The Qualms Of Existence

I just want to give a big thank you to everyone who reads, comments, likes, or follows this blog. It means more to me than you can really imagine, knowing that 1) there are people I can actually, coherently communicate with, that 2)there are people out there who understand what I’m saying, and that 3) you all have a sense of humor and laugh at the horrendous jokes I make.

That’s a real treat.

One day I’ll hit 500 followers and I probably won’t know what to do with myself, seeing as I’m a loner (on purpose, usually) and the idea of even twenty of those people taking the time to read and like things that I put out is just astonishing.

It’s like when you wake up in the morning and your house is on fire but you make it out alive. It’s that kind of thrilling.

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That being said, a few weeks ago I removed the “social anxiety” and “depression” from the subtitle of my blog. This is now simply me and the qualms of existence. Because the qualms of existence include, very obviously, anxieties and depressions.

I also removed them because this blog has become much more than a couple of labels, of which I don’t even identify myself by any longer. While I do still struggle with social anxiety, it’s stepped on the back burner compared to the other things I’ve been dealing with. As for the depression  . . . well, I don’t know what to think about that anymore.

I don’t know what to think about it because I’ve never been as in denial about it as I have been this last month and a half. It’s the most frustrating thing to sit in front of three different professionals, say very blatantly I am not depressed, and have them even more adamantly say “you’re depressed”.

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I clearly outlined the differences for them, you all. I did it extremely vividly. When I am depressed, I feel worthless. I hate myself, my life, and everyone around me. I’m ten times more sensitive than I usually am (which makes me extra-hypersensitive), and I don’t feel like I’m worth the effort people put into me. Everything I do is wrong, and everything someone says to me is a criticism. I am tired and trudge through my school work like I were a slave. I overeat. I don’t lose interest in things because I’m only interested in perhaps two things–writing and videos. If anything, I write more in my depression.

These few months I have been excruciatingly exhausted. I have missed so many days of classes I’m surprised the professors haven’t dropped me from their rosters yet.

I also can’t think. Which is frustrating. The words come and vanish into thin air. It feels like Trump has stationed himself in my head and built a wall to keep my own thoughts from me. They just run into the bricks and crumple in a heap and I never see them again.

Picture yourself walking ten leashed, untrained, six month old pit bull puppies. Picture the way the leashes would branch out from your hands and how much it would hurt when five tugged you one way, and the other five tugged you the other way, or each puppy tugged you in a different direction.

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These Aren’t Pitbulls, But You Get The Point

That is what happens to my brain when I step outside of my room.

On an average day, I can maybe yank a few puppies back beside me or pull them all just slightly enough to where I’m not in a full mad dash forward, but instead I’m only jogging ferociously to keep up with them. Regardless, that’s me maintaining a bit of control.

Right now they’re all pulling in separate directions and my hands are getting burned from the friction of the ropes. Going into class would be like letting loose some birds in front of the puppies. We all know what puppies like to do when birds are around: make a mad dash.

Sensory overload, they call it. I’ve struggled with it since I was a toddler and it’s only exemplified when my brain can’t focus and my energy is depleted.

I’ve been sleeping 9-12 hours a night: that’s what set off the “depression” ideas in these professionals’ heads. You sleep 3-4 hours, you’re manic. You sleep 9-12 hours, you’re depressed. They all think the same way.

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Regardless of the amount of hours I get, it’s not restful. Firstly, I’m sinking into the floor because my bed is two mattresses on my carpet. One mattress is a good 15-20 years old, the other mattress came out of a camper on the back of a truck from the 60’s. I doubt the mattress is from the 60’s, but it’s definitely older than 2006.

Secondly, the dreams. Oh the dreams, the dreams, the dreams.

I’ve been dreaming every night this week. They haven’t been the usual nightmares, just simple dreams. But many of them. One dream after another after another. Last night I had a dream of myself sleeping in my bed (I wasn’t seeing myself from outside of my body, I was just dreaming of laying in my bed) and I basically just laid there in the dream with five disembodied voices screeching full sentences at me. Something about me needing to build something or something, dude, I don’t fucking know, I can barely handle a conversation with one other person; like I could handle five people at once.

So that was an odd dream. Then I went on to have another one, and another one, all different.

I awoke frustrated and drained of more energy.

I am someone who has had few auditory hallucinations in my lifetime, including voices every now and then.

Every NOW and THEN. Like months and months apart.

Having a dream of being berated and screamed at by things in my head was too much for me. For those of you who deal with that on a daily basis: props to you all. You have my deepest respect. 

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I’m dead serious. I’m getting a headache just thinking about it. That dream seemed so real, I woke up thinking it had been real and that I hadn’t been sleeping. But I had.

Going to work today was hard. But being forced to be around people kept my mind off of how weird things have been lately. That gave me a much needed break. This is the first time I will probably ever say “work helped me”.

Hunted On Halloween

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Halloween plans anyone? What did you all do? Do you celebrate the holiday? Do you believe in ghosts and spirits and demons and angels? How many “sexy cat” costumes were there in your town?

I went to California’s Great America Halloween Haunt.If you don’t know, Great America is an amusement park. They had haunted mazes and skits and theater shows and rides going with zombies roaming free.

I bought the passes for my boyfriend and I that gave us extra access to five extra scenes. They were very interesting. I’ll get to that in a minute.

First let me say fuck google. The GPS took us to the employee parking with hundreds of other people also misled by their GPS. The cars lined up all four ways down the street for a few miles. My boyfriend got the idea to cut through a huge parking lot behind a building called “Palo Alto Networks” and we beat a good hour and a half of waiting in traffic.

We had to wait in another line to get the quick passes. They allow us to go to the front of the line to all the mazes, along with experiencing the extra scenes. While we waited, people with nothing better to do than be lazy kept cutting through the line with their pathetic “excuse me’s”, rather than take an extra two seconds and walk around. It was okay at first.

Until the sheep came.

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By sheep I mean the idiots who see one person cut through the line, so they push their family of twenty through too, all muttering “excuse me”. The drunk woman behind me was getting annoyed. I was getting annoyed. My boyfriend was getting annoyed. The guys behind us were also annoyed.

It’s very simple. You see a line, walk around. For someone like me who is already getting worn out from all the of flashing lights, the voices, the people, and the sheer volume of noise around the park, I got easily confused and overstimulated by all the people cutting through the line.

While waiting for one woman to stop arguing with the workers and holding up the line in front, another guy tried stepping in front of my boyfriend and me. I stepped in front of him, and he tried going behind me. The man behind me stepped closer to me and shouted at the guy to “go around! go the FUCK around! Go around, you rude motherfuckers!” and I joined him in the shouting. Why? Because behind that one guy was another three families of people getting ready to push through the line, and I was sick of being bumped and touched.

#TeamworkMotherfucker 

After a half an hour of waiting in that line, all because of that one fucking woman, we got our passes and started the night.

london-ripperIn one of the mazes there were different actors portraying people in history, usually murderers. I jumped a mile in the air at the man in the corner with the top hat and the trench coat standing next to the woman laying with her throat cut: Jack The Ripper. I started laughing and told my boyfriend they should have him following people around. Jack the Ripper heard me, hopped down from his stage and came after me, running with me, and I ducked as he growled in my ear. If you all didn’t know, I’m a huge Jack The Ripper enthusiast. I’ve read and watched about as much as a person could on the guy.

I’m a huge serial killer enthusiast. It’s normal and not disturbing at all.

I got followed by another woman with a huge gash in her forehead, smiling, and she followed me all the way to the end of one of the mazes. I got followed by another short woman playing a little girl with pigtails and she didn’t just walk after me, she ran after me and my boyfriend and he was saying “oh shit, oh shit!” so I squeezed past him because she was really close to me and it was creepy as fuck. I made him get chased by her.

There were several other mazes and funny experiences, but I can’t remember everything.

In the extra scenes, well, let’s just say shit got weird.

ht_hoarder_home_06_jef_150415_4x3_992The first one we entered was called “Hoarder House”. It was a man with a southern accent in a house full of junk and a bunch of (fake) cats. He came up and down the line and called one man “Justin Beaver” and the girl next to him Selena Gomez. He came to me, because I was laughing my ass off, and got right in my face and said “and what’s your name, scaredy cat?”

I said I wasn’t scared. He asked my name again and I told him. He told me to come stand in front of everyone and I said shit and my boyfriend laughed. The guy made me hold a rubber Halloween hairless cat with a missing eye, and he named the cat after me. He told the group that if they didn’t find two keys in the mess of litter boxes around, that he would skin the girl he called Selena Gomez, and poke my eye out. He was great.

The group found the keys. I have both of my eyes and Asian Selena Gomez still has her skin.

We went to another scene called “Dominated”.

Yes, it’s exactly what you think. We could hear the paddles through the wall.

We get in the room and this woman in this sexy outfit has chains hanging everywhere and whips hanging from her hips. She’s hilarious. She handcuffs us in twos, and we have to weave through the chain mazes with our partner. My boyfriend and I weaved through the quickest and she picked on us mostly, saying we’d been handcuffed together before. We all laughed because, let’s face it, she’s not wrong.

At the end, we get paddled.

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I don’t know what to think about that.

In another scene we get shoved in a box with one other person, and air compresses sheets against us, like the walls are closing in. When we step out the guy with the deep voice stares blankly, gestures towards the door and says simply “that is all”. Our entire group cracks up.

Another scene a man gets strangled and we have to run from a woman on the loose.

Another sorority scene, Bloody Mary crawls across the walls at us and right when I tried escaping she crouched on the counter, eye level with me, blood dripping everywhere, and stared into my soul.

I got followed a lot. There’s something about me that guys in costume and women with blood on their face get attracted to. I was hunted by these people the entire night.

I got home and passed out immediately. The level of sensory overload was too damn high. But it sure did beat not being scared. I love being scared. Halloween is the greatest holiday I do declare.

Now, let me get my ass out of the library before they kick me out. Be safe people.

An Undeserved Break

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It’s 3 a.m and I just sent out the notice that I’m quitting.

Now, to fight the feeling of being a complete loser, I’ve decided to sleep through tomorrow and hopefully avoid whatever email I get from the director.

I don’t even want to think about the fact that I still need to pick up two checks. I haven’t picked them up because I hate going into Guest Services and saying “can I get my check” to the service people.

I’ve conquered many, many aspects of my social anxiety since I was seventeen. I should be proud. But it’s hard to  . . .

It’s hard to think straight at all with fucking Beyonce telling me to put a ring on it in my headphones, hold on, let me change this shit . . .

Okay, I’m back.

work_hard_and_be_proud_what_you_achieve_classic_white_coffee_mug-re2f58fefca344354b0badcba2049726e_x7jg5_8byvr_324It’s hard to be proud when little things like picking up a check still stop me from functioning. It’s hard to be proud when I can hardly go anywhere by myself without being immensely uncomfortable. It’s hard to be proud when I can hardly go anywhere with someone without being immensely uncomfortable.

There are several things I’ve learned about myself over the course of the last few months:

  1. I’m not incapable of conversation; in fact when I try my hardest I’m alright at it.
  2. I’m too hard on myself when I make a mistake and the mistake runs through my head until I’m stuttering and sounding like an idiot which, in turn, makes me even more nervous.
  3. I don’t care.

That third one is important. When I say I don’t care, I’m talking about conversation, or being around people or staying organized or taking care of general responsibilities like laundry, dishes, e.t.c ,things people tend to get annoyed at me for not doing. I’m not interested in gatherings. If you tell me about your weekend, I’m most likely going to be uninterested. Not because I’m rude, but because I’m probably thinking about something else and you’re interrupting that.

Honestly, if I wasn’t so socially anxious and hyper-aware of social stereotypes, I wouldn’t care about hygiene either, unless it posed a health risk.

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The other day I realized I’ve been on my own for two years. I haven’t had a friend or confidant (this doesn’t include my boyfriend) in two years. I’ve stopped speaking with them all because I got bored. In fact, that’s what usually happens. It’s too much effort to keep up friendships, so everyone ends up being an acquaintance, people who I help if they need help or people who sometimes offer to help me if they see I need it. Sometimes I’ll be around them, but those are the ones who I’ve known for over seven years and they’ve pretty much got used to how I am.

 

I’ve talked on this topic before, about wanting friends v/s needing friends. Are they a necessity? Some people seem to feel as if they are. I tend to disagree, I think it’s often an inconvenience in terms of, you know, personal fucking space.

Remember how they teach you as a young child not to let anyone in your personal bubble? Well mine is about four acres in diameter.

If someone is yapping at me, I don’t have time to be in my own head. That’s an inconvenience.

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In terms of networking, I think they’re incredibly important. I try my best to be as fake as possible when it comes to business because they feed off that. I like to be friendly to coworkers just so there’s no confrontation. I have to put up with their yapping and their laughter and their conversation topics I don’t nor will I ever care about.

That being said, I care about people in terms of them being people. Because they are human and of my species, there is an innate affection I feel for them. When someone is in danger, I help. If someone sneezes in public, I say “bless you”. I joke with them and I have some weird ability to make people smile–don’t know where that comes from. They gravitate towards me. I like helping them, I like sharing logic with them and giving them a different point of view. I like knowing that they come to me before anyone for advice.

But I’m not my true self, I’m not satisfied, until I’m sitting alone in my room entertaining myself. That’s a real sense of happiness.

I think my boyfriend takes offense to that when I say it, as if I don’t want to be around him or something. I think a lot of people take my definition of happiness as personal, or they develop a train of dangerous deduction logic where they think “Because she likes being alone, and because she’s not alone when she’s with me, she hates being with me”.

first-for-effortFaulty logic, but I’ll give everyone an A for effort.

I don’t mind being around other people. Sometimes it becomes an inconvenience and I get bored or annoyed or anxious or angry and need to leave. That doesn’t mean I hate anyone, it just means I’m introverted and don’t give two shits about being average.

Like today, for example. We walked along the wharf, got some fish and fries or chips or whatever you want to call them in the country you live, and then stopped by an ice cream/candy shop for his little sister. And us. Because I got a bag of sour taffy. So much for eating healthy again.

This shop is tiny. The building is large but the majority of it is taken up by the counter top, the ice cream, the taffy maker, and their storage and cooking areas. So the hallways to walk are narrow and because it’s spring break, because it’s a tourist town in which I live, people were clogging the way.

Now, I can handle crowds up to a certain point. I could handle the crowds as we were walking up and down the Wharf because I was only at the mercy of my social anxiety, not to mention my boyfriend was right next to me.

But in that tiny store, it’s not my anxiety that overwhelms me. I’ve never been claustrophobic: I’m the type of person who finds small spaces comforting sometimes. It’s the sensory overload that gets me. It’s the skin to skin contact you have to put up with. It’s the fact that I can’t breathe without feeling like I’m invading someone else’s space or feeling that their breathing is invading my space. All of the voices sound like they’re shouting, all of the movement makes me extremely uncomfortable. I hate when people move.

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Is that weird?

I seriously hate it. If there’s a chair somewhere, sit. If you’re standing, stop moving back and forth, it seriously puts me on edge to the point where I’ve shouted at people to sit down or stop moving.

The day was bright and sunny, another thing I struggle with because of how bright it is and how everything hurts my eyes. So by the end, after all of our purchases were rung up I just said “go, go, go” and booked it towards the nearest exit.

That was enough contact with the outside world for me for the next two days or so. I’ll still walk outside, maybe take a drive, take some pictures, but I won’t be confronting cashiers or going to work (obviously) or doing anything that overwhelms my system.

I need a break from everything.

 

A Day In The Life Of A Not-So-Normal Alien

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I have never spent longer looking for a bag in my life.

Never.

Today I stalled. I stalled because the anxiety is still there sitting its skinny ass near my nerves and having a nice nibble on them. I knew I needed to get a medium sized gift bag and I knew in order to do that I must step into the human’s world.

Humans are weird. They’re frantic and very inconsiderate of personal space. I’m sure glad I’m not one.

Their arms are flimsy too. And their faces are stupid. But all of that is beside the point.

My cover to go into Rite Aid and look for one is that I’m really going to look for facial products. There are a lot of people in line, I peeked through the doors before I entered, so I ignored the entire front of the room to avoid their eerie human stares (I heard they can turn our brains into mush if we make direct eye contact) and headed straight for the face 41mzhy5jz5l-_sl500_aa280_-jpgproducts. Of course, everything on the shelves of chain drug stores have millions of human chemicals in them, so I had no real interest in them. I got some Tea Tree oil.

You see, rather than spend forty five dollars on a “mostly natural” moisturizer for my alien facial skin that reacts very badly to man-made chemicals, I harvest Aloe Vera Leaves with a special alien utensil humans would call a “knife”, squeeze the inner goop out, drop a bit of Tea Tree oil in it, mix it all together, and refrigerate it into a gel. Scar treatment/Moisturizer for under ten human dollars. I’m a clever little alien.

Rite Aid had no gift bags. So at risk of looking like a not-so-clever little alien, or a thieving alien (I have not-so-light alien skin so you know what that means), I also bought some Honest tea.

The humans walk around with their physical head on their shoulders, but their mental head up their ass. Deep, deep up their ass. So deep, they very well may break their neck in the process of lodging it up there. They take a flashlight with them and lose it on the way because the flashlight comes to its senses and gets the hell out of there. They enjoy being up their ass too, because they never willingly come out.

A side effect is blindness. Total blindness. They stand centimeters from your body and think it’s okay to breathe in your ear . . . which honestly is an achievement given the fact their head is lodged in their small intestine now that I think about it.

I went into a store called Palace Arts. Their gift bags were about as attractive as the inside of someone’s ass.

I went to good old trusty Walgreens and avoided the acid stares of humans in line yet again. Their gift bags were nice. I grabbed one and some decorative tissue paper. And an ice cream cone.

Humans may have their heads up their asses but somehow they still manage to make some decent icy treats.

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It’s making me think twice about getting the chocolate flavor, though.

I sat in my car hoping for a moment of peace. It had been an hour already. An hour of bobbing and weaving between frantic husbands and boyfriends shopping last minute for the perfect decorations and bags of candy. Everyone seemed like they wanted to touch me today, like they wanted to be close and personal and loud, like they wanted to see me drop everything and rush from the store or crouch to the tile and cover my hands over my ears like an overwhelmed Autistic child.

Honestly, those children have the right idea. What else are you going to do? Sit there and let the noise bother you? I’d rather cover my ears too.

Everything was loud. The mothers screaming at their children were loud. The children screaming at their mothers were loud. The employees were loud, the customers were loud, the floor was loud, the packages on the shelves were loud, the hair products were loud (and sassy girlfriend), the candy was loud, even the gift bag I was holding was red and loud and I felt like it attracted more acid stares.

Anyway, I always park my car beside the green Hybrid car charging station reserved spot no one ever uses because  it’s right by the door and who the fuck wants to charge their hybrid at Walgreens?

Some motherfucker, that’s who. 

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No, he didn’t even charge his huge ass Toyota 4Runner-looking partial Hybrid S.U.V. He just parked there for the privilege.

The worst part is I didn’t even hear him park next to me.

I just glanced over and flinched in my seat at the gray wall with windows that had appeared beside me.

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News flash, ass-hat; there are seven other parking spots right by the door. You have no damn privilege. Fuck your hybrid.

Love you, Tesla. 

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I Wouldn’t Mind THIS Parked Next To Me. Tesla Is Love; Tesla Is Life

Then another wall appeared beside me. This one I heard. It was twice the size of the ass-hat hybrid and they could spear their acid stares through my passenger window and into my private (messy) den without my permission. The man’s wife stayed in the car and kept staring at me. She should have put her head back in her ass.

So I left. I left with my red gift bag shouting at me all the way home.

I was very overstimulated today. But I survived.

I’d like to switch lives with someone without anxiety, just to see what they say life is supposed to feel like. The funny thing is, I’m 110% sure I’d ask for my anxiety back after a couple hours.

I’m very easily bored. 

 

 

Alarms, Music, and Loud Breathing

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If it’s one thing I hate, it’s crowded restaurants.

It’s it’s another thing I hate, it’s suddenly crowded restaurants. It’s arriving to pick up a carry out at a restaurant at 11 p.m. that usually has two people in it at the most and finding it filled to the brim with conversation and leaking human bodies out of the door.

There are two major occurrences in my brain when this happens:

  1. Sensory Overload 
  2. “Oh God, they’re talking about me/staring at me/laughing at me/scrutinizing my discomfort.” 

Let’s talk about the first occurrence. 

360043021_640I’m sure everyone with anxiety has experienced mild sensory overload at some point. I’m sure most of you know what I’m talking about. If not, the easiest way I can sum it up for you is that anything you can experience with your senses is ten times louder, or tastes ten times stronger, or feel sensations/textures ten times worse. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d explain all of this more creatively. Cut me some slack tonight.

My sensory overload mostly comes from noise.

There are some textures I really hate and even thinking about them sends a shiver through my spine and I feel it on my fingertips so I’ll stop talking about those.

I’ll focus on sound.

Vacuums are the bane of my existence.

Motorcycles? They’re the death of me. I cover my ears whenever one passes.

Dishes make me cringe and spikes my anxiety.

57535217Essentially any loud noises scare me or send my anxiety into hype mode and any really soft noises annoy me to the point I’ll willing to get violent and aggressive to shut them up.

The sound of my boyfriend’s playstation controller clicking over the phone is like a thousand little needles pricking my eardrum and irritation center of my brain. Sometimes I have to put the phone on speaker just so I don’t hear the clicking.

Compared to our conversations the clicking is irrelevant but to my brain it’s . . . I can’t come up with anything colorful this late. The noise just hurts my brain.

Irritation center?

Whatever, it’s late.

screen-shot-2013-04-11-at-11-46-20-amThe bass of a stereo thumping through the wall. It’s annoying to some people but to me it hits a nerve where I can’t contain my rage. Voices mumbling through the wall as well. Any sound I can’t clearly define because it’s too soft singes my soul.

Here’s a secret: when I was a young child my family and I were often in situations where only one room was available. We all slept in the same bed. My father snoring was one thing, but in the silence of the night I always heard my mother “breathing too loud”. I don’t know what I meant by it, I just knew it sounded as loud as my father to me.

We could be sitting on the couch and I’d be at one end and she’d be at the other and I could swear she was heaving breaths like a dragon with a dry throat.  It irked me to the point where I’d have to leave the room or put in ear phones.

All of it irked me so much I slept with ear buds in my ear playing my favorite playlists at night or made makeshift ear plugs out of a headband. I’m very creative when it comes to protecting my fragile psyche.

fire-bell-alarm-clockBecause I never did anything without my earbuds as a child, when I set alarms for myself now, the alarm music incorporates itself into my dreams and they don’t wake me up. It doesn’t matter if it’s a song or a shrieking tone and it doesn’t matter how loud it is. I will sleep through it and I will hear it as background music in my dreams. Often my parents barge in my door and shout at me to turn my 30 alarms on my phone.

I’m not exaggerating, I just counted them. I have two phones I use for alarms. That’s only one of them.

When I download a new song, I set it as an alarm and it can last two days at the most before my brain sleeps through it.

I wake up to the light noises. Mumbles. Soft thuds. The sound of my door knob.

Excluding loud music and soft music, every other noise has the potential to make me cringe.

Voices are included. When I’m in a loud room like I was tonight, there are so many conversations barking off at once I shut down. Let’s be honest: everyone hates being in a place where you can’t hear yourself think let alone talk with whoever you’re with. But for me, it’s different. The volume of their voices have the intensity of two jet planes flying inches above your head.

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They thwart my ability to comprehend my own thoughts. I get so distracted by all the other conversations going on that if someone is making an attempt to speak with me, I might not hear correctly or I won’t be able to fake my way through a response like usual because my mind is blank.

Once I’m in complete shut down mode, my anxiety kicks in. That’s the second occurrence. I’m convinced beyond doubt every person in the room can sense how uncomfortable I am. And because they see how uncomfortable I am, they’re talking about it, laughing about it, staring at me . . . e.t.c.

ingredientdetectivebThe fact that I am distracted by all these conversations turns me into a detective. I’ll scan as many conversations as I can for proof of mutiny.

Even though I’m not their captain. I should be. But that’s besides the point.

But even while I’m listening to one conversation, another will distract me and then I get frustrated by the fact that I can’t pay attention to both at the same time and catch them both in the act, together.

Tonight I could keep my composure because we were only picking up food to go. But even that five minute interval felt like forty minutes to me.

I can shut down pretty hard if I’m stuck in a noisy, human-filled area for longer than an hour. I won’t force myself to talk anymore because all my energy is going elsewhere.

If I’m expected to talk, my anxiety is paralyzing half of my body and all the noise is paralyzing the other half. I already have trouble forming words verbally as it is, I don’t need anxiety tugging back words from my tongue; I worked hard to get those words there. I break a sweat making attempts at verbal conversation.

I’ve just settled on the conclusion that I can’t think when I talk. That’s the simplest way I can put it.

I also can’t think very clearly at 2:08 a.m when I keep yawning like this.

So there you go. Conversations sound like twenty motorcyclists revving their throttles to me, but the chicken I got out of it was bomb.

Peace.

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Thug Life And The Holidays

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Note to self:

Don’t go to sleep at 8pm; you’ll wake up at 12 am.

And lay in bed staring at the ceiling until your eyes bleed.

Or you get hungry enough and crawl out to the kitchen sniffing for food.

Which is exactly what I did.

And I’m still hungry, damnit.

Holiday’s are stressful. Have I said this already? Have I made it perfectly clear yet that I love winter and simultaneously hate the season of it? The “holiday spirit?” Because I hate it.

Oh, I haven’t said it enough?

I HATE IT.

I sound like a horrible person right now, a partially loony insomniac sipping Orange Juice and water at 4:06 am staring at an empty blog page wondering why she’s a partially loony insomniac sipping Orange Juice and water at 4:06 am.

Then she stares into the orange goodness in the flower cup and wonders about the validity of her existence, the reality of her existence, and then figures none of it matters if Iheart Radio plays the shitty song it’s currently playing.

I switched it. For God’s sake my ears were on the ledge ready to jump screaming “I never wanted to go out this way!”

What the fuck was I talking about?

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Does anyone who reads these things follow my rambles half the time? Because I don’t.

The holidays, that’s right, how could I forget that bullshit. Out of all the things in the world, how could I forget that.

Like I said, it’s stressful. There are people giving you gifts who expect the same in return even when you haven’t had the seven years needed to connect with them, and drivers on the street don’t give two shits about their lives if they can’t get to Toys R Us before they close so they can get their daughter a collection of overrated Monster High dolls and their son an overrated collection of WWE action figures (that are really just dolls) so their entire family can perpetuate gender stereotypes and then wonders why their daughter is scared to speak up in class and does horrible on math tests and wonders why their son doesn’t have any friends because, little do they know, he has to hide the fact that he prefers to sit in a garden and sniff flowers than be with the other boys shoving and tackling each other on the concrete.

Are you happy with yourselves?

You don’t get your mail until 9 pm. 

Traffic becomes the bane of your existence.

Everything is green. I hate green. That is my least favorite color.

Red is my second least favorite color.

Parties are my least favorite thing.

People are my second least favorite thing. 

Chocolate, however, is one of my favorite things. I get a lot of that during chocolate-food-meltingthe Holidays, it’s what keeps my brain from exploding and my tongue from mouthing off to people it shouldn’t. Who could let scornful words fly from their tongue if their tongue is slathered in creamy, cocoa goodness?

A serial murderer, that’s who.

And that’s not me.

Although, the money’s probably good if you’re working for someone. I heard Kidneys sell really well on the Black Market. But you didn’t hear it from me. 

I’m a very sensitive person, you guys. Stress is in the air during holidays, I can’t take it. I can’t take all the expectation and societal responsibility and people smiling at you saying happy holidays when you know damn well if it was any other week they could give two shits about you.

18k2f6fh7cxz8jpgI always stress out about the gifts I’ve chosen. I never have very much money, so obviously I’m not presenting a new car to anyone, but I try and do the best I can with what I have. I know it’s the thought that counts, or whatever people say, but then you wonder if anyone even gives a real shit about that. How do you know they’re not using your gift to wipe their ass with? And that’s why you never see it hanging in their house or sitting on their table when you come over? And that’s why their pipes are always clogged? Because that’s how shitty your gifts are? Or what if they just shove it in the closet and that’s why they want you to call them before you come over, so they can set it somewhere obvious in the house for when you arrive?

I’m a sensitive person. 

Today in Big Five there weren’t many people but the feeling–it was overwhelming for me. I heard the woman ringing up the customers and saying “thank you, happy holidays” every five seconds and the workers who kept rushing past me and talking and chatting about random things and helping customers find products and the old dude next to use buying the air soft gun that he wanted to look like the real nine millimeter that he had at home and the two associates that sold their products like pros hoping to hook, line, and sinker him on some 129 dollar gun. I heard each one of their conversations individually and they were all screaming in my ears.

I heard each of their voices individually, I should say, but as a whole they coweringwere meshed together, one big clusterfuck of conversation and people were walking to close to me, standing too close to me–I don’t like that–and even though everyone was lost in their own little world it felt like they were all talking so loudly about nothing just to overwhelm my senses, just to make me out to be the outcast. Their actions were purposeful, I felt it, and as I stood there like a deer in the face of a rifle, I spaced out to avoid it all.

I’m sensitive to sensory overload. I don’t like loud noises of any kind. I hate cars on the street and motorcycles and vacuums. I don’t like yelling or loud laughing or bangs and although I like looking at fireworks their sound physics put my nerves on edge. I don’t like voices or banging of kitchen dishes or loud televisions. If the noise isn’t consistent, like an alarm beep, or if the noise isn’t music, than it puts me on edge. It’s why I walk around with ear phones in my ear–it mutes a lot of that shit. It mutes conversation and cars and loud noises and things that would make me more nervous than I already am.

When I don’t have music, which is rare and usually a mistake, I have a little space in my mind I go to in these kinds of situations where time no longer passes in the linear fashion we’re all used to thinking about it in. In fact, time there doesn’t exist, only nothingness, and the nothingness isn’t really nothingness, it’s just a black divide, a place that separates me from my physical self which is trapped in the realm of physical life. I no longer hear the conversations or read the words on the packages nor do I pay attention to my own thoughts. I, for a moment, float elsewhere until I’m prompted back into reality by whoever is with me.

Did I mention I struggle immensely with going into public establishments by myself? Well, that’s why.

I also haven’t mentioned that I experience both depersonalization and dissociation. They’ve never bothered me personally. Sometimes I get creeped out when I start having to ask myself if I’m in reality, but it never lasts longer than a few seconds or a minute. Rarely longer than that.

Once I blacked out and wandered into the middle of the street in front of on coming traffic. My high school friends were running after me screaming my name apparently and I made it to the other side untouched and woke up like what’s wrong? They gave me this look:

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I was confused at first then searched my memory: I remembered walking up the hill with everyone, listening to my music and their conversations but keeping quiet because that’s what I needed after a long day. I stood at the corner with them. Then everything went black, like I was asleep. Then I opened my eyes and I was on the other side of the street. I laughed my ass off.

Anyway, today the Dollar Store was worse. There were more people but it wasn’t the numbers that bothered me, it was the feeling. Everyone was stressed. It’s like a bubble expanding, waiting to burst. Everyone was moving quickly and talking quickly and I hate that. Their feelings transferred into my feelings and I was stressed and getting smothered by the bubble they didn’t seem aware of.

I also confirmed the dollar store is run by the mafia. An old, white haired dude with bags under his eyes and a face shaped like Marlon Brando and dressed in a black button up shirt with black pants and a golden cross dangling between the two un-buttoned buttons near his collar walked slowly up and down the aisle next to the cash registers listening to his employees spew their “Happy Holiday” bullshit they probably wouldn’t say to you if his gaze wasn’t screaming “horse head in your bed” at them.

He smiled at me and nodded and I nodded and smiled back and I think I’m a gangster now.

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Is that how it works?

The guy in line in front of us bought maybe eleven or twelve items and was staring around wide eyed with a “GOOGLE” beanie on and a meth-look in his eyes and gave the cashier a hundred dollar bill.

A hundred dollar bill. In the dollar store.

Who the fuck . . .?

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Anyway, Holidays. NOT my favorite time of year. I don’t like expectation, I don’t like doing things for others because I never know if I’m doing it right. I saw a thing about people with anxiety and the fact that we often spend a ridiculous amount of time wondering if we’re doing the right thing rather than doing anything at all. And it’s true.

That’s going to be my hardest obstacle, being a perfectionist and all.

I’m sure everyone appreciates what I can do but I never feel like I do enough or do enough of it right.

I can’t act “normal”, you know? Does anyone appreciate abnormality anymore? 

Maybe I was out too much this weekend.

Back into my room I retreat. Safe and sound.