Tell ’em

What are some of the strangest reactions you’ve had when you’ve told someone your mental health story?

Do you tell people your story? I know plenty who do not, and for good reason: we’re not exactly the most understood people out there.

But see, I like shocking people. I like making them uncomfortable, watching them squirm. And so I often tell my story to strangers, especially if they approach me on the street trying to hit on me. How do I do it? Well, here’s the way it usually goes.

“Hi, I’m Dave, can I ask your name?”

“Hi Dave, I’m Alishia, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too. What are you up to today? Any plans for tonight?”

“No real plans, just some relaxation. It’s my day off today.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you work?”

*Insert Cheshire Cat smile in my head*

“I work at a peer respite house.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, you see we support people who are apart of the county mental health system.”

“That sounds nice. Did you go to school for that?”

“You have to have lived mental health experiences. We do get trained, but we also have to have lived with some mental health challenges ourselves.”

And if that doesn’t make them uncomfortable, if they don’t glance away or squirm or do any of the body language symbols that means I’ve got them by the neck I mention my psychosis. That usually gets them.

What are the benefits and disadvantages to doing this? I don’t see many disadvantages. I of course wouldn’t do this in a professional setting were I applying for some big time job that isn’t mental health related, I’m aware most people have some serious misconceptions of who someone with mental health issues is. But I do it to people I meet or people I’m meeting because I’m not someone who sees my mental health as a disadvantage or something to hide. I see it as something to embrace, something to be fully, wholly comfortable with.

I don’t run down the street screaming I’m crazy, even if that’s what it sounds like. But if the topic comes up in conversation, I casually mention my struggles, and if people struggle with accepting them, that’s not really my problem.

How did I become comfortable with this? I wasn’t in high school. I didn’t like telling people I had anxiety around people because I thought it was a weakness and I didn’t want to expose my weakness for people to play target practice with. I didn’t start getting comfortable until I turned twenty and was forced to tell my boss at the amusement park I was working at so that I could get accommodations. The way he responded was very understanding, and I regret leaving that job without really giving any proper notice.

Sometimes all it takes is one moment in time.

Sometimes all it takes is a little risk.

People will react badly. And if you already know that, you’re already 10 steps ahead of everyone else. And that’s today’s Mental Truth.

Psychosis, the poem

Under the tree that whistles

lies a sharp and pointed thistle,

that pokes and prods

whenever I intend to leave this little spot under the whistling tree.

A bunny hops,

with four eyes and two legs,

and I poke it with a peg,

to shoo it away.

I hear you call my name

as a hundred others do,

and I hear curses whispered,

apparently from me to you.

They say I’ve infected you, injected you,

and I must run away;

there’s no time for play under this whistling tree today.

They get louder and louder and I don’t know what to do

so I get up and run, I run right past you.

I’m in danger, can’t you see?

My shadow senses it and bolts ahead of me,

leaving me unprotected.

I stop and shiver, cry and quiver,

as I lose myself within the night.

There’s no coming back and you’ve gone,

I’ve gone,

and the whistling tree seeks revenge.

I go roughly into that good night,

beaten and scarred,

feathered and tarred,

and you are there beneath the whistling tree with angel wings

out of my reach.

I lay on the ground beneath the spotlight

curled with my knees to my chest,

my best defense

against the dark arts.

You fly to heaven and I am alone, truly alone,

comforted by the whistling tree.

 

I think what’s ironic about this poem is that, to me, my experience with psychosis has been poetry. It’s been a beautiful, terrifying, cold dance with the devil who is, as he is in the Bible, an angel.

This Is Why You’re Depressed

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Let me explain from the beginning.

Perhaps if you’re just tuning into this website, you’re not quite sure what it’s about or why after all these months I’ve decided to make another post. Well, let me say that not everyone who disappears never reappears. There are some of us writers who need long breaks, vacations, a little time to go crazy in the comfort, or discomfort, of their own room. The latter, applying heavily to me.

I preach. I am a preacher. I preach self-care, self-love. I preach happiness and the dual meaning within it. I preach the importance and skill of being mindful of your emotions, your own inner processes, and the pain which accompanies those two things. I also work at Second Story Peer Respite, a place which values communication, peer support, and mutuality. If you’d like to hear a bit about Second Story, click here. If you’re confused on what a respite house is, click here. Click both, if you have the time.

I struggle in practicing what I preach, and with communication, which is why this website first started out as a whiny, self-centered blog that a bunch of people liked because my sarcasm was over 9000, especially in regards to Alex Gorsky. It’s since turned into something greater, and is still building despite my hiatus. We talk about mental health in different ways here, examining critical perspectives, and every once in a while I post another personal article like this one. I like openness, and for you to know the person behind the virtual paper.

In September 2017, I wasn’t doing well. If you know dissociation, you know the feelings of leaving this world for another. The feeling of unreality and reality merging into one big blur. At home it seemed whenever I walked through the door I’d get called some version of bitch, motherfucker, lazy ass–something derogatory–and that’s a very hard environment to live in for 22 years. I felt myself getting depressed. I’m well versed in depression, since age 10, and knew I’d need to ride this out. So I gripped for dear life.

Why didn’t I speak with anyone? A peer? My psychologist? My Boyfriend? I’m not sure. Sometimes there are things in life you can’t explain, and this is one of them.

But then things were better. I could wake up for work with energy, I engaged with guests at the house, happily too! I felt connected and strong. And then the Las Vegas shooting happened.

Like a lot of people, I was affected. Watching the videos of people running for their life, ducking for their life, screaming for their life, holding onto their loved ones whose blood is splattered across the dirt, hearing the gunshots fire without remorse–all of it was quite traumatic for many, no one more so than those there.

But I became obsessed. I started listening to the conspiracies, believing them. I stopped sleeping, I wasn’t eating regularly (two heavy self-care things) and I knew something was off, but I’d felt this way before–ride it out, you’ll make it, just like the depression: you’ll make it.

Then I went to take some cash out of an ATM two weeks later. Worst mistake of my life.

As I stepped from my car, conspiracies repeating themselves over in my mind in the form of thoughts and voices, I glanced at the grey haired woman with the white stripe. Her eyes locked into mine, her smile sly. I frowned behind my sunglasses. Her head was twisted around–all the way around, like an owl. And she stared. She stared so hard, I knew she was attempting to penetrate my mind. And this is where my memory gets a little foggy.

What I do remember is that, in that moment, I knew possession was to blame for all of this, including the shooting; it only made sense, considering the police couldn’t find a motive at that time. And so I sped home. And I wrote all of this down. Somewhere.

What I do believe, what I’ve always believed, what I’ve been running from since I was a kid, is bad spirits, that I’m here for a reason on earth, perhaps not to preach but to bring some kind of light to the world. And I believe there are spirits attempting to prevent that, and that the Vegas shooting was their way of getting close to me. They split themselves into that man, the woman at the ATM, my family, and my coworkers.

Drama at work lead me to mistrust every body in the house, even people not involved, and I believed they were possessed. I believed it fully. I didn’t tell them that, but I believed it. Have you ever told someone you thought they were possessed? Imagine the conversation. Especially if they really are possessed. Demons don’t like being revealed.

It makes you wonder: you went to work during all this? Yes, I did. If you’ve read the articles above, you’ll understand why. Regardless of what was going on, it was still my sanctuary.

I don’t hear voices as frequently as others, usually when I’m stressed I expect them and they come, and I was very stressed. They often followed me into my dreams, and into the waking world, where they told me 1/3 of my body had been possessed as well. They’d taken me down into hell to show me their truth and some rotted, tortured corpses and sent a killer after me who chased me through my dreams and into the waking world, once again. I guess that sounds a bit like Freddy Kruger. I think I watched that movie too often as a child.

Anyway, bottom-line: I wasn’t safe as I slept and I wasn’t safe when I was awake, so I stopped sleeping: I like to see my death coming.

As work drama died down for the others, it only intensified for me. I learned things that made me feel not only betrayed by many, but disturbed. Rather than take some time away, I picked up more than my usual two shifts a week. Twice in a row I worked four or five days, on only a few hours of sleep, while being chased, tormented, and screamed at. I’m not sure how I do the things I do.

I wanted to die. And so I said that. Against my wishes, I was transferred to a hospital 45 minutes away. Best mistake of my life. I got out of town, away from work, away from my family, and away from my town: every source of stress in one swoop.

If you look at the quotes on this website, you’ll infer hospitals, psychiatric medication, and the mental health industry is not something I agree with regularly. This hospital softened a spot in my heart for it all. Not for the corruption, the publication bias, and the lying research, but for the idea that compassionate people do indeed work in this industry, regardless of how clueless they are.

Each staff knew my work place. In fact, they encouraged me to quit: I’m too young and too fragile. I certainly didn’t take that advice, I’ve never been too young or too fragile for anything, quite obviously.

But there was one woman, one nurse, who tuned into something greater than myself, something hidden within my subconscious which she must have seen in my eyes given we’d never spoken. She called me out of the day room, away from my comedic happy place, and into a group room. She asked me why I wanted to die. No filibuster, no opening joke. I appreciated that.

She shared some stories, some words of wisdom. She asked me how I grew up, she asked me about home life, she gathered the facts and truths and she made me repeat something she used to tell herself: “I am enough, I have enough.” I thought it silly, particularly since she made me repeat it a million times, until I found myself balling–and not from the torture of repetition, but something deeper, perhaps feelings I hadn’t yet touched. She asked me when everything started: the voices, the paranoia, the depression, and I told her. She only had one thing to say as a response: It’s a gift.

Something I’d known myself, but it came with greater weight from someone who really had no idea who I was besides what she gathered during this moment we’d shared.

Back in my room that night as I read Plague of Doves by Louise Eldritch, the same nurse knocked on the door and slipped some papers into my hands, one of which was a quote:

“Everything is energy; and that is all their is. Match the frequency of the reality you want and you cannot help but get that reality. It can be no other way. This is not philosophy, this is physics.” –Albert Einstein.

I’m not a big Einstein buff, but I am a physics buff, and philosophy buff, both of which I’m working on degrees towards. She had no knowledge of this, but she grasped on something about me, perhaps the way I spoke, the metaphors I used. And I thanked her graciously for her taking the time to connect with me. She didn’t have to. Only one other nurse did that out of the five or so I interacted with.

So why did she give me this quote? Well, I could go into the relative explanation. I could go into the different theories which support this fact that energy is everything, including the holographic principal. But I won’t bore you all that way, I’m sure I’ve done it in other older posts.

What I’m around, who I’m around, how life is in general, the energy of life, influences your mentality, and if you remain in that mentality it’s all you will attract. It sounds like something out of that quack book “The Secret”, but there is some truth to it. I’m not saying everyone can just snap out of whatever they’re dealing with, if that were true we’d be a perfect society. I’m certainly not snapped out of what I went through. But I am more conscious of myself, my environment, and I’m back in tune with my gut, whether or not it leads me astray sometimes. Because when you disconnect from yourself you disconnect from everyone else, and everything else.

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Will I continue this website? Will I be posting more frequently again? Will the content still be as sarcastic and beautiful as the old days? Yes, yes, and oh yes. Tune in for more.

 

 

To All Followers, Readers, and Newbies

Hello all.

I type this message with a bit of melancholy, almost. It’s been a good twenty-three months on this website and I’ve made some invaluable connections. When I first created Mental Truths, my first piece ranted on the industry. My second piece ranted on anxiety in social situations and the breath of fresh air nighttime brought. It snowballed from there.

Most people don’t know this, but I started gaining followers and readers and viewers rapidly after I made a post regarding Alex Gorsky. That original post is here if you’d like to take a look. I go back and read it sometimes and laugh at the type of mental health language I used: I thought I needed to fit in with everyone, keep to disorders and clinical terminology. That was cute.

If I ever meet Alex in real-time, I’ll have to thank him and direct him to the above link.

At any rate, I have to say goodbye. It’s time.

It’s time to say goodbye to the old, and hello to the new.

I’m sure you’ve noticed a change in the structure of my website. If you haven’t and you’re not new, then I’m a little offended: how long has it been since you’ve read my webpage?

I won’t be the only person posting here anymore. There are going to be many other stories, other perspectives, other work of self-expression, and that’s where you all come in because I’ll need you all now more than ever. This webpage can’t run without all of you.

Right now, this is still in the stages of reorganization and development. There are webpage specifications I need to fix, and design orientation I need to customize. But all the while I’m searching the web for people willing to share their mental health journey with the internet (and therefore the world). If you’ve been with me these past 23 months (Thank you so much), you know my focus is on alternative mental health care, the hiccups in the industry, and the benefits of being one with our experiences. If you have a story like that, if you have an experience like that (good or bad), this website needs you.

If you don’t, this website still needs your voice. I’m not one to forbade “clinical language”. I’m not one to chew out people for identifying with a diagnosis. I only care what’s comfortable for you to share–and how you share that is up to you.

The majority of the stories and articles will be about alternative, holistic, humanistic care. Not everyone has the opportunity to experience that kind of care, though. If you feel you’ve been mistreated by the industry, if you feel something can change, if you want to call to action, we welcome your thoughts. If you feel you haven’t been mistreated, if you feel it’s helped you tremendously, we welcome your thoughts. If you’re on the fence about both styles, we welcome you.

If you are in college or are a professional in the psychology industry and you come across a research paper/study/article (preferably empirical) that you’d either like to provide an analysis or criticism of, or have me create an analysis or criticism of (we all know how much I love tearing shoddy researchers a new one) we welcome that as well. Many of those will be posted on here.

If you are a family member/friend of someone who has struggled mentally, we also welcome you. We wish you keep into consideration that everyone experiences things differently, and that sometimes it is hard to really understand someone’s pain from the outside: meaning we don’t welcome degrading comments on the concept of “mental illness”. I think you understand what I’m saying. If not, email me, we can talk about it.

If you have an idea of a topic you’d like to write about, or present artwork on (we welcome flash fiction, artwork, poetry, e.t.c) please email me as well. We can discuss what works.

This webpage is a team effort now, a community effort, and whether you’re just skimming past, a dedicated reader, a follower from the beginning (it’s been a long road, eh?) or a contributor, we welcome you and I personally thank you. Deeply.

To summarize: things have changed, I welcome your submissions if you’re interested, I thank you for reading, and let’s get your voice heard.

Contact me here!

The Night

I once saw a bear in my shower. Well, he wasn’t in my shower, he was outside of the doors halfway in my mind, halfway in the bubble of consciousness we call The Universe. Then I saw a spider, the size of my hand, and he was on the door until he wasn’t anymore. Then I was transported to a garden with a grey stone wall and a tree with those cherry blossom flowers, those beautiful pink ones, and in front of the tree stood The Hooded One, in white, and he turned to greet me, or kill me, and I was pulled back from his garden. He visited my garden, my room, he turned my cat’s eyes red, and I was more frightened then I should have been. We were tugged between two wormholes. Then I fell asleep.

One night I discussed the word “working” with an old jazz man. Boy, did we have a good laugh. He asked me how the word should be pronounced, so I laughed and said it out loud for him to hear, and for me to hear, but no one else. He repeated the word, and my laugh, and then said the word with a British accent, and an otherwordly accent, then he asked again, again, and again if he was pronouncing it right. He played some saxophone in the background.

In a house I called myself dead, walking the halls of death row, but I didn’t say it and my feet weren’t mine. There was silence and noise and I was followed underneath the streetlights by the man with only a skin flap for a face, no eyes, no ears, no nose, no mouth, only thoughts which he stole from me. I ran to my car and went home and waited until sunrise.

First I thought I was going crazy, or maybe a little loony, Luna, Lunar, I must be from the moon. Then I decided alien contact and demons and wormholes made much more sense than insanity.

 

Clear The Mind

Everyone, once in a while, needs a way to take a break and clear their mind. Some people use art, some people use drugs, some people use math (nerds), and some people like me take their car for a good old fashion wash.

dvg8yjnI’ve never been good at drawing.With my bad luck, the first time I try a substance like methamphetamine or heroin, I’ll probably die, and math only makes me rip my own leg off, swallow it, and shit out a prosthetic of my own leg. That’s a very painful process, as you can imagine.

Therefore, I take two days out of every month to thoroughly give my baby, my car, a good old scrubbing.

Let me explain this process so you can understand why having mindless activities is absolutely pertinent to mental health.

Firstly, I arrive. That’s a big deal because I scope out everyone at the do-it-yourself wash to see if there are any other badasses like me. More often than not, there aren’t.

pimpin

Then I get some coins from the shitty coin machine while praying to a God I’m not entirely sure I believe in that the coin machine doesn’t fuck me over.

I sigh with relief when it does not.

I avoid eye contact with the one drunk/high homeless man who always tries to talk to me in Spanish. The bad thing about being as obsessive with routine as I am, is that other people start to recognize my habits as well.

Then I spray the chrome cleaner on my wheels and let it set for a few minutes before rinsing off my car, scrubbing it with the foam brush, then rinsing it again to make sure every bit of caked on dirt is annihilated.

I have an emotional connection to my computers, to my phones, to my vehicle. When I saw the ad on Craigslist for it all cleaned nicely, parked beside the cliffs against the sunset, I knew it was mine. I bought it two hours later. I care about my car as much as I care about my boyfriend.

When some woman passed my car this evening and touched the hood to keep her balance it felt like some chick had just walked up to my boyfriend and groped his junk. That’s how personal I get.

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Back to the story.

After everything is rinsed, I hurry and start the car and drive it to the drying station where I run around frantically with a five foot microfiber towel wiping away as much water as I can before the towel is drenched. Yes, I run. This is when most people start staring at the red haired chick with the red and blue eyebrows and black and blue eyeliner with blue eyelashes jogging in a circle around her vehicle until the entirety of the car is finished.

Did I mention I’ve dyed my hair and my eyebrows weeks ago? The blue eyelashes are not fake, I tint them with a gel eye shadow because I don’t like the colored mascaras in the stores, they don’t work very well.

I use specialized towels for the windows. I use one towel per two windows. When it comes to the windshield and back window, half of the windshield uses one towel, the other half uses a new one; the same goes for the back window.

screenshot_2015-10-13_at_11-50-38_amAt this point, everyone is staring. (Will she pull a house full of towels from her car? Is she hiding bodies in there? Why is she bumping that music and smoking pot in public? Oh Gosh, oh golly gosh, we gotta get out of here!)

Then I pull out the wax. Yes, my friends, I do not use that stupid “spray on wax” bullshit. What is that even? What. Is. That. It’s shit is what it is. I use the wax that comes in the round container with the sponge and karate kid the fuck out of my car.

My favorite wax is mothers:

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I currently use this brand that I can’t pronounce:

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I will be switching back to mother’s after I run out. Meg-whatever-the-fuck doesn’t coat for as long and the coat isn’t as protective as mothers’.

While the waxed sections air dry, I start cleaning out all the trash and thanking the million men who come up and say “wow, you keep your car clean, I like it”. I’ve had drug dealers (I saw him deal) in nice new Mercedes compliment me, I’ve had homeless men compliment me, I’ve had old country-style men compliment me, and I’ve had some guys feel so enamored by my presence that they offer to buy me stuff from the store. No, I do not accept; like I trust a guy I don’t know to hand me a drink, dude, get real. I don’t even trust waiters in restaurants half the time.

After I wipe away the wax and dust all the crevices I spray the tires. While that sets, I vacuum the inside and clean the inner windows and my mirrors.

I do everything in this order every two weeks. I’ve become a regular; all the regular men know me now. It takes anywhere from one and a half to three hours, depending on how dirty everything is, inside and out.

200380683-001I care enormously for my car. It hurts my heart that I don’t have the money to fix the oil leak or the entire suspension. I hate it. It hurts like I’m letting down my best friend.

That being said, I’ve had half of my suspension done; that was 500. I’m hoping to put in another five hundred to fix the back half this month or next. I’m hoping to find the oil leak and fix it myself when I have the time and a manual.

But he’s a power hungry little beast. He keeps up with all the new Hybrids and fancy sporty cars. I drag raced my friend’s 2014 Chrysler a week after her grandparents bought it for her, and won, not that that means anything.

The love someone feels for a child is what I feel for inanimate objects. They are things I can watch grow, they are things that make me happy when I’m sad. And everyone needs something like that in their life.

The best thing about owning your own car is customization. At this point I will announce my latest cheap changes that will be happening before October (that in no way effect my fund to fix the suspension, in case you’re the kind of person who sits here and says ‘uugghh stop spending money on the outside of your car when the inside is shitty’).

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The two emblems on the back are this:

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Around my license plate is this:

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Where my car is labeled “Stratus”, I will be replacing the chrome letters with “Strange”.

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Yes, those are chrome wheels and not plastic rims. BALLIN’.

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Where it says “Dodge” on the left hand corner of the drivers door (and passenger door), I will be putting “Music”.

Yes, this is all legal.

 

This is my way of balancing my sanity: giving my entire day to taking care of something I care tremendously about. Everyone should have a car to wash, a painting to paint, a song to write, something that gives your brain time to relax and remember itself for a moment. It’s amazing how calmed you are afterwards.

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.