Asking For Help

Things have been troublesome for me. My relationship of 4 years has ended, and I’m still heartbroken over that fact. It’s only been a couple days, and so the feelings are still very raw. It’s difficult to have 4 years of good memories in your head, only to be trumped by the memory of one incident: the break up.

I’m okay with having to move forward. I mean, I’ve been through a lot worse things in my life than a breakup, and have had my heart broken on the same level once before. I’m used to the pain. I’m used to the random crying that hits you when you hear a song that reminds you of everything, or see a couple, or hear about people and their love, or see all the pictures we have. I’m used to the constant feelings of “wow, this is all your fault” because I’m used to things getting ruined because of my mental health. And that’s essentially what all this boils down to.

I still have my cat. I love her, and I will forever love her. And I thank him for buying her for me those 2 years ago, she’s been a great addition to my life. So that’s one thing to be thankful for.

On top of that, the program I work for is also closing in December. I feel I am no longer welcome in this town by way of the universe, and that because both my job and relationship are essentially over at the same time, it’s a sign that it’s time to move on to bigger and better things.

I plan to move down to Los Angeles where peer support jobs are rampant in certain areas, and where I can really use my creative talent: my writing, my photography. I want to be able to blossom in this crazy life, and I’m sick of being stifled and stagnant. All of this stress is really kicking up my mental health issues, and so is not having the money to even pay for my prescriptions right now.

I started a GoFundMe. Hear me out: I hate taking money from people. I hate taking offers from people. I hate doing anything that requires me to beg. But I am in a situation where I can’t just up and leave town and not risk being homeless. I can’t stay in town and not risk being homeless. Again. I’m trying to avoid that. Again.

I would use the funds strictly for moving expenses and nothing more. That means the U-Haul to get my stuff down there, the deposit and first months rent on a place ( a room for rent, of course), and food along the way. I’m asking for 2k. Not too much, not too little.

If you know anyone who is willing to donate, that would be amazing. The link is here. I’m just a young 23 year old trying to make a new start in a world that has beat me down from the beginning. And I’m not trying to act helpless. I’m not even on disability, although with my diagnoses I could qualify. But I want to do things on my own, prove to myself and the world that I can be who I need to be without second guessing myself or degrading myself.

I am just in need of a little help.

I’ve been apart of this wordpress community for three years now, and have been thankful to every single person who has ever liked or commented on this blog. And now I’m finally reaching out to every single one of you and asking for just a bit of help. You don’t have to donate, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking for you to share the link on Facebook, on Twitter, on LinkedIn, whatever. I only have so much of a following, and could use more help in that department.

If you do donate, thank you, thank you. Every little bit helps.

Now, I’m going to try and get ready for my day, as difficult as that’s becoming.

Thank you.

Who’s In Your Driver’s Seat?

It feels good to be back. And by being back I mean reading articles that really have meaning to them, reading tweets that aren’t just about the memearific Kim K shoot. It feels good to be reading and reporting on articles that support and disapprove of my stance. I read one this morning called “The Corruption of Evidence Based Medicine–Killing for Profit” by a Doctor Jason Fung, a Nephrologist. You can read it here.

I mostly report on the corruption within the medicine of psychiatry, but the same happens in the sector of physical health.

This isn’t surprising. As I’ve said many times, medicine is a business. It shouldn’t be, but it is. It’s the same sort of business Tobacco is: it feeds off of people’s weaknesses. That’s not to say at least medicine has the quality of “helping” some people. Without my dad’s blood pressure medicine, his pressure rises into the 200’s easy. They’ve already seen he’s had a few mini strokes none of us knew about. So I’m not here to say we need to abolish the current system. I’m here saying we need to take a closer look.

It’s not your physicians necessarily that are in on this, it’s the researchers, the pharmaceutical companies, and if you live in the United States, the insurance companies. It’s a shame the only research that gets published is the research that very obviously supports the pharmaceutical or the procedure.

Fung quotes Doctor Marcia Angell when she stated the mean truth:

“It is simply no longer possible to believe much of the clinical research that is published, or to reply on the judgement of trusted physicians or authoritative medical guidelines. I take no pleasure in this conclusion, which I reached slowly and reluctantly over my two decades as an editor.”

It didn’t take me two decades to reach that conclusion, and I wasn’t reluctant about it. As soon as I read anti-psychotics were given to three year old’s for tantrums, I knew something was screwy. It doesn’t take a rocket scientists to see the profit within that.

Some psychiatrists and physicians aren’t even aware of what they’re doing half the time. My last psychiatrist wanted to raise me to 15mg of Abilify even though the research says anything about 10mg shows no real efficacy. And yet, how high up do they go in miligrams? 30. Think about that. 2mg of Abilify is 939 dollars a prescription without insurance. Abilify is one of the top-selling Antipsychotics in the U.S. Think about it. It took me digging through a lot of papers and research to even find the truth about the efficacy.

Soon all the rage will be these injections. The easiest way to trap someone on a medication is to give them one they can’t refuse. They are, of course, for the more “difficult” patients. So not only are you a patient with no rights, you’re also a patient with no rights who knows they have no rights, so you stand up to that, and that makes you difficult. Or, your experience of psychosis hasn’t been properly approached yet, and therefore you are left to sizzle in your own mind with only the fleeting hope an injection will change things. Maybe for some it does. But at what cost?

Fung makes a good point: “Evidence based medicine is completely worthless if the evidence base is false or corrupted.” 

Doctor Relman makes another good point:

“The medical profession is being bought by the pharmaceutical industry, not only in terms of the practice of medicine, but also in terms of teaching and research. The academic institutions of this country are allowing themselves to be the paid agents of the pharmaceutical industry. I think it’s disgraceful.”

It’s very disgraceful. This is why I have such a strong moral stance against taking medication, this is why I hate to admit that sometimes, yes, a low dosage of a medication does even out my mood. Yes, a low dosage of a medication does help me better understand and better dictate what thoughts I listen to and what thoughts I don’t.

It’s when doctors push up your milligrams because your voices haven’t gone that is the problem. Maybe the voices will never go away: if you haven’t accepted or made peace with that, that’s not a problem medication will solve. Maybe the delusional thoughts will always be there. The depression. The anxiety. If you haven’t accepted any of that, again, that’s not a problem medication will solve. 

It’s also not a problem to be solved. It’s an experience to learn from. It’s an experience to learn how to experience it in a way where you can still live the life you want to. Everyone has some kind of struggle that holds them back at some point in life. You are no different. And to sit back and say “Well, this is my ‘sickness’, I guess I’m doomed to a life of nothingness” is called giving up. That’s not acceptance.

That’s one thing that I struggle with in accepting this “mental health awareness” campaign everyone has going. They’re making awareness for the sickness, the illness, for this idea of helplessness because “your mental illness will never go away”. We should be empowering each other. We should be introducing each other to new perspectives, new ways of hearing voices, new ways of interpreting delusions, new ways of tackling anxiety, new ways of coping with depressions, new ways of experiencing mood swings. The only way we will avoid the corruption of ourselves is to keep ourselves. We can’t lose ourselves within this idea of being ill, of being sick, of needing this, needing that, being disabled.

And that’s today’s Mental Truth.

 

Rambles oh Rambles

Apologies for the absence.

I thought I would drop by for a moment and reassure all of you adoring people that yes, I am indeed still alive. Fascinating, am I right?

As of now, I’ve been awake well over 24 hours. I’ve been doing night shifts and when I came home this morning, I realized I could not sleep. My head is buzzing and my anxiety levels have been a little high.

I’ve got no financial aid this semester.

I’ve come to a lot of social realizations from working so much lately, and I’ve learned so much more about my sensory issues and my sensitivity towards “stress”. I’ve learned what one person might not find overwhelming, I ultimately fall in a heap and cry over. I’ve had to suck it up many, many times already. Over simple things. And I’ll sit there like, “well, fuck” waiting for the tearing sensation to pass.

At this point in my life, I don’t feel I’m able to transfer right now. I don’t feel I could handle working very often during the week because I become neglectful and stressed and as a result dissociate and fall dead silent. Not on purpose, but for a list of reasons I don’t always have control over.

toonvectors-10530-940

At this point in time I have a very generalized understanding of what could be going on. So I’ve decided to take the path of getting a complete diagnosis. At this point I have a bunch scattered around and never really “confirmed” I’ll be spending some well earned money on this, so it better not be a waste of my fucking time. If it is, I’ll kick the psychiatrist in her non-existent balls.

Can I say that to her without getting deemed “anti-social personality”?

There are only two psychiatrists who do full evaluations in my town and one charges 400 dollars per session because she went to “Stanford”.

Bitch please, I went to Stanford in high school for a college prep program, that doesn’t make my advice better than anyone else’s.

Remember all you college-aged, determined, young, bright souls. It doesn’t matter the degree or where you receive it, it’s how you use it.

So anyhow, things have been up and down and at this point I prefer insufferable insomnia over a midnight trip to the ER to some condescending doctors who seem to think Panic Attacks are something to get a good chuckle about. If I was screaming “stop taking my ribs, they’re taking my fucking ribs!!!!” like one man was one night across from my room while nurses were scrambling to find their miracle Haldol, I bet they’d take me seriously.

Or possibly tackle me and break my arm then when I’m lucid say “oops, you fell”.

I don’t know. I just don’t like being laughed at and accused of doing Meth three times in a row.

dysfunctionI believe I am one of the “dysfunctional functionals”, only because I try so hard, only because I dissociate so well. But dissociation can’t happen at this job, when someone is struggling on the phone or in the house, you need to be aware of what’s going on.

Peer Respite in itself is genius. I plan on always staying in contact with this house, I’ll always come back for a visit, and the principals I’ve learned from these people are something I will integrate completely in my practice. If I won the lottery…damn, they would be one of my first charity stops.

I know I appear rude and disconnected to people, or fake even, and I don’t necessarily know why. But I do know that my passion and feelings are not fake or rude or aloof. They just aren’t expressed to the extent I suppose people would like to see.

Right now I need a break. I need to stop moving so quickly. University will come. My Medical degree will come. And one day maybe I will be able to work steadily like other people. But right now, I’m only 21. I’m barely coming into my adult brain, it’s barely putting on the finishing touches.

Right now, I need to lower my stress before it drives me off an edge somewhere. I refuse to quit this position, but I need to have a serious discussion about possible accommodations.

Day shifts are much too hectic for me. People coming in and out, phone calls, interviews…some of it is my anxiety making something into nothing. The other part of it is my sensory issues, my hypersensitivity…it prevents me from doing a lot. I can’t keep a conversation if even I hear the rustle of papers around me.

It feels like my brain gets stretched in the direction of every noise it hears.

I feel my coworkers are many years older than me…on medication perhaps as well…and have been through the majority of their storm while I’ve just made the left turn into the beginning of mine.

I don’t want to feel like I’m avoiding things. But I have to remind myself taking on everything at once without any way of coping or managing things is just setting myself up for disaster.

Sometimes “pushing through” isn’t the right thing to do. Sometimes slow steps are better. And that’s okay.

 

 

 

Mr. Arrogant, M.D Speaking

 

nursing-home

Everything you’ve ever heard and haven’t heard about Nursing homes is real.

Today was my first day and I must say this company has done such an outstanding, marvelous, stunning job of making me lose all respect for them. Enough for me to decide to terminate my employment after 7 .5 hours. On my lunch I applied for the same position at a crisis behavioral health unit, where I fucking belong.

Lets start off with me getting three hours of sleep last night in order to be at this shit hole at 7 a.m.

I stared around the empty halls looking for the woman the administrator told me to meet up with. I happened to run into a different woman in the housekeeping department who stared at me with wide eyes and said she was told I was coming on Monday. I was told to come in on Saturday.

Great job, fucking pill-popper. First you lose my fucking resume in your pile of donkey shit papers on your desk, then you slur your words through my interview, and now you told the entire department I was showing up on Monday rather then Saturday.

Turns out the woman whose name I couldn’t remember? She didn’t work today. The fucking administrator asked her Twice in Spanish if she was going to be in today. So does she not speak Spanish either? No English, no Spanish, how the fuck do you survive?

.The kitchen staff, the laundry staff, and the housekeeping staff only speak Spanish. No English, only Spanish. And they’re all related. It became relatively apparent to me that I was hired because I look Hispanic. All he had to do was look at my paper where I marked my ethnicity:

“Two or more races (Not Hispanic or Latino)”.

Oh how foolish of me. I forgot, he probably lost that in his dog shit pile desk too.

messy-desk
Imagine this x10, and you have his office desk.

Is it really that hard to ask “do you speak Spanish?” or “Are you Bilingual?” Fuck it, on the next interview I’m going to walk up to them, shake their hand, say my name and immediately repeat “I do not speak Spanish.”

So while I was following around this one housekeeper who can’t explain the rules, or where the carts are, or what rooms we’re supposed to do, or the schedule or anything to me, she suddenly disappeared. I came out of a room I was dusting and she was gone.

I stood by the cart and waited because what the fuck else am I going to fucking do? I waited for five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.

A CNA came up to me and told me she had taken her break.

Twenty minutes passed.

A RN in red scrubs asked me if it was my first day. I said yes. He asked where the woman had gone and I said “her fucking break, I guess” and shrugged with an exaggeration.

Thirty minutes passed.

Keep in mine, I’m still standing by this fucking cart with no instruction and no one to give me any instruction.

The RN informed me the CNA who had informed me the woman I was working with took a break, was her cousin. In fact, they’re all related in the department. He told me it isn’t right what they’re doing to me and it’s ridiculous and they should have got someone else to orientate. I said I know. He said he’s been working here for ten years and “boy has this place changed”.

31x1esbjuol-_sx331_bo1204203200_A man strolled down the hallway in a navy blue button up shirt and navy blue slacks and he went into a room next to me and the RN who was giving everyone their morning medication and taking note of it in the giant record book. The man was an M.D, I saw it on his name tag, and all he did was wander into a room, crack some jokes, and walk out.

He waited in the wall in front of me, and I was an inch or so taller than him. He asked me if I was new, I said yes. He nodded and took a glance at the medical records the RN was writing in. Then he took off back down the hall.

A woman in a wheelchair was reaching towards the phone but she had spinal issues and couldn’t reach it, nor could she dial. She asked the M.D who walked past if he could dial a number for her.

Keep in mind this guy was just chilling and entertaining patients with his lame ass jokes a few seconds earlier. Now all of a sudden he’s too good to interact with them. He pawned her off on the laundry man. He says “let me get someone to help you” and goes for the fucking laundry man. Not the CNA, not a RN, not the receptionist:

The laundry man who SPEAKS NO ENGLISH.

So what does the laundry man do? He pawns the phone call off on me and says “help” and points to the woman. I have no idea how to dial out of the place and there’s no one around to ask, not even a CNA. The number won’t go through for some reason and the RN had to come help me, barking at the air that someone should have got a nurse for her.

Yeah, someone fucking should have. That piece of shit cocky son of a bitch M.D. I can’t wait until I’m his educational equal. His type are going to hate me.

After thirty five minutes the woman i’m working with comes back from her fifteen minute break. We start cleaning again, in fucking silence, and the laundry guy is trying to get some blankets off the bed of an elderly woman. Once he gets her in her wheelchair, he brings her into the hall and fucking shoves the wheelchair off to the side while he goes into another room for whatever fucking reason. I jumped in front of her before her chair slammed into the wall.

giphy2

I straightened her out and glared at the laundry guy’s back. Fucking punk.

By this point I’m beyond pissed off. I was thankful that I got to walk around and break a sweat because it helped whisk away the adrenaline.

Walking towards the Soiled Laundry room to toss in some bags, I see another woman in a wheelchair at the base of a small ramp. The small ramp goes up towards station 2 where the nurses are and where the smoking area door is.

Two feet away stood a RN in grey scrubs. He was just leaning on the counter. Doing nothing. Chilling out. The woman is staring at him and calling for him to help her up the ramp. She’s shouting it very loudly. Not in a aggressive manner, not in a rude manner, she’s just saying “excuse me, can you help me up? Can you help me? Hello? Can you help me?”

So I push her up the ramp and she says thank you and I made her fucking day with that one little act of kindness.

blown-head-gasket-www-deaven-netMy gasket blew. I slam-dunked the laundry bag in the bin and went back to the fucking housekeeper cart and I noticed the woman who I’d said hi to early in the morning and the woman whose chair I stopped from slamming into the wall were following me around the unit. They went where I went. And they always smiled at me.

The woman I worked with was scared of the man with severe Tourettes–I’m assuming that’s what it was. He could have been prone to seizures or something else, I don’t know. They lay fat mats by the side of his bed and he has a pink helmet, so I’m assuming the worst. She gets scared and confused when his tics go off because they are major and a little hard to watch. It’s hard for him to talk during them with his body jerking all over the place.

But abruptly it stopped. And when I saw the floor was dry I went back in to place his mats by his bed and asked him how he was and what his name was. He asked me if I was new and I said yes and he frowned and smiled at the same time, I don’t know if that was on purpose or another kind of tic. But he was nice.

The fact that the woman I was with never took a moment out of her time to at least say “hi” to the people, disturbed me.

Because the people in these departments are all related, they each do each others work. The housekeepers pick up after the kitchen staff, the laundry staff help the housekeepers, e.t.c. The RN saw this and stared at me, angry at them, and told me “don’t do what they do, that’s not your job”.

I saluted him.

They sit in their clique and speak Spanish in the halls, even though they know English is the only language that’s supposed to be spoken on the floor because there are residents suffering mentally who get paranoid and violent and angry when people are speaking other languages–they think they’re being targeted.

The CNA cousin kept talking to one of the residents until she told her five times in a row to leave her alone. The CNA wasn’t doing anything productive, she was just trying to have a conversation and the woman didn’t feel like having a conversation or laughing at your fucking awful jokes. So leave her the fuck alone.

simple

One thing is for certain, they were talking about me. Smiling in my face and stabbing me in the back. But it’s fine. Because fuck that place.

On my lunch I went home and applied for the same position for the crisis behavioral health unit.

Because here’s the thing. I could report that laundry man for neglect. I could inform an Ombudsman. I could tell the administrator that he’s unprofessional and so is his pathetic staff.

And if I see the same thing at the Crisis unit, you better believe my mouth is going to go off. I pretty much had an elderly army behind me today. Imagine me with an army of mental health patients.

tyson-beckford

Yeah, think about that for a moment. I’m already mental. We could take over the world.

My loyal friends, my mental health minions, also threw their fucks on my fuck-curb. They threw them there a long time ago, that’s why they’re in a crisis center. And I’m sure they’re going to love me. I’m a comedian. I make people laugh without really meaning to. I make old people like me without really meaning to. I make them follow me up and down the halls without really meaning to.

I’m going to miss a few of the elderly patients and I hate leaving them there. But I’m not stepping foot in that fucking place again.

I can’t compromise my sanity for a job any longer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rambles . . .

*Breathe*

For two days I managed to lift myself from bed and do something productive, so I would say I’m feeling a little better.

fallingoutofbed1_600x400

That being said, I believe very thoroughly in having a spiritual connection with the universe and respecting the interconnection we all have with each other, with the stars, the planets, and this realm of reality in general. I’ve known I’ve been needing some money apart from the money I’ll be making at my new job, and this week I believe I’ve been saved once again.

Some people pray, some people obsess, some people believe in luck. My mother often goes crazy over the lottery and buys tickets almost every day, no matter how often I tell her the amount she spends way exceeds the amounts she’s ever won. She spreads the colors red and gold through her room for “good luck”, something I personally don’t believe in.

We all know I have different views on reality, I believe I made an entire post on it. We all know that I see signs and symbols in everything: call it ideas of reference, or call it a creative mind, you choose. All I know is that since I was a child this method has worked for me.

the-secret-book-coverI read that one book “The Secret” because my mother is also obsessed with it and it was trash. All those books are trash.

It’s hard to explain a connection I’ve felt since I was a toddler and could think about these kinds of things, but it’s always been there and it’s always been dependable. This sounds odd to a lot of people, talking to the universe and having it listen to you. Makes it sound like I’m hearing things in my head. I’m not.

I predicted where we would live while we were homeless. I felt it in the air and I wrote it down in an essay in school. My teacher loved it. And after I finished writing it, including my explanation of my connection with the universe, everything I’d written came true. I said we would live in the four different regions of this county (there are about six different regions within the overall city we live in) and I listed the order it would happen, and it did. I said once we finished those four specific regions, we would find another apartment. It wouldn’t be  a house, but it would be an apartment, and it would be across town from my high school. Which is where I still live today.

It wasn’t something I guessed, it was something I felt.

I feel I’ve been sending out distress signals and this afternoon I came home to two checks and a third on the way, in addition to the other two I picked up yesterday. So five checks total in two days, a couple worth three hundred, one worth two hundred, another worth four hundred.

I thought my college account only had $300, and when I looked yesterday it had $1500.

I don’t know where the numbers are coming from, or why they’re coming, but they are.

It’s not about being lazy and manipulating the universe to your every whim. It’s not about not having to work for the rest of your life. It’s about understanding that you will always have what you need if you’re connected in life. This money isn’t something I want just to spend frivolously, it’s something I need to save. It’s something I’m putting to use for other people, not just myself. It’s something I want to use to give experiences to people who have always used their money to give me experiences. There are two birthdays coming up, father’s day, a car that needs fixing, and a trip to L.A this summer, so I’ve got my work cut out for me in terms of budgeting.

I withhold from bragging about these kinds of things because that’s not good natured. If I found a hundred dollar bill on the ground I would text my friend and say “look what I got bitch, suck it”. But I know the checks that I have in my hand that happen to come all at once, some of which have been due to me since 2013. If I win this particular writing competition I’m gunning for, well . . . my life will be complete.

I’m gunning for two, actually. One of which won’t alert me if I won or not until September. One will tell me by July 1st, and that would be perfect before I go to Los Angeles.

I’m going to Compton to find Ice Cube. 

universal20studios20hollywoodAnd by Compton to find Ice Cube, I mean Universal Studios. Seems like a social anxiety nightmare, I know, but I’ve never done it and I’ve never been to L.A, and I’ve let my anxiety hold me back from a lot of things. There are some things, like going to amusement parks, where I suck it up the best I can because I know I can have fun if I would just give myself a chance.

Speaking of having fun, the tickets I wanted for a concert this may were sold out because my dumbass forgot to buy them a month ahead like I usually do: my depression stole my annual concert from me. But it’s alright, I spammed their reservation ticket website with four different email addresses, so the next four tickets are going to me. I’ll resell two of them.

If anyone can figure out what the hell this post is about or why I’m even writing it, feel free to comment below. 

Because I’m pretty sure by today’s standard of being completely disconnected with everything except your Insagram, Facebook and Twitter profiles, I must sound crazy.

 

Obligations and Creativity

54902391

It’s only taken this last week for me to realize I’m not interested in much anymore.

You ever get like that?

Of course you do, everyone does and we’re all apparently “mental” or “psycho” or “insane” here, right?

*Rolls eyes*

I’ve been sitting in my robe, chilling in my bed, watching YouTube videos for the past four days now. I have no clothes, it’s too much work to take a shower or comb my hair. I’d like to take some photos or write or do some homework (I think I’m six chapters behind in math) but honestly I have no real energy for any of that.

I’m not depressed, I don’t feel sad or unhappy, I’m just . . .

Bleh.

dranem_bleh_base_by_xxrawrdino24xx2-d5e3hj3

I can still chuckle at funny YouTube videos, so I guess that’s a good thing. And I suppose it’s better than feeling overwhelmed by a tornado of emotion.

One of the issues I struggle with is my feeling obligated towards people. I’ve always been the person people come to for advice, which I’ve never minded because I’m someone who speaks my mind to people who ask for it and I’m someone who doesn’t care what they think after the fact.

You asked for it, didn’t you? Now you’re going to shun me because you got what you ask for? No logic in that. 

At any rate  . . .

The college English teacher I took in high school hated when I used that phrase “at any rate”. Now it’s starting to come back after three years of being captive in my archives of dumb transitional phrases.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, my obligation. I feel I’m obligated to show people I’m alright. It’s not that I don’t want them to worry about me . . .

Well I don’t.

But I also feel I have an obligation to myself to show people that I’m alright, because if I show them I’m alright I might convince myself I’m alright through pure social placebo effect.

fake-happiness

It hasn’t really worked, it just pushes me further inward. 

I think I need to let go of that obligation. I tell people all the time they’re not responsible for other people’s emotions, they’re not responsible for other people’s happiness and yet I have trouble following that advice.

Disappointing people is the last thing I want to do, because then I disappoint myself because I feel I was obligated to keep them satisfied. You see the problem there? That’s setting myself up for a vicious cycle.

That’s where the faking comes in, that’s where the mask is. I fake smiling in public, I fake being happy or not annoyed, I fake it all for the sake of other people so they don’t find out how dissatisfied I am.

But I’m not obligated to behave that way, life didn’t assign that to me. I assigned it to myself.

I don’t feel like speaking with anyone. I don’t feel like going outside or trying to have people cheer me up, I just want to watch YouTube. It’s gotten to a point where I can’t fake it any longer.

kid-runs-into-wall-oWhat bothers me more so than my imaginary obligation is my loss of interest in everything I’ve worked so hard to get to. I think it’s gotten to the point where the wall I’ve been pushing against and making progress against has gone from a wall of hay to one of wood, to one of aluminum, to one of steel, to one of titanium. I can only push so far before my arms snap at the fucking elbows and my knees give out.

School has been set on the back burner. I don’t have the energy or even the interest for it. I keep falling behind and although I will always be passionate about what I study, I just can’t focus on it like I used to. I can’t spend the three, four hours a day studying math just to get that A on the test like I used to. It frustrates me because I know that I’m smart, I know I’m capable, I just don’t feel like doing it.

Sometimes thinking is hard. Not in the sense of studying, just in the sense of coming up with a simple sentence, it’s as if I have to sift through a soup of letters and put together something that I’m not satisfied with. My vocabulary has disintegrated. Reading frustrates me because I’ve got to read a sentence ten times before I understand what’s being said.

I’m a creative person. Even in my episodes of depression, however long they’d last, I could some up with something beautiful and flowing, something to express how I felt in a way that could touch a part of someone else they didn’t even know they had.

just-my-mind2Now everything is so scrambled and hard to grab that I can’t write because I can’t identify the feelings. If I’m not in touch with the emotional part of myself then I’m not able to put out the pieces I want to. Writing is about emotion and human connection; I related to people through words on a page and now that that is severed, I don’t think I’m apart of this world anymore.

It’s only frustrating because writing was my outlet. I know you might say “Well, you’re writing right now stupid”.

To that I would say “shut up”.

I’m speaking in terms of fiction, in terms of creating worlds, the one thing I’ve always been good at since I was aware of my own cognition.  I feel that creativity has dwindled to a single, weak stream rather than flooding my eyes like Niagara falls.

That was my outlet. I could escape. I could be who I wanted to. But now that motivation and interest in that has faded, which I don’t entirely understand.

I just don’t care much anymore. I feel that I should, I get angry that I don’t . . . but I just don’t. There are things I want to do, tasks I want to complete, all of which I don’t have the motivation for.

I’d rather feel hopeless and depressed than this. I don’t like feeling nothing, it’s too odd.

So here comes another night to laying in bed in this robe watching YouTube videos of people my age running around doing stupid things with their friends, making backpacks out of raw chicken and sporting it on a catwalk, or downing Ghost Pepper chilies until they hallucinate.

Businessman Giving Thumbs Up

 

 

I remember the first time I was offered medication and the first time I decided to try it. I remember, unbeknownst to anyone, the uncontrollable panic that came with the thought that the medication would drain my creativity. I’d heard the stories of people turning into zombies. While that didn’t happen to me like I thought it would, it had always been a fear of mine. Who would have known four years down the line my brain would enact those side effects on itself. That’s what I feel like, a medicated Zombie without being medicated.

I feel in these last few weeks this blog has become a steady diary logging my descent into madness.

Makes sense, right?

 

 

 

Where Was I?

05ee864c501ef925fb0b130515f465cf3ff5e1f8ad2a2ee82ae5aac11955e152

Tonight I am struggling in a different kind of way.

Something strange is going on.

In the last post I’ve told you all about the passionflower incident in the vault, but I didn’t explain it in detail. I didn’t explain how I really felt about it and the thoughts that went through my head.

I told you all I felt someone was trying to frame me or perhaps send me a warning.

But let me explain this story in more detail.

That day I already woke up feeling odd. Even my new co-worker said “today is going to be a weird day”.

As if she knew.

perro_by_fronscavenger-d9dd28r

We do these things called “runs”. Runs are essentially when you take a Jansport backpack, take money, walk across the park with it, and deposit the money into the machines scattered around the park for employees to use. It’s also how we get record of what they deposited at the end of their shift.

During these runs you can take coin, bills, or both, up to a thousand dollars. Yes, I’ve carried ten, twenty thousand before, but that was with security escort and with another person. Runs we do individually without security.

On the runs where I took coin, I kept coming up short. On all of my runs that day I had to keep writing <.10> or <.20> on the over-short sheet. It looked like I was stealing dimes.

All of the bills I kept depositing kept rejecting at a high rate, so I had to stay at the terminals for longer than usual making sure the ones that were good bills and not crumpled or torn would deposit.

When my co-worker returned from her lunch, we were instructed to practice counting the vault to get quicker and more accurate at it. The FIRST thing we counted was the rolled quarters.

I even leaned on top of the wood and swiped m arm across the wood touching all the canisters to make sure my count was accurate.

We counted them over twenty times.

There are always two people in the vault. You need two finger prints to get in and there are three cameras in a space no larger than my room.

After twenty minutes of standing there with my new co-worker just chatting because we were sick of counting the same thing over and over again, I found the pill. Not her, just me. It appeared out of nowhere.

They’re fairly large pills and hard to miss. They look like this:

img_20160403_232150.jpg

They have a very pungent grass smell to them. Because, as I’ve said, it’s just dried flower petals in a digestible capsule. It’s 200 mg, and the standard dosage is usually 500 mg to 1 gram. So, to be honest, they’ve never done anything for me. It was the placebo effect. It takes 2mg of Ativan to even start my eyelids dropping, there’s no way .2 grams of a flower is going to do anything to this system of mine.

The odd thing? I haven’t even been able to take them for two weeks because It’s a struggle for me to swallow large pills, it always has been. The bottle, which I keep in my bag, was locked in the locker in the hall of the basement. The key is on my chain with my work id which is always around my neck. I’m the only one with access to that locker.

My first thought was someone was trying to frame me, send me a warning of some sort, perhaps that snitch from mid-shift or something.

But later I realized something. There are ALWAYS two people in the vault. There is ALWAYS someone monitoring the vault cameras. That means two people would have had to place that pill there.

When my trainer came into the vault after her lunch to see how we were doing, my co-worker and I gave her awkward smiles and my co-worker said we’d found weed (remember, she’s inexperienced about drugs) and I showed my trainer where. But my trainer kept talking about tips on working in the department, like she always did. It was as if she didn’t hear a word I’d said.

Later that night I couldn’t shake the feeling that none of what happened was even real. Tonight, I’m convinced none of it was real.

investigationIt just doesn’t add up. Two people would have had to placed the pill there. Someone would have had to either been taking it themselves, or stolen it out of my locker which is impossible. And none of that explains why the pill popped out of thin air or why my trainer, who loves juicy gossip, wouldn’t respond at all to our exciting discovery.

The management never said anything about it again.

None of it felt real. The whole day felt odd. Either someone was setting me up with the coins and sending me a warning with the pill, or none of it really happened at all. I can’t remember what I did with the last rejected dollar I brought back to the cash room, I can’t remember if I signed the paper.

I’m used to my experience in this reality not feeling real. I’m used to reality not feeling real. I’m not used to external experiences not feeling real. In fact, it’s done a good job of shocking me to my knees. And that’s a hard thing to do.

There’s only been a few scattered incidents of that happening and they were minor, so I ignored them. Much like the time I ignored the day where I kept hearing my name being whispered. I ignored the day I heard my car falling apart while I was at the stoplight and I started freaking out and putting my ear to the dash board and not being able to identify where the sound was coming from because it was coming from all around me and then it suddenly stopped and I fell back into reality. I ignored the words I heard over a megaphone that no one else seemed to hear. I ignored the instances of constantly feeling like someone or something is watching me.

Oh the irony, when Imagine Dragons sings in your ear “Now you can’t tell the false from the real”.

There you go, they’ve just confirmed it. 

Apparently the night of the incident I told my boyfriend someone else could also be using Passionflower but I’ve pretty much eradicated that option because it lacks logic. The incident not ever having happened makes more sense than someone else in that office taking passionflower and leaving it in the vault simply because, like I said, it popped out of thin air. I’d swiped my arm in front of the quarters half a dozen times, moving the canisters around, there was no way in hell we wouldn’t have seen that pill.

It makes me feel as if my co-worker was either also a figment of my imagination or she’s just never existed in the first place.

But that seems improbable because we needed two hands to get into the vault by ourselves.

Unless I was never in the vault in the first place.

Then where the hell was I? 

I hope I’m actually laying in my bed right now.

It all sounds irrational, but it doesn’t feel that way.

 

An Undeserved Break

clock

It’s 3 a.m and I just sent out the notice that I’m quitting.

Now, to fight the feeling of being a complete loser, I’ve decided to sleep through tomorrow and hopefully avoid whatever email I get from the director.

I don’t even want to think about the fact that I still need to pick up two checks. I haven’t picked them up because I hate going into Guest Services and saying “can I get my check” to the service people.

I’ve conquered many, many aspects of my social anxiety since I was seventeen. I should be proud. But it’s hard to  . . .

It’s hard to think straight at all with fucking Beyonce telling me to put a ring on it in my headphones, hold on, let me change this shit . . .

Okay, I’m back.

work_hard_and_be_proud_what_you_achieve_classic_white_coffee_mug-re2f58fefca344354b0badcba2049726e_x7jg5_8byvr_324It’s hard to be proud when little things like picking up a check still stop me from functioning. It’s hard to be proud when I can hardly go anywhere by myself without being immensely uncomfortable. It’s hard to be proud when I can hardly go anywhere with someone without being immensely uncomfortable.

There are several things I’ve learned about myself over the course of the last few months:

  1. I’m not incapable of conversation; in fact when I try my hardest I’m alright at it.
  2. I’m too hard on myself when I make a mistake and the mistake runs through my head until I’m stuttering and sounding like an idiot which, in turn, makes me even more nervous.
  3. I don’t care.

That third one is important. When I say I don’t care, I’m talking about conversation, or being around people or staying organized or taking care of general responsibilities like laundry, dishes, e.t.c ,things people tend to get annoyed at me for not doing. I’m not interested in gatherings. If you tell me about your weekend, I’m most likely going to be uninterested. Not because I’m rude, but because I’m probably thinking about something else and you’re interrupting that.

Honestly, if I wasn’t so socially anxious and hyper-aware of social stereotypes, I wouldn’t care about hygiene either, unless it posed a health risk.

image

The other day I realized I’ve been on my own for two years. I haven’t had a friend or confidant (this doesn’t include my boyfriend) in two years. I’ve stopped speaking with them all because I got bored. In fact, that’s what usually happens. It’s too much effort to keep up friendships, so everyone ends up being an acquaintance, people who I help if they need help or people who sometimes offer to help me if they see I need it. Sometimes I’ll be around them, but those are the ones who I’ve known for over seven years and they’ve pretty much got used to how I am.

 

I’ve talked on this topic before, about wanting friends v/s needing friends. Are they a necessity? Some people seem to feel as if they are. I tend to disagree, I think it’s often an inconvenience in terms of, you know, personal fucking space.

Remember how they teach you as a young child not to let anyone in your personal bubble? Well mine is about four acres in diameter.

If someone is yapping at me, I don’t have time to be in my own head. That’s an inconvenience.

funniest_memes_sorry-for-the-inconvenience-now-stop-complaining-_5166-520x400

In terms of networking, I think they’re incredibly important. I try my best to be as fake as possible when it comes to business because they feed off that. I like to be friendly to coworkers just so there’s no confrontation. I have to put up with their yapping and their laughter and their conversation topics I don’t nor will I ever care about.

That being said, I care about people in terms of them being people. Because they are human and of my species, there is an innate affection I feel for them. When someone is in danger, I help. If someone sneezes in public, I say “bless you”. I joke with them and I have some weird ability to make people smile–don’t know where that comes from. They gravitate towards me. I like helping them, I like sharing logic with them and giving them a different point of view. I like knowing that they come to me before anyone for advice.

But I’m not my true self, I’m not satisfied, until I’m sitting alone in my room entertaining myself. That’s a real sense of happiness.

I think my boyfriend takes offense to that when I say it, as if I don’t want to be around him or something. I think a lot of people take my definition of happiness as personal, or they develop a train of dangerous deduction logic where they think “Because she likes being alone, and because she’s not alone when she’s with me, she hates being with me”.

first-for-effortFaulty logic, but I’ll give everyone an A for effort.

I don’t mind being around other people. Sometimes it becomes an inconvenience and I get bored or annoyed or anxious or angry and need to leave. That doesn’t mean I hate anyone, it just means I’m introverted and don’t give two shits about being average.

Like today, for example. We walked along the wharf, got some fish and fries or chips or whatever you want to call them in the country you live, and then stopped by an ice cream/candy shop for his little sister. And us. Because I got a bag of sour taffy. So much for eating healthy again.

This shop is tiny. The building is large but the majority of it is taken up by the counter top, the ice cream, the taffy maker, and their storage and cooking areas. So the hallways to walk are narrow and because it’s spring break, because it’s a tourist town in which I live, people were clogging the way.

Now, I can handle crowds up to a certain point. I could handle the crowds as we were walking up and down the Wharf because I was only at the mercy of my social anxiety, not to mention my boyfriend was right next to me.

But in that tiny store, it’s not my anxiety that overwhelms me. I’ve never been claustrophobic: I’m the type of person who finds small spaces comforting sometimes. It’s the sensory overload that gets me. It’s the skin to skin contact you have to put up with. It’s the fact that I can’t breathe without feeling like I’m invading someone else’s space or feeling that their breathing is invading my space. All of the voices sound like they’re shouting, all of the movement makes me extremely uncomfortable. I hate when people move.

stop

Is that weird?

I seriously hate it. If there’s a chair somewhere, sit. If you’re standing, stop moving back and forth, it seriously puts me on edge to the point where I’ve shouted at people to sit down or stop moving.

The day was bright and sunny, another thing I struggle with because of how bright it is and how everything hurts my eyes. So by the end, after all of our purchases were rung up I just said “go, go, go” and booked it towards the nearest exit.

That was enough contact with the outside world for me for the next two days or so. I’ll still walk outside, maybe take a drive, take some pictures, but I won’t be confronting cashiers or going to work (obviously) or doing anything that overwhelms my system.

I need a break from everything.