The Night I Tried to Kill Myself

I don’t quite know how to put this experience into words. I haven’t written for some time again, due to feelings of inadequacy, depression, and general brain fog. I can’t seem to form coherent sentences as quickly as I used to, nor can I focus for long periods of time on something that I have a deep love for.

Thursday, 10.25.18 I remember walking into the outpatient center I attend for a therapy session. I remember the feelings of utter hopelessness attending with me, like a sack lunch I was carrying to school. I had made the decision to give up. I was tired of fighting, I was tired of trying to fight, and I was tired of the only option being fighting. I was tired of fighting myself, I was tired of, for the millionth time in my mental health career, coming off of medication, and I was tired of hearing I needed medication to thrive.

I was taking 10 milligrams of Abilify and 10 milligrams of Trintellix and I couldn’t find the energy to finish homework, or get out of bed, and I didn’t have the luxury of feeling any emotion at all: happiness, sadness, inquisitiveness, passion–nothing. And so I did what I always do: stopped the medication.

This usually happens without consequence. For the most part, I’ll stop cold turkey after a couple of months, struggle through a few physical withdrawal symptoms, and get on with my lifestyle. The last time I stopped these two meds, I regained my energy quickly, breezed through four classes, and managed happiness until the opinions of those I care about convinced me to try the medication again.

So I tried again, For maybe two and a half weeks. Then I stopped. I stopped and I noticed my energy did not come back. My mood was stable until it wasn’t. It plummeted. I focused a lot on what was wrong with me, the disappointment of my relationship ending (yes, I’m still stuck on that), and the worries of the future regarding my education, where I’m going to live after December, and the simple fact that I struggle taking care of myself. Those are the surface issues. There are deeper issues I don’t think I’m in touch with yet.

I’ve struggled with depression since I was ten years old. A low mood was nothing new to me, in fact I welcomed it because the darkness was comforting. It was an old friend, a sinister reminder that life is suffering and suffering reminds us that we’re alive. I was thankful for this friend to return because on the medication I didn’t feel alive.

I started planning fun things to do to keep me from falling further: A concert, an overnight trip to San Francisco, Halloween plans and costumes. I got excited: the week of the 21st would be marvelous.

But I started separating from myself.  I don’t remember when, and I don’t remember how, but part of me blacked out. I know I was around and talking to people because I went to work, had laughs, made plans. I don’t remember much of it, but I know I was there.

By Thursday, the 25th, I was moving slowly, not comprehending where I was, no hope or vision for the future, and I’d even lost interest in Halloween, my favorite holiday. I confessed to the therapist that I didn’t have energy to care much about my life, nor could I answer her questions. I didn’t tell her I’d made a plan to (somehow) kill myself after Halloween. It wasn’t fully developed yet, an undercooked chicken in the oven.

I don’t remember much about the session other than the ending: a mindful meditation seeking to locate my inner child. I remember a lot of pain resurfacing, so deep and profound I had never felt it before, and I snapped. I was gone. She asked me how I felt, and I told her dissociated, separated from myself. I remember that. She made me do some grounding activities to bring me back into my body. I don’t think they worked.
That night I went to a concert. It put me in a seemingly better mood.

Friday and Saturday I spent the days in San Francisco at the Academy of Sciences, Golden Gate Park, Six Flags, and around town. Saturday evening, on the drive back, a sinister part of me reminded me of my plan.

I’m not a stranger to hearing voices. I don’t hear them every day, and I haven’t had a bad episode in a while, not since my last hospitalization last year, but this time was different. This time I heard nothing external, and everything internal.

We all have an inner voice that reads to us, thinks for us, and we are in control of that voice, we dictate it. I’m dictating it now as I read back what I wrote, and as I write. But what I listened to that Saturday evening was not of my own doing. A different voice, a male voice, one inside of my head that I had no control of, which directly told me I needed to kill myself. He instructed me to open the door of the car and jump out in traffic–on the highway–and end it. He addressed me as “you” and I addressed me as “I”. That’s the only difference I can pinpoint right now. When I had a thought of my own, I said to myself “I need to calm down”. When I didn’t, he said “you need to do this. There’s no reason for you to live, you don’t deserve life.”

Was this a demonic entity interfering with my thoughts? I didn’t know. I sat paralyzed in the rental car my Ex drove, crying consistently for an hour and a half. The torment wouldn’t stop. “You don’t deserve to live. There’s nothing good about you. Jump out of the car. End it. When you get home, kill yourself. Hang yourself in the closet, no one will even find you.”

I had plans that evening with another friend, so I did not act on those commands. I did, however, drink quite a bit of whiskey and wander around the downtown city. When I got home, I drank more whiskey and fell asleep.

In the morning I awoke instantly crying. The day was Sunday, 10.28.18. I turned on Breaking Bad: I’ve never seen it before. I don’t remember much of the episodes because my head was so loud: “hang yourself in the closet. Take a knife, slit your wrists. You will never amount to anything. You don’t deserve to be on this earth, you don’t contribute to anything.” I joined in: “I can’t write anymore. I can’t enjoy things anymore. I don’t see this getting any better”.

It was 6pm that night when I finally stood up and searched my apartment for something, anything to hang myself with. I didn’t feel in control of my body, I was just going along with the motions.

“Fill up the tub, get in the water, slit your wrists.”

I grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer and filled up the tub. I remember this part more clearly than other parts because my heart was beating out of my chest, my hands were clammy, and I couldn’t get a grip on myself, I felt like I was losing myself to someone else.

I got in the water with my clothes on and fought the noise in my head. I tried to give myself reasons to live–family, my cat, work–but it was always overpowered by that other voice. I spent a half an hour sawing at my wrists with a dull blade that could barely cut a tomato. I pressed as hard as I could and my skin barely broke. Eventually, I threw the knife. I remember a lot of crying and banging my head on the wall and hitting myself. The noise wouldn’t stop. I ripped out the string from my leggings I had on and wrapped it around my neck and pulled and pulled and pulled. Thinking back on it, I would probably pass out before I die, given my hands are the one pulling the strings, but in the moment I just needed to cause some sort of harm to myself. I kept trying the knife in between strangling myself and I sent one text message that I don’t remember.

It was a couple hours before I stopped. My neck was sore and I had stopped crying, but I wasn’t back in my body yet. The water was cold and I heard the front door open and footsteps running in.

We spent a couple hours talking, and I was gone completely. I don’t remember an ounce of the conversation. I remember seeing through my eyes my body stand up and go for the knife, go for the string, and my ex preventing me from doing so. I remember telling him I didn’t want to traumatize him.

There’s a block on my memory of the conversation, what I said, what he said. I remember being on the couch wrapped in blankets, soaking wet, distraught, eating pizza. I didn’t remember the last time I had food. It couldn’t have been too long. I took a Seroquel. I only had three or four left. It’s a shame I didn’t have a full bottle, or I would have just swallowed them all and called it a night.

The next day I didn’t awake until 1pm. I could barely move, my mind was paralyzingly loud, and I turned on more Breaking Bad. The urge to die was so strong. People took turns watching after me, texting me, calling me. I refused to let anyone call 911. The hospital is not a place to be when you’re in a crisis.

Today is Halloween. My head isn’t loud. I came back into my body and have trouble remembering what the depression felt like because I feel I wasn’t the one to feel it–this entity within me, whether it’s paranormal or just a fractured part of my self, is hell bent on destroying me.  I haven’t experienced a dissociative experience so destructive since high school.

Am I still depressed? I think. Mildly. Or it’s so severe that I’m incapable of comprehending the severity of it.

I didn’t learn to love life from this attempt. I didn’t learn to appreciate the little things or find new meaning or purpose. I still feel lost and confused. A hospital visit isn’t going to change that. What I did learn is that I’m more committed than ever to never taking psychiatric medication again in my life. After 7 years of being a guinea pig, I’m done.

My outpatient group counselor asked me why I despised medication so much. I told her it’s poison. She asked in what way. I told everyone in that room that long term treatment results in heart issues, liver issues, physical ailments that permanently scar your internal body and shorten your life span.

She said okay,  well, then would you rather kill yourself now and not have a life to live, or have some little problems a little later?

I said that was a dumb question, and that heart arrhythmia’s aren’t little problems. I said I’d rather kill myself than subject my body to synthetic chemicals.

And through this experience, if it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the only two ways I will die is by my own hand or nature’s hand. I will not slowly die at the hands of greedy monsters making a profit off my death. If anyone is going to shorten my life span, it’s going to be me.

Should 911 have been called on me? Probably. I’m worried what I will do after Halloween–my original plan–and where my mindset will go. I’m worried I won’t be able to receive the support people are offering because I don’t know how. I’m convinced there is nothing left for me and that the only thing keeping me alive right now is fear of the unknown and a low threshold for pain. I’m worried this depression will slide past, unnoticed, and sky rocket into something more. I’m worried I’m not going to find a purpose again, that I’m not going to find a reason to live. I’m worried I’ll never feel passionate about anything again, or optimistic. I’m worried I’m shutting down, like the last stages of liver cancer. I’m worried I’ll pass as functional and be in misery for the rest of my life, however short or long that is. I’m worried someone will convince me to go back on medication. I’m worried that the only thought in my head right now is that I give up.

I’m worried that, recently, every time someone offers their help, my response now is “I don’t want it.”

Anyone?

I’ve a question for all of you out there who are fellow sufferers of what is commonly called “intrusive thoughts”. In fact, I have several questions.

What I hear most commonly around intrusive thoughts is their connection to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. From my understanding, on a clinical standpoint, those intrusive thoughts are usually repeated and have a resulting compulsion. Correct me if I’m wrong, I don’t have any real connection personally to OCD, so if the experience is completely different please feel free to blast me in the comments below.

Or just politely explain it. Whichever you prefer. The last time I was offended by someone’s comment on the internet, T-Rex’s roamed the earth. And yes, I’m that old. No wrinkles. Want the secret to my everlasting youth? Stay turned until the end of this article.

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What was I talking about?

Intrusive thoughts. Yes. Yes. Another way I’ve heard them described is thoughts that come out of no where and invade your brain space and fill it up until it feels like it’s about to burst. Usually that get’s explained by someone’s anxiety and worries or brought on by stress.

I’ve experienced intrusive-like thoughts throughout the majority of my life, as well as intrusive images? Does anyone else go through that? Most of the images I see either appear in front of my eyes or on the back of my eyelids when I blink or close my eyes. They’re not pleasant. Usually gruesome images of demon babies, demons, mangled corpses, skeletons, e.t.c. I don’t know where the depictions are coming from?

(# Government satellites circling the earth transmitting messages to my brain).

Anyway, most people’s intrusive thoughts are spoken with the dialect and accent of the voice in their head–you know, the little guy who chills with you everywhere, who you hear-think when you’re reading a book silently, the one school helped you develop by forcing you to read silently rather than out loud. Mine have never been in that voice. Anyone else experience this?

Mine have developed into other people’s voices, that’s how I can distinguish the thoughts provoked my anxiety (in my own voice) and the ones that seemingly develop from thin air (in other voices).

I’ve been thinking about this for a while, because I’ve been reading more and more posts about anxiety, depression, intrusive thoughts, and voices. I believe these are a result of stress and different anxieties, but are expressed as something completely unrelated.

For example, when I first got my kitten, I posted all the lovely pictures of her and how much fun she is. I did not mention that as I watched her play on the ground, this thought person told me I should snap her neck. I should step on her. I should throw her in front of a car.

I’m used to having stupid thoughts about stupid things in some other stupid voice. I might be thought-told to murder someone or run over a biker while I’m driving, maybe even something as disturbing as violating a child.

They’re not repeated thoughts. They don’t make me avoid things. Compulsions don’t result. I don’t “worry” constantly I’ll become a murderer, because I’ve always been away of these thought-voices, I know what they suggest are pretty dumb and vile. They come and they go and I move on. Usually I’ll just remove myself from whatever situation I’m in (i.e, leave the room my kitten is in) and do something else.

My problem is finding someone else who totally gets what I’m saying. Someone who knows what I mean when I say “thought-voice”, in that it’s internal dialogue not in my “brain-voice”. I usually tell them to shut up if they start showing me images/memories I don’t want to see, or curse me out, e.t.c. It’s like there’s two other people living inside of my brain.

Sometimes it’s not frequent. Sometimes it’s very frequent. Sometimes I feel a little distant from things and once my brain settles down I feel like I’ve just woken up from a coma or something. Everything is clear again. I have a hard time remembering what went on in the last few days or weeks. I’ll remember things, but not well I guess I should say. What I remember very well is the feeling of being distant.

Can anyone relate? Leave a comment or email me if you don’t like personal things in a comment section.

For now, I’ll just go with my Government theory: they’re zapping our brains with specific plots of theirs, so that we develop into mass murders and then get sent to prison and then make millions of dollars for the prisons, e.t.c, e.t.c. And I’m a test subject. Cool.

Oh yeah, I haven’t developed wrinkles because I’m immortal. So, just get some immortality and you’ll be fine.

If Thoughts Could Speak

It used to be, in the finer stages of youth, the world was a bright, magical place.

It’s still very magical, but in a different light, I think.

Like many people, I’m disturbed today by injustice, by incivility, by disrespect, by the pain we cause each other and the struggles we can’t get help for. I’m disturbed by the county welfare office and how discontent they are; I’m disturbed how they run us around in circles. I’m disturbed that I’ve had physicians laugh plainly in my face about my mental health.

I’m disturbed that we, as a human race, can claim the theoretical possibility of a simple algorithm describing human intelligence (N=2^i-1) and yet indigenous people across the globe are buried beneath bigotry, stupidity, and greed. I’m disturbed that we can put intelligence into math terms and yet never use that intelligence to better ourselves as a whole.

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I think it’s wonderful when a single person gets the drive and determination to volunteer, to help out their elderly parents, to pull over to the side of the road to help someone who they’ve never met before. I think it’s even more wonderful when a group of people do that.

If one person performing one act of kindness makes one other person perform one act of kindness, what do you think a group performing several acts of kindness could do?

The magic I find in the world is dictated by my imagination. It’s dictated by hours spend reading about futurism and Elon Musk’s goals. It’s dictated by days of neuroscience articles and reading about the potentiality of a new Cancer vaccine. It’s dictated by the stories scribbled by my pens and the character’s voices in my head.

 

While I have the drive and the insight, I would like to contribute things to this world. After watching days upon days of videos of people in comas and recovering from a Traumatic Brain Injury, after reading article after article about pictures of neurons and the future implications of implanting memory chips into people’s heads, and after dissecting paper after paper about some new early (and un-reviewed) idea that gravity isn’t a fundamental force, but rather an “emergent phenomenon”, I’ve rekindled my love of neuroscience and theoretical neurophysics and the merging of physics and biology.

There are so many things to think about, and this is why I never get things done. If my mind isn’t caught up in worries that will never happen, then it’s caught up in conspiracies against me that I shouldn’t care about. If I don’t feel like people are planning an attack, then demons are–somewhere, somehow. I feel them and I see the signs. If the demons leave me alone, then I dive into a rabbit hole of articles and videos and when I wake up from it all, in the brief period of silence I get, I realize I’ve lost track of time, of my school work, and of life itself.

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So when I say I’m tired, and you give me a strange look because I’ve been laying in bed all day, think about it this way:

Your computer sits on a desk for three weeks in sleep mode. When you open it, the battery is dead. You get frustrated ravaging your room for the charger and you ask yourself: why did the battery die when it wasn’t doing anything?

You left the system running on its only power source.

My brain is my only power source. I dream about math and philosophy and violence. I wake up and am bombarded by thought after thought after thought, anxiety related or not. My battery runs dry even in sleep mode, even when there’s a screen saver on, even nothing is being done on the computer, but the screen is on.

Meanwhile, my kitten sleeps in a wonderfully peaceful exorcist position:

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Her head is completely upside down: you’re looking at the underside of her mouth.

Now I understand Oscar more. Oscar is the cat at my place of work. He was beside me last night as I worked an overnight shift. He had this wild stare in his eyes and this calm demeanor. But nothing about him felt calm. His eyes were always elsewhere. He was always focused on something else, somewhere else, with such a great intensity I got worried he saw some paranormal forces behind me that I couldn’t. It was difficult to get any rest last night.

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Oscar Laying On Me At 3 a.m

This is Oscar. He has a stare worth a thousand words. Vacant but very much present. Focused, intensely. He felt tense and he couldn’t sleep either. His disconcerting vibe made me wonder if this is how people felt when they saw me staring into space, un-moving, monotone.

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He’s gained weight again: he was larger when I first started working here. He slimmed down a lot, was running around like crazy, and now he’s gained some weight back again. I don’t know if that influences his stare, but it might.

Either way, Oscar and I spent a night of staring into each other’s eyes. He understood me and I understood him. He saw into my soul a bit, I think.

He wouldn’t show his though, that’s why he wouldn’t let me take a picture of him when he stared directly at me. He wanted those moments private, and I respect that.

Depression. Period.

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Depression.

Depression sucks. 

It sucks worse when someone calls it a choice.

If you think that’s what happened to me, you’d be wrong. In fact, my depression isn’t acting up at all right now. Mine comes in waves, strong ones, usually resulting from me screwing myself over, someone else screwing me over, or me just sick of feeling emotionally confused. Otherwise I tend to be rather blank. Not externally, that I fake, but internally yes. And I enjoy that. I enjoy that without feeling joy, because. . .

because I’m blank so . . .

so It’d be kind of hard to feel the joy of it all.

Now anger . .  . that’s a whole separate beast in itself.

cheer-up-smileyAnyway, when I am deeply depressed and wondering if there is a point to anything at all, if there is even a point to fighting it or coping with it or learning to accept it, I hate when people tell me “cheer up” or “stop being so negative” as if I’m choosing to be intensely negative, as if that’s something I strive to do in my daily life. 

Now, let’s pause.

Mostly because this is a touchy subject for those of us with depression. We know we hate people who tell us our depression is a choice. That’s like telling someone with Cancer to stop choosing to have cancer, or someone struggling in active psychosis to stop having psychosis.

But we’re also aware that because depression is something everyone has experienced at least once in their life (not on a clinical level, but on a basic level), it’s hard for them to separate our experiences from their own experiences. We understand that they figure because they can snap out of it, we should be able to snap out of it just as easily. We’re aware that they’re not fully understanding our situation, but they aren’t.

That being said, they do have a point.

*Shields face from angry people*

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Just kidding, I’ve honestly never given a shit if people don’t like what I have to say.

I care, but it’s a different kind of care.

Whatever, that’s off topic. The point is there does come a point where we do have a choice. We have a choice to consistently tell ourselves that we don’t have any choices, we’re stuck like this, we’re doomed to live like this and die like this. If you’re telling yourself that, you’re making a choice to do so. And making that choice only further progresses your mindset.

If you don’t believe that, well then I don’t know what to tell you. Because nothing I tell you will convince you otherwise. And it’s not my job to convince you that you have choices in life, that’s something you either need to realize for yourself or never take advantage of. 

While I agree that no one chooses to have depression, I disagree that there aren’t some people who choose to take part in maladaptive thought behavior patterns, even when you’ve exposed those patterns to them. It’s often the case for SOME people (NOT ALL) who take therapy and come out saying it didn’t help them.

Assuming your therapist wasn’t a complete prick, how much effort did you put in?

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Did you do the exercises? Did you enact coping mechanisms and discuss which ones work for you and which ones don’t?

Or did you go in expecting them to do the work for you because, well, shit, you just can’t do anything right?

Hey, hey, don’t give me that look, there are people out in the world who act like this. Yes, I struggle with depression and self harm and anxiety and this and that and blah, blah, we could be here all day going through diagnoses and criterion, so I empathize with these people. What I don’t empathize with is their unwillingness to work on themselves. 

What, you expect a magic fairy psychologist to land on your head, tap your hair, zap your brain with some fairy dust that you hope isn’t just cocaine, and “poof!”, you’re all better?

I don’t think so.

If the world worked like that, we’d all be cocaine addicts.

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Which I mean, if you think about things practically, at least we wouldn’t have an overcrowding of people on the planet. Life spans would be significantly shorter.

Let’s not knock it before we try it.

Quick fixes. That’s what we’re obsessed with. If you’re not willing to work on yourself or break your back trying to change the way you think, that negative pattern, than I guess you really are up shit creek without a paddle.

Quick fix for the overpopulation issue? Gas half of the population against their will and bury them or launch their bodies into space. That’s a quick fix. Would you condone that?

If you won’t condone that, why do you condone pressuring yourself to find a quick cure for your issues? Remember, if you can’t will a world in which everyone would follow what you do, in which your actions become normality without contradiction, you’re acting unethically, and this applies to yourself and to others.

In other words, if everyone in the entire world tried to fix themselves with quick fix magic, well, it wouldn’t work because 1) magic doesn’t exist and 2) neither do the quick fixes, everyone would be searching for something that doesn’t exist. So there’s your contradiction.

It’s important to see that while you may not have put yourself in this situation deliberately, you are in this situation and therefore you’ve got to manage it. That’s that age-old argument you had with your parents and siblings when you were a kid. Your brother left his dirty dish on the table and your parents tell you to clean it and you say “I didn’t put there!”

So what? You live in the household, you can pitch in every now and then. You can take control and manage something that you didn’t ask for.

It’s such a simple concept that’s so hard to enact in ourselves. That I also empathize with. You get so used to being in one mindset that even when people point out the faults to you, you find reasons for why their wrong and end up keeping yourself in that same cycle.

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Mean Trick

Depression makes you feel as if you’re out of control of how you feel and what you feel. It’s playing a trick on you, a mean one. You may not have had a choice in developing depression, but you have a choice in whether you want to live according to it’s rules or not.

 

 

 

College and Knowledge

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As our first assignment, my philosophy professor published a question online in which we could comment on. She asked us “what do you expect out of this class?”

I’m not new to philosophy. I read it as a high schooler (particularly Kant for some reason) and I’ve taken the college courses in it. I feel I’ve had a metaphysical mind since birth; the concepts of reality and our perceptions and the nature of reality are things I get weird looks for when I talk about them. Some people just have a hard time wrapping their head around something that isn’t tangible.

As a child, I lived outside of this physical world and inside of my mental world. I have no problem with fantasy, theorizing, hypotheticals or thought experiments. I don’t take very many things seriously, meaning I don’t believe what I see or what I hear, because my perception of it could always be wrong. Not in a hallucination way, but in a reality way. You know, the color of the desk is only that color because your optical nerves can only receive specific types of light. Were you a Mantis Shrimp, you’d see a whole new world.

Our brains, as complex and as sophisticated as we like to think of them as, couldn’t handle absolute reality. It restricts us from certain perceptions for a reason.

half-life-of-learning-3So I thought for a day on what I expected out of this Ethics course. It made me think about what I want and what I expect out of all my classes. It made me think about the reality of education in general.

There are core reasons people take Calculus and Linear Algebra and Differentials: it fits their major. Physics majors, math majors, engineers, computer scientists, some chemistry majors, e.t.c. In my mathematics based classes, I’m surrounded by those people. They’re all going into the “hard” sciences, and when I say I’m a psychology major they give me that look. 

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Confusion, essentially. Perhaps a little pity.

It’s as if people have forgotten majors are not the only thing you’re allowed to study.

I could have stopped at Trigonometry if I wanted to, and transferred to a school that didn’t care whether or not Calculus existed. I could have stopped at first and second semester calculus because the university I’m transferring to only requires the first semester. But I keep on going. Why? What am I expecting?

There are core reasons people take Physiology and Pharmacology: it’s a requirement if you want to be a certified nurse or social worker or an extra education requirement if you’re a drug counselor in this county apparently. Why am I taking it? What am I expecting? I’m not apart of the HSERV (Human Services) program. It doesn’t even transfer.

Besides the obvious “to get a degree so I’m not a lonely, loony bum under the bridge that smells like rotten urine and bad heroin”, what do I expect to get out of college?

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Hmm.

If there’s one thing that has bothered me before I even understood the power of knowledge was the fact that people abuse it.

I’m not talking about all those C.E.O’s I spit shit about all the time. They’re not abusing their knowledge of the system, they’re taking advantage of it to serve themselves.

I’m talking about the people who are capable of learning and understanding and acting who essentially do not. Some of those people are the reason those self-serving leaders get away with what they do. To hold your knowledge and understanding from the world is, in my eyes, an abuse of the aforementioned.

To never learn is an abuse of the self, in my eyes.

To take everything in life absolutely serious is an abuse of life, in my eyes. People who are offended by cursing and dark humor baffle me.

So what do I expect out of college besides crippling debt? Whatever I want. I take the classes that are relevant to my career interests and my personal interests. And money will never come in between me and my interests.

Stock PhotoI’m a firm believer that if you are going into a position which serves the people, the last thing you need to do is avoid classes and life experiences which teach you more about people.

So why am I taking so much math? I’m not going to be asking future clients to integrate equations with me, but the action of math on the brain has profound benefits. Depending on its applications, sometimes it’s black and white, sometimes you need a little creativity, sometimes you have to expand your mind and think of something you wouldn’t normally associate with the problem. That’s a good skill to master in a field where the majority of information is coming from ambiguous and sometimes warped sources.

People will come with different problems and different mindsets. Prescribing Ritalin to every single patient who might experience ADHD symptoms is like trying to make a U-Substitution to solve every integration problem imaginable. You can try, I guess, but you’ll be making life pretty difficult for yourself.

You’ll be scratching the surface, but you won’t ever hit the root. Sure, you could use a U-Sub, but you also might need to integrate by parts. There are a million things you might have to do and if you don’t consider them, you’re short changing the math and your brain. You’re also risking an F in the class.

And an F in life.

You short change math, math will short change you. It’s a ruthless bastard. Just when you think you’ll never have to do it again in your life, you have to do it and then some. And then suddenly you’re enjoying it and you find yourself questioning the meaning of life.

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There’s a reason thought-experiments are fairly common with great scientists and mathematicians. Because the result makes a hypothetical into a reality. I think that’s what’s most beautiful about thoughts and knowledge and understanding.

Tangible items have bounds and limits. That’s why I don’t focus too much on what I perceive, I don’t like focusing on the physical world and instead have always, since I was a child, focused on what I thought and felt and understood. No one can bind those.

 

I enjoy knowledge for the sake of its application. I don’t care about being a know it all (that’s impossible anyway), even though I feel like I should be given the reputation I’ve created for myself with classmates and professors.

It’s healthy to think about something other than yourself every once in a while. It’s healthy to ask yourself a random question and spend some time hunting for the answer. It’s healthy to realize you’re not just an organism living under a roof with a job and a family, you’re also a living organism with the ability to wonder about your own existence, about space, about “time”, about the universe, about what’s happening out there in the vast blackness that you’ll never get to see in your physical lifetime.

I don’t know why people get freaked out thinking about it. I honestly enjoy the disconnect.

I don’t know what the point of this post was. I know I haven’t posted in a day or two and it’s been eating away at my soul. So I decided to return for a quick night, even though my hands are stumbling across the keyboard with exhaustion.

That’s right, exhaustion. Before midnight.

I might actually sleep tonight.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree . . . Yo Lights Be Fucked Up Doe

burnt-christmas-tree-with-smoke

I guess I’ll jump on the band wagon. It’s rude not too, right?

Happy holidays, Merry Christmas–it’s getting close to Kwanzaa so happy early Kwanzaa and for those who celebrate Hanukkah, sorry I didn’t wish it earlier because I know it ended on the 14th, so Happy late Hanukkah. Just in case any of my followers are Jewish or African.

There’s probably so many more holidays, so happy every celebration ever to all cultures, even the ones content in the mountains void of Wifi and television and plumbing and Old Navy.

winter-solstice-greetings-cardsYo, happy Winter Solstice.

Is that a thing we wish? Happy Winter Solstice? It should be.

I guess this is why people say “happy holidays”.

People who say Happy Christmas make me giggle. To an American ear used to hearing “Merry”, “Happy” just sounds weird.

Holidays are usually rocky at my house. If you’re used to fighting and rampant alcoholism and drunken arguments and just a general dullness over the whole “holiday spirit” thing, just know you’re not alone. I prefer my holidays to be calm and boring. Presents are nice, chocolate are nice, but I don’t go out of my way to make people happy because it’s the holidays. Do that everyday.

If you’re used to giant parties and huge family get-togethers and wonderful time with the ones you love, I wish you all the best. I wish you days filled with happiness and peace and joy. Thank you to the people who kindly donated presents for kids in foster care and kids too poor to get jack shit (one holiday last year or the year before I got shampoo. I honestly wasn’t expecting anything, not being as broke as we were). Thank you to the people sending out your wishes to people who don’t have what you have, to all the kids with Cancer and terminal illness who might be experiencing their last Holiday season right now, to all the adults with Cancer and terminal illness who might be experiencing their last Holiday season as well.

Thank you for people who have the time and money to donate to hospitals and services that treat these kind of people since, you know, the government and other billionaires don’t give two shits.

amazon-smile-logoIf you haven’t already, sign up for smile.amazon.com if you shop online often. It doesn’t send very much of your money to the charities of your choosing, but it sends a little bit and every little bit counts. Hopefully this isn’t like Jared from Subway’s scam he had with the charities who just stole all the money. Hopefully Amazon is true to their word because I’ve been signed up for a year and spent ample amounts of money. I regret that I didn’t do with this last purchase.

Apparently a woman in my area got kicked out of a house she rented three or so months ago. Her son has Cerebral Palsy and requires medical equipment on the daily, particularly a breathing machine to help clear his lungs. They were living on a camp ground for a while and running it off a generator but some assholes in the camp ground were complaining about the noise the generator made (like seriously? Grow the fuck up. Get some ear plugs, the kid will die without that shit. People are complete idiots.) and the park rangers had to kick them out. A family looking to rent a vacation rental in my town heard of the woman, bought a house, and now rents it to her for a very low rate and told her she can live there as long as she wishes.

Beautiful holiday story, right?

I wonder if it wasn’t the holidays, if these people would have done that?

It’s conflicting feelings I get during these seasons. It seems everyone is happy and willing to give–it’s called the season of giving, right? Why? Why is that a season? Just do it every day. I don’t understand why that’s so hard.

I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.

But people are more likely to stop and help you with your car on the side of the road during the holidays than they are during “off-season”.

maxresdefault1That seems like a disconnect to me. Seems like people aren’t thinking clearly. It’s kind of like The Purge: get all of your giving and joy and happiness and kindness out within the next month so we can go back to living like assholes for another eleven months.

I know, I know, positivity down the drain. It’s not that I don’t get in the spirit completely–I like smiling at people and saying happy holidays and watching them smile back like I just gave them the greatest gift in the world. I like the everyone who can visit their family, visits their family and makes the best out of whatever situation they have to. It’s a nice feeling in the air. It’s a stressed feeling, but there are little pockets of joy too and those pockets are my favorite.

But that shit ain’t going to last, let’s be honest.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t have to not last with you, however. This New Year, try and keep the holiday spirit going not for the sake of the holidays but for the sake of everyone. Ask if someone needs help when they’re broken down on the side of the road. Don’t text and drive with your kids in the car (dumb people everywhere, I’m telling you).

134339-always-help-someoneIf you see something you can help with–well fucking help! Shit! The guy who drops the two boxes of chocolate bunnies in the market? Get your ass on the floor and help him pick them up. It shouldn’t even be an afterthought. It shouldn’t be because everyone else it doing it. It should be because he needs help.

Smile at the people who pass you on the sidewalk. It might be all they need. I’ve lugged this body around in depression during the day and one person smiles at me and I force a smile back and just that little moment of connection makes me feel apart of something again.

Say hello.

Wave.

When you cross the street, thank the driver who stopped for you. Even if they’re the last car on the road and they were fucking stupid.

When someone cuts you off in traffic, smile at them. This is advice I need to take. My road rage is a monster.

Don’t be nice because it’s polite to be nice. Be nice because you want to be nice, be nice because you may not know the person you’re interacting with. Maybe they were planning on shooting themselves in the head that night and your little joke and thirty second conversation with them made them rethink their decision.

I have social anxiety and I still find ways to try and be kind to strangers. Sometimes I come off rude because my anxiety makes me absent but I try my best. People don’t see that, but I do.

Being kind isn’t an obligation. It’s not about making yourself feel better–although for some people it is. But in reality it’s common decency and respect and it connects you with other humans. That’s something people are supposed to want . . .  right?

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I wouldn’t know.

My point is, why only be that connected to people during the holidays? Doesn’t that seem a little odd?

I do know through all my anger and depression and anxiety and panic and insomnia and fatigue and fear of failure and fear of success and weird fantasy worlds and characters in my head and all that good, yummy stuff, that giant mental goulash sloshing around in my brain, that I like making people smile. I like making them laugh and enjoy what they have around them. I like helping them even if they aren’t appreciative. I don’t do it to make myself look good–who the hell would notice anyway? I don’t know anyone to spread my good deeds on Facebook and make me sound like a saint–I don’t do it to please my parents or my friends or anyone really. I just do it because that’s what I do.

I might not have a job right now. I might look like a loser and a wimp and a straight up pussy. I might seem like a seven year old trapped in a 20 year old’s body. I might even just seem plain dumb. But I’m happy with myself and I’m happy with how I’m learning to treat others. Everyone else’s opinion of me can, quite honestly, fuck right off.

Remember: the holidays are a time for warm treats and hugs and songs and family. So is the rest of the year.