Two Years of What-The-Fuck

It’s pretty ironic that a few weeks ago I made a post on here saying I wouldn’t be on here for a while and instead of leaving I’ve been pulled back towards this site.

It’s been a long road. I was skimming through some of my older posts and having a laugh at not only the content, my aggressive nature which quite obviously came through in biting satirical wit, but also the comments and the beautiful souls I’ve met through this blog.

One person commented: “Are you mentally stable?”

If you have to ask that question, the answer is probably no. And I saw how many posts I wrote at 3am, 4am, 5am, and then came back the next day with either no sleep or two hours of sleep. I was busting my ass in Calculus and trying to find a job that wasn’t complete ass while simultaneously losing my mind. I’m pretty sure this blog helped me keep some kind of attachment to reality.

Then I ripped Alex Gorsky a new one (here) because there is no way in hell that man should have any kind of award in any kind of “humankindness” category. He’s a straight monster, and if I ever get the chance to meet him in person it’s going to take all of my strength not to spit in his fucking face. He hasn’t done anything that any other C.E.O of a major pharmaceutical company hasn’t done. The difference is he got caught. And I read about it. And that’s where the real danger for him is.

People ate that post up back in the day before I disabled the like button and couldn’t figure out how to get it back up, and it launched me into the blogsphere at a tremendous velocity. I became known for not only tearing apart pharmaceutical companies, but tearing apart anything and anyone who seemed to throw ethics out the window. And people who park in the red zone outside of my apartment. Fuck those people.

Where is this blog now? I have no fucking idea you guys. I basically recorded my decent into madness (I said that in some post a couple years ago) and the large gaps in between posts are indicative of me either being comatose in bed, in the hospital, or running the streets all hours of the night.

Those times consisted of a lot of weird shit. Like, weird shit. Like . . .like this:

Cat-Fish.

That isn’t even weird enough to really explain all the weirdness. I remember a lot of horrible dreams, traumatic dreams, all of which were caused by some unseen forces, dark forces, demons, which followed me around during the day, crowded my bed at night, whispered in my ears, fucked up my thoughts, intercepted them really, possessed people around me, and somehow I went to class and took notes and took exams and went to work and I guess I just sort of let my body work from muscle memory while my mind drifted into a different dimension.

At one point I remember being in hell, literal hell, and I was strapped to a torture board where some demons–I finally saw their true form, rather than the disguises they use here on Earth–turned their dial and stretched my limbs, trying to rip them from my body. That part was a dream, I’m pretty sure, but when I woke up they were still screaming at me, hissing at me, and I don’t remember much after that, just a lot of them screaming and cursing me, and they promised I would die.

One of these fucking things

Eventually I couldn’t keep up with the classes. Eventually I wasn’t picking up shifts at work, and inevitably, I stopped writing on this blog. The last hospital visit I had followed the Las Vegas shooting. Because those demons were after me, (and still are in all truth, that hasn’t gone away) they were hell bent on—

God it’s so much to explain. It’s so much to explain mini explosions detonate across my cortex when I think about it.

I believed I was here for a reason, on earth I mean, and I still believe I am. I believe everyone is. But for whatever reason this was heightened during this time, and I believed the safety of the human race essentially depended on me, and that was why so many dark forces had surrounded me–they knew what I knew, and they had to stop me.

They couldn’t physically touch me because I had the protection of my ancestors–that’s what I believed and still believe. So instead, they entered others around me. Strangers, friends, coworkers, and everywhere I went I felt attacked and unwelcome. I couldn’t tell anyone because 1) they’d think I was crazy and 2) they were all fucking in on it anyway.

So when the Vegas shooting happened, I immediately knew it happened because of me. I waited and waited and watched videos and theories and news stories, waiting for a motive to come out, and when nothing was found that only confirmed my belief: he’d been possessed and the shooting was a message to me, specifically, that they were coming for me. And that’s when they attacked my thoughts and I remember always feeling confused and drained of energy and I couldn’t sleep and I just wanted to die. I wanted to die and happened to mention my plan (I guess I didn’t really want to die anyway) and got the sheriffs called on me yet again.

I wasn’t in the hospital as long as people would expect. I have this problem. It’s called functionality.

She seems functional, albeit stressed.

Through all of this–and this built up over the course of a year, at least, maybe even two, of being out of my mind–I was still functional. I went to classes even though I had to drop them eventually. I went to work, some fucking how, and I wasn’t speaking strange or obviously disconnected from reality. I wasn’t walking down the street talking to myself or accusing people of things or anything. I was just . . . existing. A shell. My body moved, I responded to people when they spoke to me, and that was that–I was okay by mental health system standards.

And so the hospital just wanted to help me sleep. And that’s what they did. They gave me some Seroquel so I would sleep, waited for about a week, diagnosed me with Bipolar 1 this time, and tossed me to the county mental health system back in my town which gave other optional diagnoses (PTSD–which I’d already been diagnosed with, Schizoaffective–there’s a newbie, Psychosis NOS–okay?) no one ever came to a conclusion on, and then they outright rejected me. I didn’t last long enough in their system for them to conclude anything, really.

Now, the wonderful thing about all this is somehow it’s all worked out.

And the weird thing is now that I quit my medication in the worst fucking way possible, a way that almost cost me my life, I feel so much better. I still get confused by my thoughts often, but a lot of the time I feel wonderful, sparkly, like I’m connected to every inanimate and animate object on earth; sometimes I know what people are thinking, sometimes I know that they know that I’m connected to them.

I haven’t heard any voices since I abruptly stopped my medication–it’s been five months. That’s fucking unprecedented. I’ve been a conundrum in the mental health system since I was 5.

I’m back writing, and that’s a good fucking sign. Welcome to whatever the fuck this blog is now!

Perhaps I’ll find another C.E.O to drag through the dirt and hang by his/her ankles.

Career Shameer

It’s 10:44 in the morning. I got off of work two hours ago. I am sleep deprived from the last few days, and quite irritable. That’s the perfect time to belch out a post. Agreed?

I’m not sure about the rest of you, but my best cognitive realizations and abilities are birthed from pure, elegant exhaustion. I did much better in Calculus at eight thirty in the morning after four hours of sleep than I did in an afternoon class after a solid seven and a half hours of sleep the night before. My brain is backwards and I appreciate that.

However, I am at a rather jarring crossroads in my life right now. After the last three years of being in and out of psychiatric hospitals, on and off psychiatric medications, jumping around from (ignorant) diagnosis to diagnosis, gaining weight, losing weight, gaining weight again, in and out of a four year relationship, it’s left my education in shambles.

Most of you know I currently work as a Peer Support worker at a Peer Respite house and if you didn’t know, now you know. Somewhere on this blog I still have the post I put up about my first day of work there. I’ve been there for 2.5 years by this point, the longest job I’ve ever held. I started when I was 20 years old, a month or two away from my 21st birthday that I don’t remember. In my interview I told them I was a Pre-Med student eager for a career in psychiatry to fight the system.

I am now 23, four months away from my 24th birthday.

I’m not quite sure what happened. I was fully invested in my psychology degree and unscathed by the physics and math required for Med-school. I was a little perturbed about chemistry. I can’t balance an equation to save my fucking life. Another fun fact: put a Calculus equation in front of me, or teach me Linear Algebra and I”ll eat it alive. Put a pre-algebra word problem in front of me and I crumble, I disintegrate. As a writer, you think I’d understand what word problems are asking of me. As someone pretty decent at math, you’d think I’d understand how to calculate what’s being asked of me. Both of your assumptions would be horribly, horribly misled. I’m sure you can, then, deduce how well physics went.

My point in all this rambling is I can’t figure out what I want to study in college anymore. My psychology degree is almost complete and I don’t much care for it anymore. Every psychology class I take I no longer take interest in. Perhaps it’s from 1) living the experience of mental health issues and realizing textbook explanations are pale in comparison, 2) understanding the corruption that lies in the mental health industry/business, and 3) from working in the exact opposite environment that I would be working in were I to pursue my original career choice.

Perhaps it’s my stubbornness. I don’t want to answer to Insurance companies. I don’t want to be solicited or bribed by pharmaceutical salesmen offering me money to push certain drugs. I don’t want to have to deny someone my services because their insurance won’t pay for me because they don’t want medication. I don’t want to make that choice for them, it’s not my business. I don’t want to go into private practice and have to charge 300 dollars an hour and limit myself to an elitist group when we’re all very much aware that the people who need the most help are often struggling with housing, substance use, financial issues, as well as their mental health.

I don’t want to work for a county that would allow me to see that population but underpay me significantly and overload me with cases. I don’t want to only be allowed to see those people for 15 minutes when they need so much more time than that. I don’t want to be considered a doctor that only hands out medication. I don’t do well with rules that are illogical and all of the aforementioned happens to be just that.

And yet I feel that to not pursue this would be abandoning my own people. I feel the difference I wish to make can only begin with legitimizing myself, and unfortunately that requires a college degree in this day and age. But if the passion for the classes isn’t there anymore–where does that leave me? I still have a fiery passion for exposing pharmaceutical companies for what they are, for guiding people through their own mental health journey, for offering other opportunities and healing besides medication and hospitalization, but I just can’t handle sitting through these fucking brainwashing classes and pretend to care about what they’re saying.

So do I start over? Do I accept the psychology degree and switch to a different discipline? Do I follow my original plan, which would require a hard science degree? Do I have the confidence for that? Or will word problems best me? Will I make the same mistake, get the degree, and then not want to pursue the discipline? Will I even be able to get the degree? Or do I say fuck school all together and live the rest of my life check to check, roommate to roommate?

I’ve been off all meds for a couple months now. No antipsychotics, no mood stabilizers, no antidepressants, no sleep medication. I’ve 360’d my diet, and now exercise five days a week for an hour and a half. I’m making a lot of changes and it feels like it’s only natural that my career path do the same.

The real problem is i’d love to have a career in physics and a career in peer support. That just doesn’t seem realistic though. Research during the day, peer during the night? Sounds exhaustive.

What’s helped you choose your career path? Are you still searching for something? Are you at a crossroads too?

Moving And College Degrees

Revelations are nice.

one-step-aheadI’ve realized I’ve spent two semesters overwhelming myself due to my insatiable need to be two steps ahead of the rest of the world. It’s part of my perfectionist arrogance. There is that part of me that expects me to be perfect at everything I try all the time, so when I’m not I get flustered and overwhelmed.

Obviously I know no one and nothing is perfect. But academics is all I really have in terms of reputation: I’m not talkative, I’m not socially active, or communally active, I rarely leave my house lest it be for necessity, so I felt the only way to keep people off my back was to show them a 4.0 g.p.a

I could achieve it. But because I’ve been overwhelming myself with the idea of perfection, I’ve blocked myself from it. How ironic. 

But the good thing is I’ve realized that now. It could be my good mood talking (it usually is) but I’ve realized that I’ve been trying to overachieve my overachieving. I made everything a competition. And after doing some extensive reading on one of my favorite philosophies, Taoism, I’ve reminded myself how damaging competition (especially the kind you create yourself) really is.

This has caused me to drop more classes I felt I couldn’t keep up the energy for, and it’s delayed my progress.

However, today, I came across something spectacular.

I will be leaving this town. After this coming semester. 

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Yes, finally, the time has come! To get the hell out of this college and leave behind the basic classes I find so horribly INSUFFERABLE, and get onto the things I want to study, what I want to learn, and be around people like me, hopefully culturally diversified people.

With transferring, comes the 43,000 dollar tuition. The trouble of housing. Setting up tours. Getting a reference for the Common Application.

With completing this last semester comes the Research Methods class I’ve been dreading with the psychotic professor I’ve been dreading. There comes the language class I have to take; I’m doing American Sign Language (ASL) because I know if I had an oral class my anxiety would cause me to forget everything I learned, since we’d have to respond orally in a different language. I can’t even respond orally in my own fucking language.

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I’ll have to take the first ASL class this summer, and the second next semester.

I’ve been looking at positions I could apply for over the hill with my degree and I’m pleasantly surprised that there are actually options for me.

This is the first time the reality of what I’m doing with my life is hitting me: I can actually become what I want to. That’s crazy. 

Unfortunately I have to choose a history course. It’s listed as “Diversity” under the university transfer agreement. It’s so diverse that the only history to choose from is American history, women history, and latino, hispanic, and chicano history. That’s really diverse, right? Damn, I wish I had that much diversity.

Oh wait, I have ten times that amount in the tip of my fucking finger. Pathetic. 

I also have to take an Ancient art class, or something else under “Cultures and Ideas” which really should be “a very narrowed down version of what we think culture is”.

I’ll be doing a creative writing course, which will be nerve wracking and I’ve heard complaints from other students that the professor is biased towards Hispanic students. When I say bias, I mean she’s nicer to them than others. So we might butt heads.

I also have a choice to make. And this ties into my overachieving issues. I dropped another math class this semester because I couldn’t get out of bed these last six or so weeks. That being said, the math classes isn’t “needed”. I was taking it because I wanted to finish out the series for bragging rights.

'Oh yeah? Well yesterday, I caught one this big!'

However, when I transfer, I will need to take it anyway.

So I can either take a cognitive psychology course. Or retake the math course and risk flunking out of it again because of the heavy load of classes.

The other issue is that because I got an “Average” (a fucking C alright) grade in the first class of the series, and I don’t know the exact percentage of that “average” grade, the private university might try to tell me shit. They only accept Average “pluses”. If it’s a regular average or low average (say, 70-75 %) they have a right to reject the class from your transcript and not accept you.

If you do not have a B or an A in a class, they pretty much don’t like you.

So my plan was to take the second class, get at least a B in it, and flip off the university if they gave me the stank eye for the first class. The problem was this semester I was also getting an “average” grade and I would have ended in the 78% range, given I was able to make up the days I had missed in class.

78% Wouldn’t cut it. Not when I already have another C. So I dropped the class because I didn’t want it bringing down my G.P.A.

One C. One C on my entire transcript in the last three years. C’s can haunt you for the rest of your life man.

I wanted to take a cognitive class because it would probably be my last psychology class for a while. When I get to the University it will be Chemistry and Physics and Biology.

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If I take that math class here, I won’t need anymore math, only the rest of those three sciences. That’s a huge perk to me.

Obviously my anxiety is kicking in. It’s a lot to think about, so I know I need to prioritize. Focus on finishing off this semester as strong as possible, as shitty as it looks right now, and make it through that summer class unscathed.

I know my list of classes are going to include a lot of social interaction and it’s going to test me immensely. I know that my mental health is going to cause issues when I move. But because I’ve chosen to leave my fucks on the curb as I’ve stated multiple times, and because the only other option is to flunk out and not get my degree, I figured I’d give it a try.

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On a completely unrelated note:

I hate when the licensed therapists and doctors track me down on this peer counseling site and say “hi” to me and then don’t respond. It makes me feel like they’re stalking me or judging how I’m talking to members or surfing through my account or something.

It’s like when you’re driving in a car, and there’s a car parked on the side of the road, and as soon as you pass them they turn on their lights and pull out behind you. Don’t tell me they weren’t waiting  to follow me, because at that moment I won’t believe you. 

I’m sure my mild paranoia will safe my life one day.

Anyway, College. University. Going to the university where one man woke up to find his roommate standing over him with a knife and then was stabbed repeatedly in the chest and back last February.

One thing about this university is that the academic programs are great.

I’ll say it’s safe to assume the University’s mental health ones are not.

Definitely will not be living in the dorms.