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:


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.

Writer’s Block

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

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

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

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

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

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


When we should be doing something like this:


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s today’s Mental Truth.


Sudoku and Neurotransmission

There’s nothing that can convince me that this life is meant to be as complicated as we make it. There’s nothing that can convince me that we will ever find all of the answers, and to think that we have some already is naive and wishful. These are the things I think about as I backtrack in my Sudoku game, something I used to hate doing as a child because I could never get it right the first time. I have once in my life, but that was in a bout of mania. As much as I like to think it was my own brain power, it was really just a flood of neurotransmitters doing all the work.

250px-sudoku_puzzle_by_l2g-20050714_solution_standardized_layout-svgI was thinking about this the other day, about neurotransmission and Sudoku, and how they both have algorithms to describe their process. We have more neural connections in our brain than we have estimated stars in our galaxy. 1000 times more, to be exact. Sudoku has a bunch of different number possibilities, but only one answer. I fear neurotransmission is not as simple.

We have an algorithm for the probability of neural transmission: when certain neurons will fire and the chance of that happening, essentially. I believe if we do wish to describe the processes that happen in our brain, math will be the catalyst for success in that field. There are too many connections, too many variables, to settle on an explanation as simple as, say, a chemical imbalance.

I came across an essay in PLOS medicine titled “Serotonin and depression: a disconnect between the advertisements and the Scientific Literature.” This is a big deal. Although published in 2005, their words are still very relevent today. I’m sure you have heard in commercials about psychiatric medication that “so and so disorder is a chemical imbalance, and [insert drug] works to correct that balance”. Notice they will never explain how or why, because they simply don’t know. We don’t know.

And that’s where my area of study will be, once I do graduate: let’s explore this idea of chemical imbalance and what it may mean. My ultimate goal? Disprove the theory.

That’s a long way off, and it may only be a pipe dream, but I believe I can catalyst a different type of thought in the mental health community by proving, scientifically, mathematically, whatever you want to call it, that something like a chemical imbalance cannot possibly exist. Why?

As the essay says:

Attempts were also made to induce depression by depleting serotonin levels, but these experiments reaped no consistent results [9]. Likewise, researchers found that huge increases in brain serotonin, arrived at by administering high-dose L-tryptophan, were ineffective at relieving depression.

As it also says:

Contemporary neuroscience research has failed to confirm any serotonergic lesion in any mental disorder, and has in fact provided significant counterevidence to the explanation of a simple neurotransmitter deficiency. Modern neuroscience has instead shown that the brain is vastly complex and poorly understood.

And of course, let’s not forget:

There is no scientifically established ideal “chemical balance” of serotonin, let alone an identifiable pathological imbalance. To equate the impressive recent achievements of neuroscience with support for the serotonin hypothesis is a mistake.

comic-bubble-hmm_1609021If there is no established balance, there, logically, cannot be an imbalance. This article focuses purely on serotonin and depression, but this in fact relates as well to the dopamine hypothesis of schizophrenia and any other neurotransmitter they claim causes certain mental health issues. These studies are indeed correlational and not experiments. What does this mean for us that struggle mentally?

It means the door is open again. It means we can find a different explanation. It means we can focus on genes. We can focus on environment. We can focus on the way society structures thought–how we’re taught to think about ourselves in the first place. We can focus on things we can change, rather than this pipe dream that a little pill that may or may not cause more harm to our bodies/brains than good, can cure anything at all.

To deny that there is a biological component would be ignorant of me. To accept the propaganda that pharmaceutical companies place in front of my eyes would be even more ignorant of me.

There could be a chance that neurotransmission is just like Sudoku, and that perhaps there is one single answer and we just have to back track and back track and back track until we find the right numerical composition. But more than likely that isn’t the case. This isn’t a pattern devised by a computer. This is a pattern devised by universal chaos and quantum processes. What is there to correct? What’s created by nature is created by nature, and for us to label that right or wrong, normal or abnormal, is rather selfish and egotistical.

What else could it be, if not a chemical imbalance then? We could brainstorm ideas for hours. Genetics–if your mother has what we label as schizophrenia, there’s a greater chance you will too. But stop. It also depends on: Environment. There’s a striking number of people who receive this label who have been through some type of sexual abuse, physical abuse, severe emotional abuse, and often voices and delusions reflect this pain. What does that tell us? That deep pain that isn’t processed properly leaves a lasting stamp on our neural connections, and turns something on and off in our genetics. Socio-economic status plays a role: think of all the homeless people you see wandering the street talking to themselves. Assume they are not on drugs, and you’re dealing with a mental health issue. You think it’s easy to get well in poverty? You think there isn’t trauma in poverty? What effect does trauma have on the brain? There are studies on this, but what does it mean for neural connections? What does any of the things I just mentioned mean?

That’s what I plan to study in my life. I’ve given up the fight against these pharmaceutical people. I can’t fight a corporation. But I can fight their bullshit research with real research.

Ironic, considering Research Methods is my LEAST favorite class.

And that’s today’s Mental Truth.



The Water Comes From A Well

This title is the excerpt I read while searching for a new place to live. What is this, the 1800’s? Do you know how dry it is in California, people? Just buy some water from the damn grocery store because you ain’t finna find any in the ground, not this time of year.

I’m being forced to look into a roommate situation, which is not ideal, but I suppose it is better than homelessness–at least, that’s what my psychologist is trying to drill into my head: it’s better than being homeless, it’s better than being homeless. I’m not sure I’m convinced. I’ve been homeless before, jumped around from place to place, and at least in all those situations I had some kind of privacy. Someone living in my living room in this apartment does not seem private to me.

The emotions of the break up have kind of calmed within me, I no longer drive in the car crying to songs on the radio, and I no longer huddle in the apartment with a blanket over my shoulders looking at all the things I did wrong and all the things that were my fault. Ultimately, things ended because things needed to end. I’ve had a lot of things I’ve loved end in my life, and I’m still standing. I’ve been through a lot worse than a breakup, and I’m still standing. I can make it through this.

independence-1024x673-1024x673It’s time to gain some independence back too. I think I was pretty dependent in this relationship and that’s something I need to let go of as well. I think this will give me the proper time I need to really recover from the psychosis and get my mental health back on track.

Where I will move, I’m not sure yet, either north or south of where I am now. I have plans to move on with my life at this point. Because, here’s the even bigger news: the mental health program I’ve been working at for the past 2 years may very well be closing in the beginning of December. We’re making efforts to save it, and I think good things will still come from these efforts, but I’m not sure about them actually saving the program.

So, I am also stuck looking at the possibility of having to find another job in the “real world”. The real world meaning: working with people who are not my peers, who do not openly have lived experience. And that bothers me a bit. I tend not to get along with those people.

Classes have also started up again, and I’m swamped with homework. Go figure.

So life is pretty stressful right now. I’m broke, I can’t pay for my prescriptions, I can’t buy food, I can’t afford gas, and it’s hell waiting for Netflix to put up Black Panther. I mean, the wait is literally like sitting on a stump in hell listening to the screams of damned souls while embers lick the top of your head and fire burns through your skin to your bone.

I am writing an article about the closing of 2nd Story, so stay tuned for that on Mad in America. Not quite sure what I want to write yet. I said I’d have a draft by the end of the week, but with classes I’m not sure if that’s going to be possible.

My cat is sitting on my arm and making it very difficult to type. She’s going to give me Carpal Tunnel.

If you are willing to share a GoFundMe page on your Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter, that would also be great. The link is here. I know clicking the share button is honestly asking a lot of people I don’t know, but I’ve been apart of this wordpress community for 3 years and I’ve loved every moment of it. You all are helpful in small little ways you might not even know. Every comment I’ve ever gotten, every view, every read, every personal story shared with me is another thing I cherish. So one share is all I ask. I’m asking for 1500 in the Campaign, just as general moving expenses because I have zero dollars. I would be using it to pay for a UHaul and to tow my car if I move out of town. I”m not asking for much, but I am.

If you can share the GoFundMe link that would be great. If you can read it, that would be great. I don’t want to end up homeless again, and I think crowdfunding is an amazing opportunity for a lot of people, including myself. If you can donate even a dollar, I would be eternally grateful.

In the meantime, I’m going to be looking for a place to live so I don’t end up on the streets.


Honesty In The Real World

This Fucking Guy Will Be In My Nightmares

I’m not a morning person.

Anyone who has had the displeasure and pleasure of knowing me for a few years would be quick to offer up the suggestion that I am a vampire. Cool bro.

So getting up at 9 a.m to be to work at 10:53 can be challenging.

Yes, we have to clock in seven minutes before our scheduled time to arrive because it takes a good four minutes to get through the maze to the room we operate in, then another two minutes or so to put your belongings in the lockers outside, get inside the door, and put your food in the fridge.

The other reasons mornings are challenging are because I don’t get very much time to spread out my anxieties. I’m anxious about the day the moment my eyes open. If I don’t have a decent amount of time to process those feelings, to spread them to every inch of my body to give my brain a fighting chance, than I’m going to have a bad time.


For that same reason, I’m typically very irritable in the mornings. Most people don’t know this because they don’t live with me. The most outsiders (meaning people not in my apartment) see of me is the composed part of me, the part they mistake for stable and kind and sweet. If they knew the truth, if they saw me when I punched through walls and doors, burned or harmed myself, threatened to kill myself, or screeched every five seconds for the tiny little noises that bother me to the point of no return, they’d probably label me crazy.

So this morning, as I sat in my car in the rain listening to the engine idle down, I was still pushing some anxieties down. I’d taken the last Ativan yesterday for work and now my one time prescription that was supposed to be for bringing me down from panic attacks is gone. Now I’ve got to get a doctor. I’m sure they’ll be more than willing to give me an active prescription.

Although, perhaps something I can pop that’s non-habit forming. The last thing I need is an addiction. And I could see myself falling down that hole easier than you would think. I may have a strong will, but that means practically nothing in my situation.

At any rate, I got a call the second before I put my car into drive that the park was closed and they didn’t need me today.


That left me with a lot of pent up anxiety and cortisol, so I went for a cycling ride around town. It would have ruined my day if I hadn’t.

Yesterday was very game changing for me. And thoughts of yesterday have consumed my mind today.

I always thought very highly of people with mental health issues who could be so open about themselves when they needed to be. In fact, I admire these people a great deal. It’s one thing to post yourself online to get the support of people you can’t see, it’s another thing to go out into the world where stigma is much more real and in your face and you have to watch your words.

See, we’ve got a nice little pocket here. We’ve all developed a blog-to-blog type friendship/relationship. We all have our struggles and part of the reason we read and support each other is because we know what each of us is going through. We get encouraging words from people who have never dealt with our struggles but who are interested in mental health or just think we’ve written something really touching. Which is nice. But it’s nothing compared to real life.

I wouldn’t go up to a stranger and say: “I think about killing myself very often”, or “I pretty bad have depression” or “sometimes I see spiders crawling along the shower door that apparently no one else sees”.


I swear to God there was a spider, it was fucking huge and black. I saw it three times, every time I hit the door. I think my mother was the one tripping.

Their reaction most likely won’t be sympathetic, particularly if I keep a monotonous expression along my face as I usually have when I blog.

All the emotion sways to my fingertips when I write.

At any rate, they’re probably going to laugh. Let’s face it. It’s weird to have someone walk up to you and say something completely unexpected. They’re not laughing because they’re assholes, they’re laughing because they’re nervous and confused.

But that’s what we basically do on here. We tell the truth about ourselves in blunt words and those who are understanding and interested comment or like or read. Those who aren’t, generally don’t.

I knew I would have to have the conversation with my boss regarding my hours and my situation. I first prepared my bottom line: I settled with myself how many hours I was willing to work and how many days a week I was willing to work, and I went over in my head a million different ways to explain my brain.


None of which were even necessary.

I told him why I couldn’t work specific times on days when I have my psychologist appointments and I told him why I even see a psychologist in the first place. I usually get flattened expressions or lack of interest, but he smiled, whether out of sympathy or genuine kindness I didn’t have time to assess.

He immediately asked if the shifts I was working at the moment were too stressful, and I said they would be once I started working on the weekdays. I said I’d prefer to work 5-6 hours at the most, but never 8. I told him I don’t want to go full time, not even in the summer when they need all the hands they can get. I told him I’m most comfortable working 5 days a week.

He agreed to it all. He asked if the environment I work in (there’s no windows or doors, just concrete) gives me anxiety but I said it was the exact opposite because of the fact I see the same faces every shift and there’s only six or seven of us. There are no loud noises (besides the giant tanks and generators outside) and everyone has been really kind to me.

And that’s the truth.

He told me if there was ever a day I felt bad or panicky or this, or that, all I had to do was let one of the leads or managers or himself know (he’s the director) and they could either let me go home early or give me a break, whichever I preferred.

10887luck-cloverI feel particularly lucky. We’re a very small department and we get personalized treatment, we really do. The main floor of the company I work for gets no such treatment. They have hundreds of employees, most of whom are under the age of 18, and things get messy and dramatic. People are over-worked and stressed out often.

We may be short staffed in our department, but at least we’re all in our twenties and thirties. Some are in their forties. No pesky kids to deal with here.

I also feel lucky because I’ve never had good reactions from the people I’ve been honest with. Most people are confused to why my problems are even problems, as if they have the right to claim them as not-problems. Friends in the past just call me crazy, others were condescending. Bosses and teachers I’ve had were always so confrontational that I never felt an ounce of comfort around them, not enough to explain the truth about myself and why I’d need some extra time to chill out.

I may not give two shits about day jobs, I may not care whether I get recognized for this, or that, or promoted or being a good worker (#loseyourintegrity) or whatever people care about, but I do give two shits about the people who work in this department. When I leave, I’m going to remember to thank them. It takes a lot to gain my trust in such a short time. 

If Stars Could Talk

I’ve never been so happy not in school.

Sounds weird, considering I love learning.

Although there isn’t much learning in public school. I think I dropped out in elementary school. I lost interest.

I took this time off for my mental health and to rekindle my passion and I think it’s working. Plus it gives me time to nurture my other talents I felt were shoved off in the back shelf as unimportant compared to the stupid shit school systems these days think you need to memorize to be intelligent.

In their attempt to teach me what to think, I’ve learned how to think. I screwed up their master plan.

There’s a difference between intelligence and educated. I wrote an essay on it. My professor was impressed.

No shit she was; I’d be impressed if she wasn’t impressed.

I’m an arrogant prick.

Just kidding. Sort of.

She was impressed though, and couldn’t really find anything to critique so instead she mentioned I used an extra space at the beginning of one of my paragraphs. It was an accident.

It’s interesting to see the difference between the engineer majors and physics majors and chemistry and math majors compared to the English majors and philosophy majors and other humanities majors. I’ve been in the buildings filled with both–not at the same time of course; the conversations would be more like passive-aggressive-opinion-shouting.

I read . . . err, skimmed very quickly, through an article that claimed psychiatry needs its own Higgs Boson, something to propel it into the future and lay a foundation, a discovery that’s progressive. The problem with that is we can’t stick people in a giant particle collider, slam their heads together at speeds as fast as light, and expect something more spectacular than blood and brain matter splattered all over the place (assuming acceleration didn’t already rip them to shreds). It’s not going to give us a scene of the first neurons to ever pop into existence or give us a scene of what the first neurotransmitters did. It’s not going to tells us how much of our behavior we can attribute to chemicals and electrical signals, and it’s definitely not going to tell us if there is a separation between the mind and the brain.

Our best guess for how our brain works is based on mice and monkeys. We’re never going to have a psychiatric Higgs Boson, not with ethics breathing down our neck.

My chemistry professor really loved chemistry. You could just see it in his eyes. You could just tell he’d been convinced that everything he knew in science, everything we’ve discovered as a species, is definite. We have “laws” to prove it. You know, things like “matter can never be created or destroyed”.

But I feel like that’s narrow-minded. Perhaps on our world. Perhaps in our tiny, microscopic, pointless corner of the universe, we don’t have the knowledge of how matter can be created and I guess we don’t really have to think about the possibilities of being able to create it or destroy it in the future when we have the Big Bang Theory telling us there was an explosion and all matter in the universe was created.

We sure do have an affinity for believing everything originated from one thing. Science and religion: stop fighting–stop it! Hey, science, hit religion one more time and you’re going to go in the calm down corner because I have something to tell the both of you. You’re not that different. What makes the Eurocentric God, the Christian God, any different than the big bang theory? Both say everything originated from one instance. Both say they’re infinite.

wpid-heic1408a.jpgPersonally, when I started learning about the big bang theory in elementary school it didn’t make any sense to me. It makes more sense that the universe always was and always will be and we’re stuck in an infinite loop so infinite we’ll never be able to understand the infinity of it. We might as well just appreciate what we have, where we are, and investigate the universe around us for pure knowledge and not for the sake of being a smart-ass trying to discover where all life originated. How in the hell are you going to do that? We’re the only life we know of!

In other words, if life wants you to know something, it’ll tell you about it. Otherwise, you might as well just keep digging because it’s going to send you in so many circles your dizziness will get dizzy.

I’ve always been the inquisitive type. When I found my teeth hidden in a little “tooth fairy box” on my parents shelf, I was devastated–the tooth fairy was a lie. If the tooth fairy was a lie, than what about the Easter Bunny? What about Santa Claus? My whole world fell apart that day and I set the little box back and told no one. When my next tooth fell out I decided to run an experiment and tell no one. I wrapped my tooth up and put it under my pillow, wrote some obscure “thank you” note like I always did, and told myself if I didn’t get money than it was a given my parents were the tooth fairy.

You’d be surprised I was still disappointed to feel my tooth under my pillow the next morning. I concluded the tooth fairy was a lie and lost faith in humanity.

Well maybe not in humanity (that came a couple years later), but in magic and the supernatural, in mystery. That’s what started my obsession with thinking, with meta-cognition, with science. And that’s what we do in this society; we systematically train our students to think in a straight line, live in a straight line, and think that every ounce of beauty in life can be defined by mathematics.

I love math. But I feel I can only truly appreciate it because I also appreciate the mystery of life. I question the stars, the universe, the planets, and extraterrestrial life not to prove some theory but because I’m just curious. What’s wrong with simple curiosity these days? Why does it have to be so hardlined, so structured?

This is part of the reason why it’s so easy to convince people they’re crazy and why it’s so easy for us to convince ourselves we’re hopeless.  And why American public education is in the shits.

So the next time you decide to conclude without question there’s something wrong with you, why not also consider the possibility that there’s not?

Your body isn’t there for your disposal, it lives and breathes with you. That’s why Cancer patients who move on with their life the best they can, who somehow keep strong, positive attitudes, tend to have a better success rate in beating the disease (that’s a disease, by the way, not anxiety, not depression). If you feel depressed in your mind, your body is going to feel depressed right with you. If you listen closely, it helps you through life. If you choose not to listen, well, your life probably sucks right now.

I have my issues, obviously. I hate sounding like I never struggle; I’m always struggling. And I’m always finding new ways to help me not struggle. Not ways to fight the struggle (why fight yourself? That’s illogical), but ways to just not struggle. When I learned the day before I had to go to an event I’d never been to and never knew anything about, I immediately thought oh shit . . . so many people, with so many kids; I’m not good around either one, I got to find a way out of this, I have to, I have to, I have to. 

Well I didn’t find a way out of it. But I did notice that whenever I thought about the event, I was making up scenarios of what could happen. I’m always making up little worlds in my head, I always have been, so it comes as second nature whether my anxiety exists or not. But in this case it causes me a lot of stress. So I went to sleep that night thinking about my thinking, but in a healthy way. I pictured a cluttered room. A room so packed with stuff and boxes and creepy ass dolls I would rather burn than play with. All of the stuff crowded to the ceiling of the room and the only uncluttered space was the door in front of me. I labeled the door as the present and my stuff as my thoughts. Whenever I felt myself sinking into the clutter, I pictured the door and brought myself into the present. For once, I slept well before an event.

At the event I was nervous yes, I was critical of myself and constantly questioning if I did something or said something stupid, but I wasn’t tired from having been anxious all night because I wasn’t anxious all night.

One step at a time.

It took me years to get this way, years of feeling unsafe, unheard, and alone, and it’s going to take years to unlearn this behavior.

Life is a learning process.