s been a good eight months since I’ve had a good, vivid scare in my sleep. That streak has ended this morning.

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Ever since I was young, I’ve had dreams more vivid than reality and they’ve always been extravagant. I remember a dream I had at the age of six–at least, I’m pretty sure it was a dream. The refrigerator danced from the kitchen into the bedroom/living room where my family slept. The door opened and all the condiments and items in the door were dancing too. You think, as a six year old, I would be entertained but I was fucking terrified. Then a 2 x 4 piece of plywood got puked out of the middle of the refrigerator and a snail the size of three humans heads slugged across it, and in its mouth were two sharp sabretooth-looking fangs, about the size of my forearm. It hissed and opened it’s mouth to devour my head and I woke up.

That is the first vivid nightmare I can remember. And it hasn’t stopped since then. Weird things happened with the clocks, with the house, e.t.c; sometimes thinking back on them I can’t discern whether they were indeed dreams or if my brain was playing tricks on me in waking reality.

In high school the streak really took hold of my sleep. Every night was one of three dreams: a tsunami, a robbery, or an alien invasion. The themes never deviated and that has not changed.

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The tsunami ones scared me the worst because I didn’t have any control of it (#symbolism), and woke up drenched in sweat.

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The robbery ones were extremely tense, but I never awoke scared of them, only shaken. In fact, they often bled into each other. One robbery would relate to the next, and then to the next–even if the dreams were not had consecutive nights.

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The alien invasion ones always woke me up feeling like I had actually left earth. In some of them I talked with my subconscious and woke up feeling freed, in others I was dissected. Sometimes I was just running and hiding like everyone else.

Once I dreamt of me killing myself and once I dreamt of me killing someone else; those were the only deviations from the themes.

I remember the majority of them like I experienced them in real life. They aren’t just dreams to me, but experiences, and I remember them like memories.

I’m someone who does not pay attention to my sleep pattern because it deviates ridiculous amounts. It’s like a kid walking down a sidewalk licking their ice cream on a cone and out of nowhere some jackass on a bike smacks the ice cream to the concrete.

But the weeks leading up to the hospital and the last four days afterwards, I’d been sleeping anywhere from nine hours to thirteen hours. Three days ago I woke up after five hours of sleep on the dot. The next day, five hours on the dot. Last night; five hours on the dot.

Last night the dream was a combination. It was a dream inside of a dream (another reoccurring theme of mine), with an alien invasion of sorts and a robbery. That’s new as well.

I remember waking up (in the first dream) to an alien creature with legs like an Orb Weaver spider and the body of a shrieker out of Resident Evil 6 (picture the two above combined together). The face was circular and the mouth elongated across the diameter of it’s spherical head. Underneath it was a body. The alien was ripping apart the body and tossing around the gore and gorging itself on intestines whilst simultaneously raping the shit out of the mangled corpse.

It noticed I was awake and drenched in sweat and I could not move. It went to engulf my head and I woke up (in the dream) in a cold sweat. I woke up my mother who was sleeping next to me (as a child, my parents and I had to sleep in the same bed because we only have a living room and a bathroom and a kitchen), just to make sure that she wasn’t an alien. She woke up and I sighed and realized it was a dream and went back to sleep . . . still in a dream.

Then my mother and I were driving to Safeway. I saw a shopping cart that was wheeling itself around in the parking lot and doing donuts and I knew there was some kind of paranormal force around us.

bloody-screamer_largeThen we were shopping when shots rang outside in the parking lot. Windows broke, people screamed, and blood sprayed. People were looting cash registers and grocery items for whatever reason and my mother and I were outside (suddenly), crouched on the ground by my mom’s car, face to face with a cop who was so distressed he almost shot the both of us. He pointed a gun at me and screamed “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I have to! I have to!” and I told him “you don’t have to do this.”

That freaked him out and he ran to the other side of the car to point the gun at my mom and he screamed something similar. She said “you just have to calm down.”

That freaked him out and he ran back to my side of the car and pointed the gun back at me.

This went on for about ten or fifteen dream minutes. I remember watching his little footsteps pitter patter back and forth underneath the car.

Finally, he ran off. My mother and I went into the store and put on store aprons and started helping put items back where they were supposed to be. People were dead, hanging through the broken windows and dripping blood on the produce. I told my mother “I think the reason we got to stay alive was that we were so calm when he wasn’t”.

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And that was when I woke up, heart pounding. The force that was in my dream was the force I felt in my face that moment. I have no doorknob in my door (courtesy of me and my father fighting) and through the hole I swear something was staring at me. I was too paralyzed to leave my bed because I feared if I got up whatever force was keeping me captive would strangle me. I looked at the time and it was 4:00 a.m exactly.

I wasn’t going back to sleep.

I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t want this string of nightmare bullshit to start again, not as vigorously as it used to be. I can’t handle them every night, it’s like waking up in the middle of a panic attack but instead of waking up it’s prolonged through the night and you have no choice but to deal with it.

For those wondering, yes, I can lucid dream.So I often realize I’m in a dream. But what that results in is me fighting against my brain through different layers of dream (literally crawling from sleep layer to sleep layer) until I break through the surface and open my eyes in this reality. Then I’m more exhausted than I was before I went to sleep.

Remember how I was writing about the different forces I felt on one of my walks? The one with the monarchs and the ripped squirrel tails? I feel that force that ripped those squirrel tails and bird wings are trying to get to me yet again; invading my dreams and my room and my reality.

Whatever. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I have math in two hours.

Thoughts #2

We’re losing all the icons man, Prince dead at 57, wasn’t expecting to wake up to that this morning. Soon we’re going to be left with Nicki Minaj and Taylor Swift and Skrillex as our icons, and the majority of the kids of the next generation aren’t going to know the satisfaction of playing a real instrument or experience true talent beyond someone pressing the space bar on a laptop or flicking the auto-tune button in a studio.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about this kind of stuff lately, the fragility of human beings. Not in a nihilistic or depressive sense, I’ve just been thinking about it.

It’s one reason I do admire my philosophy professor.  She’s very open about the way she thinks and believes in the reality we observe every day without paying any mind.

The password on her computer is over twenty characters, supposedly to keep out hackers, students, or hacking students or student hackers. Perhaps even colleagues, I don’t know. When she screws up on a key, we have to wait another five minutes for her to type it out. That’s how long it is.

I too share the paranoia of hackers–and it’s well justified these days. If I had a dollar for every time Nigeria and China hacked one of my damn Gmail accounts, I’d have enough to fund the L.A trip I’m taking this summer. 

She doesn’t like being video taped or recorded in any sense. Because my college is small, and the professors are surfers and pot heads even if they don’t identify as them and are usually chill about being recorded, I’ve never came across a professor who loathes it as much as this woman. She allows students to do so only if they’ve given her early notice and even then she lets you know how much she hates it.

One kid tried to sneak in a phone video and I thought heads were going to be chopped off. He’d slouched in his chair with his Iphone 6+ (yeah, the 5.7 inch one) and the camera light on facing her as she went on one of her infamous energetic rants. She caught sight of the light out of the corner of her eye and fell silent abruptly, pointed at the dumbass and said “Are you recording me?”

He shifted in his seat and lowered the camera a bit. She repeated herself and the room went cold.

Every fight I’d conquered in BloodBorne flashed behind my eyes at this moment. I was hoping we’d be bathing in student entrails.

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He said, “Well, It’s just because I think you’re so great. It’s a compliment.”

She didn’t buy his excuse, shuffled on over to his side of the room, leaned over the balcony in the front of the lecture hall as close to him as she could possibly get, smiled, and calmly informed him she would snatch his phone and smash it to pieces on the concrete, she’d done it many times before and wouldn’t be afraid to do it again.

The best part about all of this was the student had really white skin, so his entire self turned into a beet. 

I too hate being video taped. Perhaps not to that extent, it’s pictures that bother me the most. I’ve had my share of moments I’ve threw someone’s phone to the ground because they wouldn’t get it out of my face.

does-time-exist-blabberpoShe’s just as forgetful as I am, in terms of the things people called “important”. You know, like time. And dates. She’s never late, but she always forgets which times our class is at, what time it ends, and what days they’re on, even this late in the semester. She’s had this problem since she was a child, she said, because she doesn’t believe time exists, nor does she believe reality exists. That was the introductory sentence to our class. She wouldn’t explain why, much to my dismay, and if I didn’t have social anxiety I would be in her office hours asking her her theory and justification to see if it overlaps with mine. Because I tend to believe the same.

If there’s a yell or a shout or a loud noise somewhere, or even someone’s phone ringing, she always pauses in the middle of the lecture, stares at us for a moment, and asks us if we heard that. We all say yes and she continues. I laughed the first time that happened because it’s true, you can never quite know how real something is when you don’t believe in this reality. I think everyone else thinks it’s just some weird quirk of hers, and I think she plays it up for entertainment purposes in terms of class, but I understand the logic behind it, that’s the most entertaining part for me.

She goes on tangents too, that’s the best part. Sometimes they’re relevant, sometimes they’re irrelevant, and sometimes they’re just plain nonsensical but in a relevant way if that makes sense.

But attending her lectures and moving on in life always gets me thinking about how much we don’t know, and how much we think we know. It gets me thinking about how centered we are on ourselves as a species and how strange it is we’ve developed so many different ideals and cultures and languages and how much stranger it is that we become so self-centered we feel we have a right to tell someone else their behavior is abnormal.

I just think it’s all weird.

To be quite honest, I’m bored, that’s my problem.

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I’m bored with people who think money is valuable for anything other than survival, I’m bored with working, I’m bored with our “education”, I’m bored with standards, I’m bored with rules, I’m bored with “normality”. Maybe it’s just my twenties talking, just as my teens spoke well in the language of nihilism.

But this boredom isn’t like “Oh i’m bored with rules so let me go steal a car and stab someone in the eye”.

This boredom is like “Why am I not allowed to steal a car and stab someone in the eye? Why is that bad? I’m confused“.

This boredom is like “why do people waste their time with this petty reality? What gives them the confidence that this reality is reality? I haven’t seen any proof to convince me anything existing in this moment actually exists.

This boredom is like “What allows us to plan for a future we’re not guaranteed? Why do our brains just casually skip over the fact that we could all drop dead right now? I bet it’s hiding something from us. What prevents me from dropping dead this second?”

This boredom is like “Where are the fucking aliens? I’m bored of humans.” 

This boredom is like “I can’t even ‘go against the grain’ without being clumped into a whole other group ‘going against the grain’ so am I really going against the grain?”

Humanity bores me, basically. Jobs and family and material things and enjoyment and sadness and everything is labeled as significant without any proof of any of them being significant. I’m bored with that. Life gets much more interesting if I try and construct it through the eyes of someone who sees no significance in anything, but only sits back and observes the chaos.

 

Acceptance Of The Self

Is morality like etiquette?

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I’m not going to answer it, I just wanted to give you a question to think about for the day.

I had an interview at a nursing home this morning for a housekeeper position. These past few months have been rough: I’m fatigued, I’m tired, I’m forgetting more than usual and of course I’m skating through most of the day wondering if I’ve stuck in a dream or not. Today, luckily, has been relatively chill.

But my mentality has taken a toll on me, so when the secretary asked me what position I was applying for, I couldn’t remember the word “housekeeper”. I said “the person who sweeps and mops”.

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I laughed at myself harder than I probably should have.

The manager who interviewed me was high as fuck. He could hardly keep his eyes open and when he spoke he slurred his words. He moved fairly quickly however and seemed to keep up well with his staff, so from all the drugs and addiction I’ve grown up around I can safely assume he’s on some kind of pills. His cognition was there, so were the majority of his reflexes, but his speech and eyes and general demeanor were not that of the average sober person.

I had to sign a “we have a right to drug test you” clause in the application.

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I suspected Xanax or perhaps a benzo; his position seemed to be high stress as he was constantly running around the facility trying to make sure his staff members weren’t fucking something up.  His desk was a tragedy. Paper all over the place. I didn’t even have room to fill out the paperwork.

It’s odd that much of my social anxiety has sort of taken a back seat for the time being. I still wouldn’t give a speech or go to parties or anything like that comfortably, but in terms of going into stores, doing interviews, working with other people, it’s gotten much easier. I see that as progress. An odd sort of progress because I haven’t really been practicing anything. 

What I struggle with now more than anything is the tendency towards Alexithymia-I can’t distinguish my emotions from each other. They’re all a whirlwind inside of my head and as a result I lash out. These are the days I usually take something or smoke something to level me out, but because I have no more prescriptions available and because I’m still applying to jobs which may drug test me upon hire, I can’t risk it.

So instead I’m standing waist deep in my own personal hell.

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I thought today would be okay because I woke up feeling alright. The last week has been a haze. I can’t describe an ounce of how I feel in words. I tried last night, I’ve tried many nights, and being a writer it’s more than frustrating when you can’t put something as simple as emotion into words. So instead I write about how I can’t write about it. That makes sense, right?

So I use music to distract myself from my own thoughts. It’s louder than my brain so it makes it easier for me to focus. As long as there is noise, I can focus. If there isn’t background noise and all I’m alone with is me and my thoughts then I get confused, overwhelmed, and only more tired.

I just spend my day wondering if the tree outside of the library is real or what would happen if it wasn’t. I wonder if I’m real, if you’re real, if the table I’m sitting at is real, and if the hands I see typing on the keyboard belong to me and what if they didn’t? I feel unreal, my actions feel unreal, my words sometimes don’t sound like they’re coming from me, I don’t feel connected to the world, blah, blah, etcetera, etcetera.

I’m not bothered by it, it just takes up a lot of time during the day.

depersonalization_by_danger99-d2lfkldOver the years I’ve learned to accept the derealization, the constant pondering, and my tendency to wonder if an event happened or if I’m still dreaming. I write off the feeling that I’m still dreaming. I wrote off the feeling that the incident in the vault never happened and I imagined it-I’ve already concluded it didn’t happen so there’s no need to continue thinking about it.

I write it all off because of the simple fact that it hasn’t disrupted my life like anxiety and depression has. Sure people think I don’t care about things (I.e, my room is a mess, I mean you can barely walk through it, I rarely do laundry and just salvage old clothes or hand wash in the sink if I absolutely need something) and sometimes they get annoyed because I won’t talk because I’m so deep in my head, I won’t laugh because I honestly don’t know, sometimes I just don’t feel like I can, or if they just meet me they don’t understand why I won’t share facts about myself with them or why I don’t feel like making eye contact or why I barely respond to them at all in some cases.

But in reality (ha, in your definition of reality I should say) none of those things bother me. Depression that makes me suicidal bothers me. Anxiety that prevents me from speaking up in class or asking a question when I need it bothers me. The fact that I can’t be comfortable at any moment outside bothers me.

Do I really need to tell the different between reality, dreams, and fantasy to live my life? Depending on the severity, not necessarily.

Think about it.

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If I feel I’m living in a dream or I can’t tell if I’m awake or if what I experience was a dream or not, but I still go on about my day, I still study, I still work, I still function then what difference does it make?

If I’m not sure if my hands are mine but I’m still typing with them, what does it matter?

If I don’t feel like talking with people and still live life content with limited human contact, what does it matter?

I think that’s where people get stuck in the process of overthinking their “problems”. I’ve been comfortable questioning what was real and what wasn’t since I was 6 or 7 years old, I’ve been comfortable with bouncing back and forth between reality and fantasy too. In fact, I’ve never really separated the two. I’ve always seen the world differently. Am I aware that such a thing could snowball into something more “serious”? Sure. Am I going to sit there and act like I have a problem right now? Fuck no. And I think the fact that I’m as comfortable with such things as I am has helped my functionality.

Anyone else who stepped unprepared inside of my brain wouldn’t survive.

To me, what’s in my brain is normality. People who go through life without analyzing the reality of every little thing or people who have never sat at a table, stared at the floor, and had to ask themselves “am I dreaming?” scare me. That’s not normal.

So there’s a reason this blog focuses particularly on depression and anxiety because those are the aspects of myself that I find most troublesome. Not being able to talk to a classmate frustrates me more than the fact that i can’t tell whether or not the incident in the vault at work ever happened. Waking from a dead sleep into a panic attack, slicing or burning myself frustrates me more than my belief that I’m destined to change the world per some otherworldly intervention, or my introverted tendencies.

What do I think of the boss who is obviously abusing his prescription medication? Well, he’s accepted reality is reality and he doesn’t like it. So he medicates. I accept reality isn’t reality, that as a result reality is a fantasy and therefore one in the same. I don’t medicate. 

Curious, eh?

Where Was I?

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Tonight I am struggling in a different kind of way.

Something strange is going on.

In the last post I’ve told you all about the passionflower incident in the vault, but I didn’t explain it in detail. I didn’t explain how I really felt about it and the thoughts that went through my head.

I told you all I felt someone was trying to frame me or perhaps send me a warning.

But let me explain this story in more detail.

That day I already woke up feeling odd. Even my new co-worker said “today is going to be a weird day”.

As if she knew.

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We do these things called “runs”. Runs are essentially when you take a Jansport backpack, take money, walk across the park with it, and deposit the money into the machines scattered around the park for employees to use. It’s also how we get record of what they deposited at the end of their shift.

During these runs you can take coin, bills, or both, up to a thousand dollars. Yes, I’ve carried ten, twenty thousand before, but that was with security escort and with another person. Runs we do individually without security.

On the runs where I took coin, I kept coming up short. On all of my runs that day I had to keep writing <.10> or <.20> on the over-short sheet. It looked like I was stealing dimes.

All of the bills I kept depositing kept rejecting at a high rate, so I had to stay at the terminals for longer than usual making sure the ones that were good bills and not crumpled or torn would deposit.

When my co-worker returned from her lunch, we were instructed to practice counting the vault to get quicker and more accurate at it. The FIRST thing we counted was the rolled quarters.

I even leaned on top of the wood and swiped m arm across the wood touching all the canisters to make sure my count was accurate.

We counted them over twenty times.

There are always two people in the vault. You need two finger prints to get in and there are three cameras in a space no larger than my room.

After twenty minutes of standing there with my new co-worker just chatting because we were sick of counting the same thing over and over again, I found the pill. Not her, just me. It appeared out of nowhere.

They’re fairly large pills and hard to miss. They look like this:

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They have a very pungent grass smell to them. Because, as I’ve said, it’s just dried flower petals in a digestible capsule. It’s 200 mg, and the standard dosage is usually 500 mg to 1 gram. So, to be honest, they’ve never done anything for me. It was the placebo effect. It takes 2mg of Ativan to even start my eyelids dropping, there’s no way .2 grams of a flower is going to do anything to this system of mine.

The odd thing? I haven’t even been able to take them for two weeks because It’s a struggle for me to swallow large pills, it always has been. The bottle, which I keep in my bag, was locked in the locker in the hall of the basement. The key is on my chain with my work id which is always around my neck. I’m the only one with access to that locker.

My first thought was someone was trying to frame me, send me a warning of some sort, perhaps that snitch from mid-shift or something.

But later I realized something. There are ALWAYS two people in the vault. There is ALWAYS someone monitoring the vault cameras. That means two people would have had to place that pill there.

When my trainer came into the vault after her lunch to see how we were doing, my co-worker and I gave her awkward smiles and my co-worker said we’d found weed (remember, she’s inexperienced about drugs) and I showed my trainer where. But my trainer kept talking about tips on working in the department, like she always did. It was as if she didn’t hear a word I’d said.

Later that night I couldn’t shake the feeling that none of what happened was even real. Tonight, I’m convinced none of it was real.

investigationIt just doesn’t add up. Two people would have had to placed the pill there. Someone would have had to either been taking it themselves, or stolen it out of my locker which is impossible. And none of that explains why the pill popped out of thin air or why my trainer, who loves juicy gossip, wouldn’t respond at all to our exciting discovery.

The management never said anything about it again.

None of it felt real. The whole day felt odd. Either someone was setting me up with the coins and sending me a warning with the pill, or none of it really happened at all. I can’t remember what I did with the last rejected dollar I brought back to the cash room, I can’t remember if I signed the paper.

I’m used to my experience in this reality not feeling real. I’m used to reality not feeling real. I’m not used to external experiences not feeling real. In fact, it’s done a good job of shocking me to my knees. And that’s a hard thing to do.

There’s only been a few scattered incidents of that happening and they were minor, so I ignored them. Much like the time I ignored the day where I kept hearing my name being whispered. I ignored the day I heard my car falling apart while I was at the stoplight and I started freaking out and putting my ear to the dash board and not being able to identify where the sound was coming from because it was coming from all around me and then it suddenly stopped and I fell back into reality. I ignored the words I heard over a megaphone that no one else seemed to hear. I ignored the instances of constantly feeling like someone or something is watching me.

Oh the irony, when Imagine Dragons sings in your ear “Now you can’t tell the false from the real”.

There you go, they’ve just confirmed it. 

Apparently the night of the incident I told my boyfriend someone else could also be using Passionflower but I’ve pretty much eradicated that option because it lacks logic. The incident not ever having happened makes more sense than someone else in that office taking passionflower and leaving it in the vault simply because, like I said, it popped out of thin air. I’d swiped my arm in front of the quarters half a dozen times, moving the canisters around, there was no way in hell we wouldn’t have seen that pill.

It makes me feel as if my co-worker was either also a figment of my imagination or she’s just never existed in the first place.

But that seems improbable because we needed two hands to get into the vault by ourselves.

Unless I was never in the vault in the first place.

Then where the hell was I? 

I hope I’m actually laying in my bed right now.

It all sounds irrational, but it doesn’t feel that way.

 

Don’t Shoot Me Bro

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Thank you to everyone who shared their experiences and made me feel not so crazy and not so stupid over yesterday’s post. I feel a lot better now about the whole Christmas thing. When I mean I feel better, I just mean the thoughts aren’t circulating as much.

Besides, I’ve got some pretty good ideas of something special I want to do for my boyfriend. It requires I get some kind of job and save money, so there’s my other big motivation to keep job searching. I don’t know if I want to do it on a holiday or just because. I’ll probably do it just because and surprise the hell out of him.

I won’t say much more on that, because if he’s reading this, he just found out about it.

I kind of already let it slip anyway because I was so excited. I didn’t tell him what, just that I was planning something. So it could come at him and any time and he’ll never have expected it.

Ever.

EVER.

Everyone shhhhh!!!!! Don’t say anything to him.

Enough about that. I’m writing right now because of what I saw.

I take dreams very seriously. I don’t think they predict the future or anything slightly, ahem, *magical* or whatever it’s call in psychology. Odd beliefs? Whatever. All my thoughts are magical because I’m fairy bitch, so step on.

That’s what I’d tell a psychologist.

Watch, when I’m licensed someone is actually going to say something similar to that and I’m going to have to resist the urge to high-five the fuck out of them.

I’ll probably high-five the fuck out of them.

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Hmm. What was I talking about? This song I’m listening to is FIRE ya’ll.

DREAMS.

That’s right.

I had two separate dreams but they kind of merge into one in my awake brain right now. I was living on my own. I don’t know where my boyfriend lived, but it wasn’t with me, and yet we were shopping together–probably because I have trouble going into grocery stores by myself. I was having trouble deciding what I wanted to eat. He suggested tacos so I was running around getting lettuce and tomatoes and cheese. Americanized tacos, alright? I like my fucking cheese.

Then fast forward to something else.

I was not myself on the outside, but I was in the mind of whoever this was. They were in the library of a school trying to find a place to sit. I mean, it was packed too. People were sitting everywhere and the tables were set up to where you could get trapped behind them. In the back was a little cubby where you could take a nap if you needed to. I found a tiny desk that I could pick up and move towards the center of the room, a place where the desk could fit without disturbing people. The librarian was smiling and everyone was talking, and had I been able to sit down I think I would have done some homework.

Something popped outside. Once. Twice, three times. I stared at the people around me and they stared back and I knew what it was: a shooter.

happy-facemaskThree of them, I think. One was in some kind of Ronald McDonald’s mask, the other two were characters from some kind of movie. I forget which one. But it was very specific. Some of us headed for the gym before anyone had the chance to come after us and there we locked the doors. We could hear the screams and the shots and everything was muffled compared to the heart beating in my throat and ears and behind my eyes.

I couldn’t see the fear on everyone else’s face, not even the teachers who were cowering just as much as we all were, but I could feel their terror. It wasn’t a dream that I was floating above just observing, I was fully immersed in it. My muscles were aching even though I wasn’t moving, I was afraid to open my mouth in case there was someone outside of the doors, I was thinking “my God what if I don’t make it out alive? What if I get shot?” followed by the primal instinct thoughts of “don’t get shot, don’t get shot”

Everyone likes to think they’d be some kind of hero in these situations but the truth is you’re thinking about yourself. You have a right to. It’s about survival.

The people who do enact courageous acts are not all acting by choice, a lot of it is instinct, survival instinct, the kind of instinct that lets one lioness attack an intruder and another lioness join in on the fight. We’re all one in the same species, we have a desire to survive and survival means protecting ourselves and protecting others. In our eyes they’re heros. In Nature’s eyes, they’re doing their job.

So before you’re so quick to say “oh yeah, I’d help” or, “oh hell no, I’d get the fuck out of there”, know you can’t possibly know the answer until you’re in the situation.

Anyway, the McDonald’s looking motherfucker burst through the doors and I remember her voice–it sounded like a girl behind that mask–screaming at people something along the lines of “this is what you all wanted, how do you like me now, yada, yada, yada.” I can’t remember her exact words because I couldn’t hear them; her friends were outside shooting other people.

I got out of the gym. I don’t know who else did, but I got the fuck out. Outside bullets were flying and I was ducking with my head and trying to find a road or something to get off the school property. My thoughts were to alert other people in the area, if they didn’t already know. The school was targeted, we were already in the midst of the violence, I couldn’t do anything about that. But for the people on the outside who might be in their houses with sound proof walls or something, I think it would be fair for them to know there are three gunman with the mentality warped enough to burst down everyone’s door and make it a true massacre.

And, in case no one had a chance to call the authorities. Outside help would be perfect.

1678Then I woke up sweating and heart beating and heart deeply saddened. I don’t know if any other shootings have been going on, I don’t have cable and I don’t look up the news because I hate a lot of the news stations. Besides Russia Today. They’re pretty truthful. The Young Turks on YouTube often have some good news stories to spend a few minutes discussing.

Anyway, I don’t know what this dream was for. Was it because I’d temporarily forgotten about all the horror that’s been going on? Is it there to remind me to never forgot? Because that’s what seems to have happened. People say “that’s horrible, oh my Gosh”. Then another shooting happens. “Oh my, this is getting worse”. and then another and another and not one person in power has taken much initiative to dig deep in the soiled pit of American histories and futures and presents and pull out a good explanation for all of this. It’s not bullying, it’s not rap music, it’s not metal music, it’s not mental “illness”, it’s not any one thing.

It’s a lot of things.

It’s how we raise our kids. It’s what they learn from the world around them. It’s what we’ve done in our past and what we’re doing in the present. It’s that facade we have around us thinking “we’re so free, and we’re one of the wealthiest country in the world, we’ve got the biggest military, we’re living much better than other countries, especially those third world bitches, God Bless America . . .” It’s that idea that we’re not racist, we’re not sexist, we’re not anything but The Pursuit of Happiness and Freedom, as said by whatever sheep of a president we have in the white house.

I’ve always liked Obama, and not because he’s “black”. But every president is a sheep.

The point is, we like to project an idea of “we’re okay, we’re progressive and we’re doing good” but the reality of it is hidden in the shooters and the hate crimes and the police and all of it. That’s America at it’s finest right now. You’re only as good as your worst citizen. 

We have a lot of work to do. In policy, in truth, in education, with our Youth, with our elders, with everyone. Shooters aren’t going to magically disappear because you lock up everyone with mental health issues. Prison isn’t going to solve anything. Therapy isn’t going to solve anything. It has to be worked out as a whole.

Sometimes I wish this country wasn’t so large. It’s hard to get an entire nation of this size to come together. There’s just too many different opinions and ways of life and ingrained ideas of the world and the self.

Anyway, that dream was a reminder, I think. Never forget.

When someone shoots up a school I’m sad for the families who have to live with that forever, I’m sad for the kids whose life ended way too short, but mostly I’m depressed over the fact that we’ve done this to ourselves.

I’m a part of the shooter, a part of the victims, a part of the families and a part of the society which grieves for the behavior, shuns it, blames it on disturbed mental health and selfishness, and then forgets. I’m a part of it all and so is everyone else. But they don’t see that.

One day I’ll list some of the dreams I had. The robbery ones were crazy. And the guy I stabbed.

Anyway, just some thoughts for today.

Rant: END.

 

 

Double Fudge Brownies

“All That We Are Is A Result Of What We Thought” –Mah Boy Buddah

Today was a good day.

I sure am quoting Ice Cube a lot lately. Straight Outta Compton’s been injecting subliminal messages into my head. I go to search some song lyrics on A-Z lyrics and their background is promoting Straight Outta Compton. It’s just everywhere.

Tonight I’m clawing underneath my skin. I’ve awoken from the dead with a little more energy, a lot more anxiety, and an insatiable craving for double fudge chocolate brownies. Mmmm brownies. I feel like I need to jump out my window (i’m ground level, ya’ll), dance on the yellow line in the middle of the street, whip out my bat signal, throw up some jazz hands, stop: hammer time, slap my momma, and then reach a moment of enlightenment. That’s how Buddha did it, you know, I asked him. He’s Mah Boy.

I’m just restless. I went to bed at five am, woke up at seven am, and have been running around ever since. I feel good but I don’t. My energy is fueled by the pent up anxiety I subconsciously slapped a “dunce” cap on and shoved into the dark corner of the classroom in my head. So I inject a full dose of Imagine Dragons and sit back in emotional bliss. Whenever I listen to one of their songs my bones melt into my veins, my inner ear enjoys convulsive orgasms, and the neurotransmitters just sitting in the synapses in my brain (like the lazy fucks they are) unleash their inner interpretive dancer. I have no other way to explain the emotion I feel from this man’s voice. A few songs I’ve heard are unbearably generic but hot damn that February 2015 album Smoke and Mirrors has me transfixed. I feel every emotion and no emotion simultaneously when he powers through a chorus and I’m reminded of what raw talent sounds like.

Everything is so fake around us that it’s a bit of a refresher to hear creative lyrics with meaning behind them and an unbeatable voice bringing them to life. It’s better than “ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, ass” or “I never fucked Wayne, I never fucked Drake” (Like any of us care, you dumb skank) or “blah blah blah blah I broke up with someone” (#TaylorSwift). I’m  not trying to be a hater on anyone who likes those artists, but they’re not for me in any way, shape, or form. Reading their lyrics causes temporary blindness in my eyes. I get tired of listening to things about sex, love, and ass. I get those things are pleasurable but what are we all, cheap knock offs of Hedonism Bot from Futurama?

Don’t even get me started on listening to the eleven year old’s walking down the street singing to that stuff on their Iphone 6’s.

Growing up with this anxiety and my perhaps “odd” imagination made me realize there was so much more to life than what people told me. I feel things more intensely than others. It adds substance to this existence. Anxiety is the opposite of sociopathy and if everyone in between thinks they’re the sane ones, they better lift up their arms, take a good, long whiff, and step down off their high horse; we’re all tainted with a scent of insanity. Just deal with it. You’re not normal! Be happy! Fuck, man.

My philosophy professor a few semesters ago suggested we not think about how fragile life really is, so I did the opposite. Think about it. You could die right now. Right before you finish reading this sentence. How weird is that? Blackness. No more Iphones, no more blogs, no more ice cream at one a.m when you know you should be sleeping, no more pets, no more anything. So are you wasting your time worrying about how to have a successful, normal life in the eyes of society or in the eyes of yourself? I’m going to choose myself. I have to die with me and what I do or don’t accomplish. The C.E.O of M.T.V isn’t going to be by my bedside assuring me I did the right in thing in spending my entire paycheck on that one outfit Snookie wore on that episode of Jersey dumbfuck Shore.

Once again, sorry if you liked Jersey Shore, I don’t mean to be offensive. I’m also sorry it existed for you to like.

That’s why I love this song “Dream” so much:

The message is so simple: life isn’t what people make it out to be, this place is a mess, so let me dream. I’ve lived in a fantasy world since my childhood. Inanimate objects contained personalities (e.g. cars had expressions) and they spoke with me in my head. Your eyes probably got wide and your finger probably made circles around your temple in response to that. It’s fine. But when you’re six, seven years old and every day is an anxious nightmare clawing at the walls of your skull, you need an escape. I couldn’t talk to people so I talked to objects. And to this day, I feel more connected with, objects, technology, than I do with peers. It’s not because people are “so judgmental” and objects aren’t, it’s because objects can be whoever I want them to be. An alien. A pope. A ghost. A novel character. Whatever. It’s the endless possibilities that keep me clinging to my fantasies. There are times I bask in my disassociative episodes for that very reason. Existence itself is called into question and I get the pleasure (and often displeasure) of experiencing it.

It’s like feeling reality’s heated, seductive core without ever leaving my room.

Reality as we know it is an irrational comfort for humanity; theoretical physics taught me that. And double fudge brownies taught me that heaven does exist. In the form of baked goods. I shall stuff my face and I shall enjoy it. Fuck your bikini season.