Writer’s Block

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

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

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

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

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

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

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When we should be doing something like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s today’s Mental Truth.

 

Law Of Conversation Of Oppression

In yesterday’s post, I established my footing in why constantly seeking control in a world powered by chaos effectively leads to a vain existence. Today I will establish my footing in why we are only as free as our most oppressed members of society.

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My heart lies with many societies with factions of people held down under tyranny and dictatorship and religious ideologies that restrict general rights. Being that I consider myself a mental health blogger, I’d like to talk specifically about stigmas and the oppression those of us with such issues might encounter.

Let’s just not forget there are people out there in the world suffering through levels of oppression that keep them from simply having a life.

At any rate, stigma is a huge topic these last few years. Everyone is gunning for the big guys: the media that shows serial killers with voices in their head, or the OCD Target sweater scandal, e.t.c. I’ve advocated for a few years now that rather than force people to view us as regular people, we should group together, support each other, and show them that we’re just regular people wanting just as much respect and trust as any other human being.

My view today is no different. It was, however, squashed a bit today. I want to give my apologies beforehand out to the mental health community, my peers, as I’ve let us all down a bit today.

Walking through a market my boyfriend and I were mesmerized by some gift boxes and sets. I ran off towards the candles and soaps which I often sniff until I get a headache, and he bolted off with his eyes on the gift baskets of food and popcorn and hot sauce. As we walked side by side, a woman in the aisle over stood with another man. He was slender, tall, dark hair, but very pale and skittish. He held behind him one of the market baskets. The woman seemed boisterous, an attitude mirrored by the frizz in her hair.

Suddenly she blurted words from her mouth that I didn’t catch over the music of the market. She then spun, faced the man, and shouted very blatantly: “No! You have a MENTAL DISORDER, you don’t think right!” 

There were a few words after that crucial line I didn’t catch. My boyfriend and I stared at each other. The man she’d shouted at muttered a tentative “oh”. He fiddled with the basket in his hands. By the time we turned around the aisle, they’d wandered off.

I watched her across the store floor. She talked and talked. The man followed, silent, carrying the basket. I couldn’t guess their relation or age if I tried; it didn’t matter anyhow. 

Driving away, my boyfriend and I both agreed we should have spoken up. I’m not sure why he felt he didn’t, but as I drove home I thought heavily on why I didn’t. I’ve spoken up in situations like that before. I’ve stopped to help strangers and I always say hello to the people in society others won’t make eye contact with.

But for some reason I froze in this situation, and I believe it has much to do with being used to the abuse. I’m used to people thinking the way that woman thinks: you have mental issues, you can’t do things normally. I’m even used to myself telling myself those words.

8fc0a3d3374a8dd7f78114e206f79305And the more I came to this realization, the more I regretted my silence. He needed support. He needed a reminder that words like that were opinion and not truth. He needed someone in his corner in a world where many people are in the corner of the woman.

He was oppressed by a simple sentence, and in turn I was as well; he wasn’t free so I couldn’t be free. That’s how my subconscious reacted in the moment.

I don’t like playing by the rules of the bystander effect. I never have in the past and now that I have, I feel filthy for it. I don’t think I’ll ever do it again.

As I always have, and always will, I encourage you: we’re all in this together. Don’t freeze like me. If someone speaks to you in a manner as blatantly (or subtly) disrespectful as that woman did because of a mental health struggle, a physical health struggle, your religious preference, your attire, whatever is a part of you, don’t mutter “oh”. Don’t fiddle. And remember, an opinion is an opinion. No matter how many times people beat you with words, you can always beat them back with class and intelligence; chances are if they’re using a bunch of words to hurt, they don’t understand the magic of language and in my book if you don’t understand the magic of language then there’s probably a lot of other things your small brain can’t understand.

If you see someone being obviously verbally/mentally abused or disrespected, forget the weird notion that “it’s not your business”. Allowing someone to be hurt in any way possible means you’d be willing to let yourself be hurt in the same way–would you? If not, than it is your business. Not your obligation of course, by all means take out your cell phone and post a video to Facebook. You might go viral and get on the news and everyone will treat you as a hero instead of a bystander. 

As for me, I won’t step back next time, particularly for my peers who I care deeply about.

We’re only as free as our most oppressed members of society.

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What Is Writing?

Good morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Functionality Isn’t Easy

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If you have a short attention span, first of all welcome to group. There are quite a few of us, and you kind of arrived a little late, but help yourself to what’s left of the potluck table. Oh, you don’t like chocolate? Well you can get the fuck out.

Anyway, as I was saying, if you have a short attention span, you know when your limits have been reached. You also know that you make tons of tiny (but ultimately large mistakes), particularly when you’re made to focus for an extended period of time on something. Like school work or paper work at your job.

I have done both several times in the last three days and it’s frustrating knowing I overlook the simple things without knowing I do.

I am taking a break from straining my mind through math and even though I’m a little behind on homework, if I have to integrate by parts and partially fractionate (that’s not a word) and substitute and strain my memory for trigonometric identities one more time, I’m going to blow a gasket.

17mu8lzn0thhrjpgWe all know I do not handle stress well.

When presented with stress, I do two things:

1). Storm around cursing at everyone and everything, including myself.

2). Search frantically for a way to drop one of the stressful aspects of my routine.

Because of fun fact number two, I often make rash decisions, like drop two classes because I failed a quiz and feel inferior to every other human on earth.

I haven’t ever done that, but it’s something I would do.

Work is stressful for  me. There’s a lot of memorizing specific procedures and routes and I learn slower when it comes to memorizing twenty two different routes through a maze. I’m also a perfectionist and hate when I make mistakes, even when I have to in order to learn.

It makes me feel as if I don’t have what it takes to be a functional member of society. I can last a day or two before completely crumbling.

Those of us who struggle mentally know we are very sensitive to stress and it’s usually a good idea to come up with healthy tactics to handle that stress.

It’s a good idea to come up with healthy tactics to handle the stress.

It’s a GOOD IDEA TO COME UP WITH HEALTHY TACTICS TO HANDLE THE STRESS.

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I tell myself that all the time and it never happens. As you can see. I’ve told myself three times and I’m still not going to do it. Maybe I don’t know where to start. Maybe I don’t want to start. Maybe I want to start and have an idea of where to start but are procrastinating until I know it works for sure: I’m the perfectionist procrastinator, remember?

Whatever the reason, I’m suffering in the mean time. My anxiety is at an all time high and the depression is slowly creeping its way through all my safe guards and positive pep-talks. I have defenses against these things, but they’re fragile and severely underdeveloped. It’s like launching a basketball at a premature baby and expecting it to catch it.

To top it all off, I left my hot sauce and my water in the refrigerator at work, and my social anxiety is keeping me from high tailing my ass over there and grabbing it before they toss everything out this Friday. I only work Saturday and Sunday this month.

I put hot sauce on fucking everything. Fish, chicken, beef, rice, beans, whatever.

cb45e6e2ab8acbc0e6b464e3dec79370I put A1 steak sauce on my fish as well. People find that strange. That’s because they don’t know how to eat.

Anyway, what I realized today, which set my head spiraling downward, was the fact that I’d need to tell the director, my main boss and scheduler, about my psychologist appointments so he knows not to schedule me at my regular time on Wednesdays when I start working on the weekdays.

I’ve never told any superiors, except one professor in an essay, about what I struggle with on a daily basis because I understand the stigma around any and all mental health issues. Just the thought makes my digestive system churn.

Because, as much as you want to hope for an understanding attitude, there’s always a chance they won’t be capable of it.

21-adhd_sensory-overloadThese people I work with seem really genuine. I know they’ve probably noticed when the phone rings, when the door bell rings, and when there’s a conversation going on in another area of the room all at the same time it’s hard for me to focus on the task I’m supposed to be learning. Sometimes my trainer has had to repeat three times to me what I’m supposed to be doing because my brain is being tugged in so many different directions at once.

Am I good fit for this position? I don’t know. Sure, it’s a matter of getting used to a new environment but it’s also about what I can handle and what I can’t. I’m dealing with a lot of numbers, a lot of precision, and I can’t afford to be making mistakes all over the place because of my brain.

I split my Ativan pills in half and took three halves during my eight hour shift just to keep my nerves at a relatively low level. I have a very high tolerance, they barely effected me. It was probably more a placebo effect than anything.

the-hottest-question-in-europe-did-the-ecb-just-pull-off-a-back-door-bailout-that-will-end-the-crisisI had to sneak into the bathroom with them stuffed in a gum packet because they have cameras on our department’s staff at all times.

There’s a lot of stigma around people with depression and anxiety, just like every other mental health issues. We’re lazy. We’re too timid; we won’t be able to handle anything. We need to be treated differently. We’re, perhaps, untrustworthy in terms of unpredictability. We can’t handle what the others can. We’re too emotional. We’re mentally “less able”.

The good thing is if he doesn’t believe any of that and is willing to ask me questions and accommodate and we can come to a sort of consensus that works for the both of us, I might feel more comfortable. The bad thing is, if he suddenly deems me unfit I might be out of a job.

I would hate for them to be short one more person. They need 24 employees before march 11. They’ve been looking since mid 2015. They’ve gotten four. That’s including me and my friend.

These people are genuine. They’re kind and patient for the most part, and were heartbroken when one of their long time employees stole thousands from them. He now ha1s a felony on his record, as an accounting major. Life = ruined.

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They put a lot of trust in us. They have no choice. With the stuff we deal with, it’s entirely based on procedure and trust. And communication. And the ability to handle ridiculous over time hours because we’re understaffed because fucking people can’t subtract 16.29 from 20.00.

Seriously. That’s the type of math test you receive, and that’s what everyone is failing. That’s why they’re understaffed.

Just for the record, you must be 18 + to work this particular department.

I don’t like feeling as if I’m failing people who put in a lot of effort and time into their employees and into their job. It’s not just a job to them, it really is what they do with their life. I’m among business degree holders and accountants.

Maybe I need to give it more time. Or maybe I’ve bit off more than I can chew.

 

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.