They Always Disappoint Me…

As the years pass and my siblings and I grow more distant than ever, the rare times I do see them tends to bring about harsher realities. I suppose that is the joy of separation and distance. A while ago I learned from my mother that my eldest brother viewed my living situation as a result of our parents babying me.

This stung and outraged me to learn that this was coming from my eldest brother of all people. It was perhaps the second greatest betrayal he has committed towards me in my life and the only reason he has accomplished only two betrayals is because the first one taught me that I couldn’t depend on him whatsoever back when I was still in elementary school.

While I will try to reason to myself he is basing this belief on only what little surface he sees. I in turn only know him by that degree as well. Nevertheless, any negative judgments I have ever made of him are from actual information gathered.

Now, what has riled me up this time falls into a far greater uncertainty, as it was a case of action rather than words. While I often have my doubts when it comes to my own insight, empathy and ability to read others, I apparently have enough where my mother believes in it. I take her opinion with great worth.

When he and his wife visited us the weekend after Thanksgiving ended, we talked about the table per usual. I brought up the topic of my rather wearied outlook of the commercialism of Christmas time. As of late I’ve gotten droves of emails trying to entice me about purchasing things that would interest me. I curse that. I’m trying hard to save up money to give my siblings something of a gift each along with my parents without it overriding the usual money required to buy my groceries, pay my rent and handle other annoying things like expensive doctor visits and a haircut appointment.

As I ranted this, my brother and his wife just looked at me and quickly changed the subject as though they heard nothing. That moment alone reminded me of my sister back five years ago when she felt I had absolutely no right to speak of money problems. Sure, thank you brother and sister-in-law for keeping your mouths shut in order to be polite… but quite frankly I’d rather you bring your feelings and thoughts out in the open. Maybe then I could make you understand my position in life instead of have you misjudge me when you barely even know me at all.

Admittedly with my sister, I didn’t know she wasn’t aware of the IRS problems Mom, Dad and I faced. Yes, I include myself in that lovely time because unlike the rest of my siblings I was there, I enjoyed the stress it put on them, I helped out when it came to money where I could and while I cannot recall when the heck this was, I freaking help pay for my sister’s ticket to fly out her for Christmas break one year for my parents’ sake.

There is even more than that. I know what it like to pinch pennies, use the cheapest of products and make use of any useful coupons around. The first years living here with my mother and other brother was tight. We helped each other out and were careful. One time back when what I got via social security was four hundred bucks, my other brother had actually asked to borrow money from me. His price was too steep as that money was what I used to pay my groceries with because back then I could manage to live off groceries that totaled to about twenty bucks a week. I could only offer half at best. My eldest brother and my sister of course know nothing of this crap.

Yes, you idiots. You’ve actually relied on me, your so called overly-babied snowflake of a youngest sibling.

Oh, and Eldest Brother, did you know I am well aware that you nearly never pay your cursed student loans. The very same loans for the education you decided to quit doing out of the blue because it just got too freaking tough?

The only time you pay those are after Mom gets after you. You have a freaking job, you certainly make more than I get and the monthly bill is pretty much two-hundred freaking bucks. Mom is retired now. You are making her dip into her 41K all the freaking time. I’ve even told her that if she ever comes to the point where she has to ask, I’d pay despite my strong misgivings over it being something that is ultimately for your freaking failures and lack of responsibility. I use my money wisely.

Babied? You freaking think I was babied, you pieces of crap? Do you know I determined I couldn’t rely on anyone in our family by the time I was at least in second grade? Did you know I never asked for anything like most kids do because I was already conscious about money back then? The most I’d ever indulge myself was a pack of candy from the grocery checkout stand because those cost a dollar or less. Oh, there were things I’d see and want, but I always reserved those for my birthday and Christmas and even then I rarely ever asked for anything then and just let Mom and Dad choose.

Did you also know that when I had to share that cursed bedroom with our lovely sister, the only thing I came to consider mine in there was the bed I slept in and the few drawers I kept my clothes? Despite that she considered the room as much as my responsibility as hers and when it came to dusting I had to dust her things? That if the drawers to a really effed up dresser we had were not pushed in to perfection she’d wake me up from my slumber and tell me to straighten them? Those damn drawers never kept aligned to the tracks so it would take me a freaking hour to get them “just right” and I’d be sweaty by then? Then when I was finally finished I got to stand, turn around and see her sleeping? We were in freaking elementary school at that time and guess what? I sure as heck didn’t fall asleep again easily.

You know how she scared the crap out of you, Big Brother? Well, to your effing fortune, you lived in a separate building and had you own damn room where you locked yourself in and escaped from reality all the time because you were and still are so freaking delicate.

Guess how it was for me? I didn’t have that luxury. She would always find me. She would always haunt me. She scared the living daylights out of me. I had nowhere to run and the one effing time I did, she of course found me. The rare times I ever tried to stand up to her you failed me and Mom failed me. I was certain as hell I’d never be free of her. Also, did you know I had panic attacks and already was showing signs of mania back in elementary school? How do you freaking like that?

By the time I was finally in middle school, it was my bed alone that was mine because I began just keeping my clothes in our parents’ bedroom. Yes, by then that was the only thing I “owned” in there. Did you know living in that same freaking room became too much that I chose to sleep in the living room on that stiff as heck couch even though Mom often stayed up to watch television in there until 11 PM? Then the rest of the night I could hear when you came over to grab yourself something to eat from the fridge or when you freaking friends were coming and going because they didn’t know how to speak quietly?

Did you know that Mom and Dad didn’t worry about this because they thought it was just a freaking tantrum between siblings? Even after an effing year it didn’t occur to them that maybe it actually was something serious?

Did you also know they never noticed that I wasn’t sleeping worth crap at that time – that if I was lucky I got two hours of sleep and if I was extremely lucky I got four once in a blue moon? Did you also know that because of all the anxiety and fear I lived with, I developed Bipolar II. Yes, that happens when someone is under enough stress. With that I had mania and irritability and depression.

At the same time, I also almost completely stopped eating. Did you know that? Yeah, copious amount of anxiety can kill the appetite. I lived off a bottle of soda at lunch and a package of stove top Ramen for dinner.

Did you know that when I was at least twelve I thought death would be a blessing? Did you know when I was thirteen I direly wished to commit suicide? Did you know that every day was freaking hell? Did you know that that entire time of my life was spent grasping desperately to feeble strings to survive – that I wasn’t even living?

It took that night I desperately wished to die to finally reach out to Mom. After that I got to enjoy being a guinea pig when it came to finding the right diagnosis and thus the right treatment. Did you know that half of the medicines I got to take resulted in those extremely rare symptoms that affect perhaps 1% of those who try them? My entire adolescence was spent on drugs for the wrong diagnoses.
In the same spirit, I had lost myself completely. When I was thirteen to fourteen I didn’t know who the eff I was anymore. I had spent so much time desperately trying to not drown I became completely barren as a person. My soul was near dead. I had realized that if I had died, that no single person even knew me, not even myself. Those who lived on would only remember an illusion that wasn’t even me.

Did you know that though I was getting help, I continually felt like a clock, a wind up music box, a puppet, a doll? That the only future I saw before me was bleak and I’d never escape such a hallow existence?

Were you ever notified of the time I actually did try to commit suicide? Have Mom or Dad ever told you of this? I took all my meds, old to new, the no longer used to the always used and crumbled the pills up into dust, mixed it with the liquid medicine and drank it all down along with a ton of water?

I had actually intended to do it at school and even thought of places I could hide in while there, but I just got so desperate I decided to do it that night. The other reason was to tell Mom and Dad I loved them and hug them good night so that those would be the last words and actions they had with me?

Did you know I broke down often in school – from middle school to high school? I’d be crying and sobbing and the teachers were often useless despite they could have actually done something but didn’t want to deal with it, just sent me to the counselor’s office and one even threatened to give me detention. These break downs became more frequent as time continued on and one time I even took a pair of scissors out and began snipping away at the skin on my wrist?

It finally got to the point I had to quit public school and go to an alternative schooling. Before that though, because I desperately wanted to kill myself again I went to a mental facility for a week just to be able to see a doctor? Then, when I finally saw said doctor I was finally diagnosed correctly?

Did you know that like with our family, I lost all faith in friendship? That while I clung to the friends I had before middle school it was a futile battle and it took me my entire adolescence to finally give up my beliefs and hope in what those stupid, misleading children shows taught about true friendship? In turn, they all just became toxic relationships. When I finally let go, I in turn found it okay to no longer yearn for what I believed to be friendship. Then in time, I also came to no longer care to make friends anymore because I find being around people just makes me feel lonely as eff?

I was an exceedingly hard worker, you know. I am not naturally smart and getting good grades required me to push myself beyond my limits. I had breakdowns over school work. In any case, I finished my Junior and Senior years’ worth of work in two months and two weeks. I graduated and remained on the Honor’s Society from middle school to high school.

Sadly, however, once I began Junior College the cycle began again. Even with just one class a semester, it cased my anxiety to sky rocket again, my mania, irritability and depression would kick in and I would cut myself. Right, I never mentioned that. I was cutting myself back in middle school.

After managing only three classes for one year, I moved down here with Mom. We sought a new therapist and psychiatrist. Though them we learned I also had Asperger’s and an Auditory Processing Disorder. Through the therapist we also learned about receiving Medicaid. Mom and I compiled my history, sent it and in a month I was approved? Did you know that is nearly unheard of? Yes, I am that effed up, thank you.

Did you know that when we determined that continuing college would just have the same effect as public schooling had on me, I decided to go job searching? I never got any responses back, so instead I tried volunteering at a school library. I did very good work there. I kept everything in order, helped kids check out books and liked the settings. In spite of this, however, the stimuli slowly wore on me and by the end of the month I had gone through another cycle in spite of my medication? It took one month to lead me to desire cutting and having suicidal thoughts?

It was through these experiences did we determine I couldn’t survive in the real world anymore. My entire childhood wore me down. I have no mental or emotional immune system. Despite efforts, I cannot strengthen my mind. Despite my efforts, I could not even make friends. I assure you, I put in efforts. My therapist and psychiatrist bugged and at times still bug me about this. I tried just for their sake, but every experience resulted in breakdowns.

In all of this, I have never run off into my own world. I was never babied. I always pushed myself even though the results were always the same. I’d always do it for others and in time Mom realized the true cost. She saw the results: forcing myself to be like the majority rule only breaks me more.

Therefore, yes. I do live with Mom and Dad still. Yes. I have never had a job. Yes. I never finished college. Judging me on that alone however makes you an effing moron. You don’t know how our unit works and I assure you, it works fine. They don’t feel burdened by me. I support them enough. Though I need their guidance on things, I support myself where I can.

I still buy my own groceries. I help pay the mortgage on this house. I buy my own clothes and shoes. I pay for Atticus’ vet bills. I pay for my haircuts. I pay my psychiatrist. All the other medical things seem to be covered by insurance. Then, if I have some money left over, I will indulge in making a silly purchase of fancy, like collectible cards, a graphic novel, a figure or the like.

And no, life still isn’t easy. Though the medicine makes life a great deal more bearable, stimuli and low, low-level stress can overpower it. This can affect my sleep. This can affect my view of life in general. I have no personal anchor to this world. What anchors me to this mortal plane is Mom and Dad. Outside of them I have no freaking clue as to why I’m on this planet. In spite of this, I keep on. I try to appreciate life and be grateful. I try to be a good person. Again, though… I still don’t know why I am still here and pretty much see life as a “waiting game”.

Ever an Anomaly…

It does come to a conclusion of “pathetic” when one sees his or her parents, whom happen to be forty years older, are more energetic and productive then him or herself.

I still have a few weeks before it can be said that I have managed to survive on this planet for thirty years. In that small amount of time, however, I really felt as though my life has equaled that of a rather elder age… elder than my own parents apparently.

Again, I am sure there are those outside myself and my mother who are of hopeful certainty that I am just not putting in enough effort… but as it goes… I think it was that constant effort – that desperate effort that was always pushing my mind, heart and body beyond my personal limits – is what has aged me so quickly.

Yes… am only so old physically. Yes, my physically body is healthy. Nevertheless, there has been much lost.

I can think back to just five years ago when I would be constantly doing at least something. I’d be interested, searching, creating. I’d get absorbed in things from reading, trying games, researching, listening to music. I’d be getting responsibilities that I could get done without any repercussions on my health done. I was very efficient.

Now, I see many things I used to do just sitting around collecting dust. The website I used to store character studies I would get down right obsessed in is pretty much a memorial. The stories I’d write remain on hold because the inspiration dies off too quickly. The story I’d always read once in a while to enjoy as well as tweak is daunting for me to look at now. Games I found I could play and truly enjoy on the computer have been left unused for a great amount of time due to finding them either requiring too much energy and focus, too painful on my tennis elbow and/or just too time consuming for me to be able to keep up with. Drawing is pretty much near impossible and I really just lack inspiration to draw anyway.

There is simply a profound sort of tiredness. Even with little things I would address right way like mail… there are envelopes and boxes I will let sit for a couple of days before finally opening them. Once upon a time it would be an immediate thing. The same goes with emails – but most of those tend to be charities asking for donations or signatures for petitions…

I really think those years of my adolescence truly spent the amount of stress, energy and livelihood that usually is reserved for the time one s twenty to their fifties or sixties… then, upon finding a nice half decade of relative peace… I’m finally becoming something of a drying husk.

Some of me wonders again… if I weren’t medicated and my bipolar were to run wild once more… would I have the energy again? I quickly think of the repercussions, however… The anxiety, the stress that would come when my obsessive ways get out of hand and my need to finish things in full swing… I’d just be harming myself by pushing my body past its natural limits once more. Ultimately, it would just lead to the drying husk to become completely dried quicker.

Still, I rather miss that energy, that proficiency. I won’t weep over the loss, however. I make do with what I can. My interests and passions slowly become more and more subdued. What I read becomes simpler and simpler… perhaps one day all I’ll be able to handle are children’s picture books. Music is a rarity and I am more likely to “listen” to a song stuck in my head than anything else. There are things I think of that I would like to look up, but often I place it aside for a time where I believe I’d be in a better state for absorbing such information… Other things… briefer and only once in a while…

There are far worse things in life and if anything can be said… with this tiredness, though I get so little done… there actually is little case of worrying over boredom. The mind must be awake, active and focused to be able to become bored. Mine is rarely that these days… instead it merely finds the thought of rest appealing and sleep is rarely ever boring.

Still, it can be troubling. It can cause unease that I’m really just becoming a sloth. Yet, I wonder… do those who are slothful ever care that they are lazy? Also, do they ever think that it would be nice to die at an early age? I think dying by the time I’m forty or fifty would be nice. I hope I die around the time both my parents have passed on.

Admittedly, I somewhat store away “useful” information of ways to suicide if I should someday find myself unable to patiently wait for my time to come.

I do not mean to be ungrateful. For all one know, we may have but one life and when it is gone, it is gone. I do love my parents and I do have the small precious things in life one finds in the everyday. I enjoy our animals. In my parents progressing years, I find amusement and fondness in some of their dwindling senses.

Nevertheless… like how some people who have indeed reached the last chapter of their lives… I just feel ready. I feel fine with the thought of passing on. I cannot see much I can bring to the future. All that potential, all that drive… It was used up. Rather than a slowly growing flame that would slowly reach its peak and then slowly dwindle in turn… Mine blew up into a firework… and the remnants of that flame are quickly disappearing like drops of water on hard, dry desert soil.

Again, I know the future is unforeseeable. After all, back during my teen years I never saw myself being eligible for Medicaid or that I’d be a case that apparently proved so substantial they practically approved it automatically. So, yes… maybe something will happen this next decade that will show a future I never saw possible… or maybe it will just be like now, only the progression of what seems to be myself slowly breaking down due to some aspect of my age will be more severe than now.

Yes… I do feel sorry for my parents if this keeps up. They do not seem to mind. Since I talk about these things to my mother, she knows some of the dilemma I am facing and believes my words, my guilt, my fears… Nevertheless, I still find it pathetic. In a logical view, our positions should be switched if anything. In a strange, physical-yet-not-way, however… I believe I feel older than my parents. Sigh.

This Old House Just Ain’t What it Used to Be…

While I know I have written about this before somewhere, I might as well get it down here. Over a short time span I find my body seeming to be breaking down. This is not in an easily detectable case, though. Outwardly I look fine. I get good results on my yearly physicals. Even though I have high cholesterol in my genetics, I seem to keep it in the good cholesterol category. I have always weighed inside what is considered proper for my age and height. Though not particularly active, I’ve always had good muscle.

So, how in the world is my body breaking down?

With each passing year “little things” have begun developing. In time I have found myself limited greatly in what I am able to do. Again… in just a handful of years…

I have gone from being able to handle all my chores for the house (Kitchen counters, dishes, laundry, vacuuming, dusting) including ones for my own room to mainly just being able to keep up with the dishes and the laundry, forget about my own room.

In my free time I would read books of decent length, write stories and thoughts, research things of interest, listen to all kinds of music, watch shows and so forth with no problems. I can no longer handle books from 400-500 pages, much less around 100. I am too tired in one way or another write much or even go through to read and edit things I’ve already written. Heaven forbid I try HTML crunching or researching. Music is too much for me now and I only listen to a song on my computer once in a strawberry moon. I still watch TV shows with my mother, but they can be more taxing on my mind and body than even before.

All of these things fall in the realms of fatigue and the inability to concentrate due to fatigue. I have always been low energy. My primary physician sees no problems with me and says some people just have less energy than others. Though my father has always blamed it on not being active, I know that is bull. I’ve had plenty of instances in my life where I was incredibly active, but no matter how many miles I walked, how many hills I climbed, how much sweat I produced… my metabolism seemed unchanged. I’d take a shower, eat and often go to bed soon after. My mother has witnessed this and agrees with me. Activity isn’t the problem.

Again, over time, this weakness seems to become worse and worse. The first major occurrence was back when I had become so weak I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to leave my bed or even have the power to call out to my parents for help. Since that episode, we’ve learned I cannot let my weight drop below a certain level. To try to boost my energy my mom has me take a B vitamin every day and I have a protein shake every morning. Despite I cannot handle eating meat well, I too have made effort to add more protein to my diet by eating bean burgers or peanut butter sandwiches on bread that has added protein in it. In spite of this, the battle is still difficult and our attempts seem flimsy at best.

The recent appearance of monthly headaches has made getting things done from chores to even pastimes all the more difficult. Though I take magnesium to minimize them to a dull ache, I am still left rather helpless brain-wise because should I try to concentrate for too long, I quickly develop headaches.

Because of this combination of growing weakness, lack of energy and the inability to concentrate… I am left rather helpless. I have simple responsibilities I can no longer keep up with. I have many pastimes I would like to attend to but either find my body too tired or my mind unable to concentrate.

In this I am left quite helpless. I cannot do things. At times I have thought of trying to force myself, but I know how detrimental to my health that can be. Even when consulting my mother on this, she agrees it would do me more harm than good.

In this, I often can only sleep. I sleep due to the weakness. I sleep due to the headaches. I sleep due to the inability to concentrate. In turn, I find myself sleeping an troublesome amount. I will not take it for granted. I will never take sleep for granted.

Nevertheless, as I told my mother, it is troubling. It is worrisome to find myself in such a helpless state. It is annoying that I cannot get things done be they responsibilities to mere pastimes. It makes the possible future come off as very bleak and pathetic… because this tiredness keeps getting worse with each passing year. This trouble with concentrating gets worse every year. I am losing so much.

Often times before, when I’d find myself sleeping copious amounts, I’d worry that perhaps it wasn’t a physical condition and I was just becoming lazy. Logic and discussions with my mother help assure me this is physical and not due to becoming a sloth. Nevertheless, though I know this… I have but one person in the world who understands and knows enough that she believes me.

I cannot see anyone else in my family believing this. My father, though he would be my greatest protector and advocate at heart, he lives in a world full of denial when it comes to me. My eldest brother, and very likely his wife, see me as being too sheltered and babied by our parents. I know he is wrong on this though, because he never witnessed all the trials that ultimately determined that I cannot follow the majority standard. The same goes with my sister, but she’s always viewed me in such a way and always will. I’m not so sure about my other brother, but even if he were to think I’m just being lazy and not putting in enough effort… I believe he keeps his mouth shut due to knowing his own faults.

Then… there is just the world. I cannot follow the majority rule. The standard set by how most people function is one that I cannot fulfill. Looking at the standard, I also notice… I seem to be breaking down at an accelerated rate. People cannot see this, however. I look well. These troubles do not show upon merely looking at me. If my outward health could reflect my inward, though… I’m sure I’d look worn, fragile and just… helpless.

Alas, the outward appearance rarely ever shows the content within. Other than my mother… I’m pretty sure no one would believe my plight. The well-meaning would say things like my dad, my psychiatrist… even my best friend. They see potential, they believe if I just try more… I’ve tried all my life. I’ve pushed myself beyond my limits trying and in turn have almost always found no results or hurt and breakdowns. The rest of the world… they would just view me like my eldest brother and my sister.


Well, my head is cloudy and as it goes… just composing this has tired me. Again, I must sigh.

Therapeutic Dreaming…

In some sense I slept all day today. Why I say some sense is because the morning hours are a tad bit questionable, but I likely slept through them with various moments of waking. After that I got up, got groceries, did some chores, ate lunch and somewhere around two or so fell asleep. Usually I can be quite troubled when I find myself sleeping copious amounts. This time, however, I feel it was likely needed for therapeutic reasons.

When it comes to dealing with stress, most people seem to seek relief in exercise, meditation, food or getting lost in some sort of media. For me, it is sleep. It has been this way ever since I’ve been given the freedom to sleep when my body needs it rather than by trying to sleep by the standards of the real world.

This isn’t to say I never tried to sleep like other people. I’ve tried so by my own will and by sleep aids. Nevertheless, like with many things, trying to keep up with the beat of the common tune only seems to harm, because in truth… even if I force myself to function like the majority, it never does become normal for me. Not many people believe this, when I tell them. Even those I have been or am close to, not even my psychologist believes this. They seem to think it is a case of not trying hard enough.

I know, though. I have had to experience all of it. They were never there 24/7 and even if they were, they would never know the mental, emotional and physical toll forcing myself to function like others can be. They have never been there when the stress has finally settled long enough to override the medication that usually does help manage many of my “problems”. They don’t see me begin to cycle. They don’t see me become desperate to cut or begin to develop suicidal thoughts.

Sure, they may be informed second hand when I am in a rather bland state, or have read these occasional writings I’ll compose. Admittedly, I know of but one person who does believe me and doesn’t think it is lack of effort, being paralyzed by fear or negativity or whatever other excuse one might come up with. She isn’t there 24/7, she cannot experience exactly what I go through… but she has been there during breaking points, she has seen my efforts and she listens enough to understand and believe my decisions.

Anyway, I have gotten quite off track. I slept from around two to ten this afternoon and evening. There was little to possibly no case of actual waking up briefly. No, it was a deep sleep full of dreams and over time, knowing I’ve dreamed ensures I did get a good rest.

While in the beginning the dreams were what I’d consider normal ones for me, in time they took a darker turn. It is funny. The darker turn happened in a segment where I was in a setting full of polished wood tables, seats with leather cushions and people that dealt with the government. From what I could tell it had to do with the recent election and a possibility that Trump might not actually serve as President of the US depending on certain information they were investigating. Sitting at one of these tables, I saw my father and a few other men… I think one was a lawyer or some sort of representative for those hoping that the investigation would not go in Trump’s favor.

In any case, people at a separate table who were to decide the outcome came to their conclusion. What the conclusion was, I have no idea and I really didn’t care. What I noticed, however, was that my dad was no longer in the room. In turn, there slowly was a feeling of unease. Looking to the exit doors, Kyle of all people appeared. Relieved to see him, I met him and we left through the doors.

We went down some stairs, but upon reaching the first floor, I began to feel unease again. I saw what looked like open paint cans and for some reason they hinted to me that something was wrong. As Kyle and I continued on, I noticed how empty the halls were, how white, yet somewhat dingy the walls were… it was reminiscent to something you’d see in a horror movie. Then I caught sight of a girl. Pale and a sort of dinginess similar to the walls, I knew we were indeed in danger. Learning this as well, Kyle tried to duck us into the men’s room due to the strange thought that she wouldn’t follow us there. I doubted this, because the girl didn’t strike me as human anymore. Then, looking to where a sink could be seen, I noticed someone was in there. This person looked to be of similar state as the previously mentioned girl.

I tried to pull Kyle out of there with me, but we got separated. He was still in the men’s room, I was just outside of it. Though the door shut, it was like a stall door, though. There was a foot of empty space at the bottom. We had both been tackled to the floor, almost mirrors of each other, as the humanoid monsters were ripping at our lower bodies… quite likely feeding.

I believe things shifted then. There were other dreams… one where I was in my grandma’s living room watching a show with others… people I didn’t recognize. A young girl sat to my left and there was something very strange about her. I don’t remember this dream very well, but it might have had cannibalism in it as well… I think I somehow defeated her, but even stranger, at some point I entered my grandma’s dining room. There were two characters show my mother and I watch – a father and his son. I had tons of bacon on hand, but I knew it really wasn’t bacon. I cut it up and divided the meat among them. They could tell there was something strange about the bacon, but ate it anyway.

Another point in my dreaming, I was in the bedroom I slept in with my sister as a child. It was dark and I was watching a VHS tape. I don’t remember much about the tape, but at some point the entire room went black. I had a distinct feeling I wasn’t alone and fumbled to silence the video player by hitting the stop button, but unfortunately hit the rewind button instead. In the black room, all one could hear was the whirling of the tape being rewound. I did my best to keep my breathing as silent as possible. Again, I had no idea if I was alone in the room or not…

In another dream, I recall being in what seemed to be my eldest brother’s room as we were kids. Something odd and horror-like happened there, too. It is too foggy now… I think there was something that appeared on his television screen that had mainly been showing snow due to not receiving anything. After said image appeared, some shadowy spook and some guy also appeared and I think it somehow shifted to either the guy, or maybe it was me, being in front of an oncoming 4×4…

The last one I really remember, which I think was the final dream I had before waking, dealt with being in the shower. I was in the stall, still dressed to some degree, but getting clean as best I could despite the clothing. I got out and again, there was just a feeling… a bad, uneasy feeling. Behind me was a frosted glass wall and door and beyond that was the other half of the bathroom as well as the door that led out. I didn’t bother to leave the space I was in. Instead I did my best to lock the frosted glass door since it did have a latch for locking. I could never tell if it truly stuck or not. I then worked on getting dressed in dry clothes, but the dread that something bad would enter remained…

I think I woke up after that.

Anyway, with those horror story dreams, most would think that it must have been like a terrifying, endless nightmare for me. Strangely, I only categorize those as “bad dreams” at best. It likely has to do with my very literal take on words. Yeah, there was unease through out and maybe some vague feelings of fear… but I don’t consider that enough to be a nightmare. For me a nightmare will actually make my heart beat loudly and quite possibly cause me to wake due to fear.

As it goes, though… looking back at the “process”, I can only conclude those eight hours resulted in some good therapy for my mind, emotions and in turn physical well-being. Dreaming is the only way I know how to let my subconscious come to the front, run free and be expressed… and once that is achieved, it usually no longer lingers in the back of my mind.

Saddening Times…

Unless one goes off the grid electronically, I see it is hard to avoid the insanity. Just simple ads that show up on some places I go to have shown me enough.

I admit, just yesterday night as I was going to bed, having heard something my mom recounted about a friends son being threatened while he was walking home from school, accidentally seeing a thing about a KKK parade in honor of Trump and various other situations of racism… my paranoia spoke up for a moment.

Today we were to have our Internet provider come over to upgrade ours to high-speed. There was a chance I would have to answer the door at some point should my mother be away for a class she was teaching.

Yes… admittedly, for a brief moment, I thought, “What if I have to answer the door and it is a white guy who has always been racist, but only now feels vindicated to show it?”

Having dealt with my paranoia for… pretty much all my life, I quickly reasoned that down. Still, there has been unease resting around my stomach the past few days. The only way I know to combat it is to try to fall asleep so that my body will relax and keep the unease from possibly developing into anxiety, which in turn could lead to an annoying panic attack if not kept in check.

Tonight, I do not feel that unease, thankfully. Instead, I think of the people I have friended on Facebook. With some of them it was quite clear who they were supporting during the election. In turn… the one who obviously supported Trump…

Does ANY of this occur to that person?

Some Venting Over the 2016 Election…

Posted most of this elsewhere, but I still had more to write… probably still have more to write… but there are other things to attend to. 6 Reasons Trump’s Rise That No One Talks About

Interesting article. I’ve only lived in small towns, doubted I’d ever make it in the city… but the small town I lived in during my toddler to high school graduation years… *Shrugs*

I may have grown up faster, learning to do chores, boil water and get my own food before I was eight… but I was a nail that when hammered got bent instead of going in straight. If you are a nail that can’t go in straight, you either are hammered at until you do go in straight or are pulled out and thrown in the trash.

Even my mom, a girl of the state we are living in, but not of the town I grew up in, was a poor farmer’s daughter growing up who never saw a dentist until she was in her twenties… not even she ever really belonged in that town despite being a teacher there for over a decade…

Unless your family had been in that town for three generations or longer… you were an outsider to the end. Didn’t matter if she was a great teacher, went to the football games to support her students and school, followed the rules and all… She didn’t have the “roots”, so if anyone with seniority butt heads with her… no one was going to be on her side.

Logically, I understand the article… I can get it logically… but the dying poor folk… *Shakes head* Those dying poor folk were a good percentage of what near killed me. It is funny. I live in another small town, now… It is better in this one, though… but then again, I don’t have to interact with anyone here beyond a hello, please and thank you.

In essence, I am sure all of the dying poor folk are good and well-meaning. Hell, made my best friend in that small town that is a nightmare to me… but… I just don’t feel it. Small town person that I am… I just don’t freakin’ feel it.

Normally in this case, if I can see the logic, I can find at least the sympathy. Not here. The things I wrote above… simplified it is that those dying poor folk are no bleeding different from the horrible, rich city people they feel are oppressing and killing their way of life. No freaking, bleeding different. Human is still freakin’ human.

Give me a real underdog. They may feel like victims because their way of life is dying, but it is their own freaking fault. Yes, I blame those poor, small towns. Why? Because they were too afraid of change, too stubborn to change and so as the world changed about them, they got left behind because they couldn’t even bend just a little to help themselves.

Change doesn’t mean having to give up everything. Yeah, it is scary, but it is inevitable. They didn’t have to change right away. They didn’t even have to change everything about their way of life. All they had to do was find a bit of courage, a bit of humility and bend just a little. Pride cometh before the fall. That is what their dying way of life is now. That is why their fall is so incredibly hard on them now.

It is just like the town my mom did grow up it. Unlike the town I grew up in and the town I am living in now, her hometown is still just as small as ever. The buildings are still incredibly old, but with a quaint, historical charm to them. It is hard for restaurants to really keep afloat for long and there is so little there… at best they have a gas station or so, a Wal-mart and some typical fast food restaurants… Pretty much there is nothing there to promote growth.

The town doesn’t even have a practicing physician anymore. There was one, but he was so set to not be undermined by someone up and coming, no new doctor was going to move in to compete with his practice and you know what resulted? Anyone aiming to be a doctor went elsewhere and when the guy finally finished his practice the town no longer had a doctor. There is still no freaking doctor in that town to this day. All its citizens have to outsource for medical care.

Poor dying folk my foot. Country Folk to City People? All the same.

Give me the people who have really been screwed and have done nothing wrong to deserve their lot in life. Give me the elderly who worked all their lives until they had to retire to so humble amount of pay they could starve to death if it weren’t for meals-on-wheels. Such a thing should not exist and yet it does.

Give me the veterans who have fought for this country and have ended up so broken they cannot even function in society anymore. There are even “people” out there who actually demand loads of money from vets due to a miscalculation on their own cursed fault. These “people” are the ones who overly paid them and the vets did what any person would do. They trusted those people and they spent the earnings on paying off bills, putting their kids through school and such. Then these “people” realize they overpaid them and now demand they pay that money back? Bull!

Give me others like me who were born or even raised in such a way that they cannot function by the majority standards. People who are so differently made we function differently in a world that doesn’t cater to our differences. I cannot even hold a freaking volunteer job in a low-stress environment because while said environment may be considered low stress for the majority norm, it can override medication and drive someone like me back to cutting and having thoughts of killing myself because I cannot handle the stress caused by stimuli that is absolutely tame for the norm.

All through the election of the main two candidates, I couldn’t see all that great of a future from either of them. Unlike those who strongly opposed Trump being President of the US, I’m not going to live in denial and say “He’s not MY President” or such nonsense. Wake up and small the coffee. If you are a citizen of this country, yes, he is your freaking president. Deal with it.

Nevertheless, unease certainly is inside me. Perhaps I AM fearful – anxious even. Nevertheless, one cannot dwell hard on the future. It cannot be predicted. Anything can happen. All I can try to do is follow the way of life I’ve been living for a while now: try to focus on getting through one day at a time. It is difficult. I keep thinking, “Keep calm and carry on.” I keep looking to the cats to help focus my mind on something I truly find beautiful. And when that uneasiness has been settling for too long, I admittedly have to rest, relax my body, focus my mind of other things and fall asleep to make it simmer down again.


Still pretty messed up in the head…

I began pulling my hair out again around the very beginning of November. Now, an area of about my entire hand is gone. Back when I saw Mrs. Wynne sometime during the month, it was pretty much determined by my mother and I that my hair pulling is not so much stress-related as it is an addiction.

Now, this isn’t to say it was never stress-related. I am quite certain it all began as Trichotillomania. Over time, however, I became addicted to the calming properties of the action… I suppose it is somewhat similar to those who first use pain pills to sooth the pain caused by injury and in time become dependent on them even after the wound has healed. Anyway, the reason I am bringing it up now, is that there is something my mother isn’t aware of and is something I have only consciously realized recently.

I have had another form of “stress relief” that pretty much falls into the self-mutilation category as well: Cutting. I never cut deep, but I did cut… just enough to open the skin. I have always had a tendency to pick at “wounds”. Scratches, skid marks… stuff like that. These could often lead to scarring, but I never minded. I believe I actually kind of liked the scars left. That habit comes to mind when I pull my hair out.

The really tender areas of skin left behind… I like to pick at them. I don’t mind if this brings blood… I actually kind of hope it does. If there is blood, then it will scab and if it scabs I can continue to pick. Tonight… as I took a shower… I thought it was likely a good thing I tend to pull the hair out from the back of my head. Admittedly, if I could see the are better, I’d probably do more damage to the skin… even resorting to using sharp objects.

A somewhat “blessing in disguise” comes in the fact that I clipped my nails just a week or so ago. I didn’t think anything of it then, but I find I cannot do great damage picking with my nails this way. I probably should keep them very short… but some of me wonders if the gross amount of hair loss this time is due to not picking. Sigh… I likely should talk to Mom about this discovery. I just hate to think of it distressing her terribly…

Anyway, as my thoughts continued to wander, I thought of how my mom has often said those who have a a family history of addiction are prone to inherit and thus possess a higher likelihood of becoming addicts as well. This causes me to wonder if either of my biological parents had an addiction or perhaps their parents before them. I then also questioned my birth playing into these strange habits.

Born premature, I had seizures and pneumonia not long after. My parents were warned that I could have grown up with many respiratory problems and they could always change their minds about adopting me. Those never really happened, but I still wonder if there had been some damage to my brain.

I never realized this when younger, but I have always had a hard time retaining information. At the same time, I believe I have to concentrate harder than the average person. Might some of this be due to actual damage to my prefrontal cortex? I have no idea, but it seems possible.

There is then also nurture of course. With all the stress I endured almost 24/7 during my adolescent years (maybe it really was 24/7…) I am sure that can mess with the brain as well.
I just don’t know.


The other day I read the concept of “personal hell”. I considered what mine would be. Logically, one would think I would automatically say my bi-polar before it was diagnosed. That was a very dark time and often led to very desperate acts. My first thought wasn’t that, however.

The thing I did think, though… it was as typical as it was sad. I automatically thought of my sister. It shouldn’t be surprising, though. To this day my anxiety suddenly shoots up when I truly think of her. By truly, I mean “aware of her presence”. While I can think of her with a sort of detached method and feel sympathetic to her when my parents relay a recent plight of hers… outside of that… I can only feel dark feelings.

They aren’t dark in the way of anger or hate, though. No, they are usually discomfort, fear and disappointment. I will admit, some have bordered towards anger due to feelings of frustration and confusion, however.

Recently, (maybe even last night?) my sister called my mother while we were watching some television. My sister has a voice that carries, so when she is on the phone, I can hear her voice through the receiver even though I am a few yards away. My body automatically felt a bit ill and my chest became tight.

Today I was on Facebook and as usual it tries to connect me with people who have been befriended by the few I’ve “friended”. Of all the things to pop up, there was my sister’s profile. I admittedly wondered if there was a way to block anything related to her via the site. Sadly, all I would was “Add Friend” and “send her a friend request”…

Sigh… I, of course, find it sad I automatically looked for such things… I find it sad that simply seeing her Facebook page makes me uneasy and can cause a rise of anxiety in me. I find it sad that I feel really sick right now because of all of this.

Normally I would write down more of my feelings when distressed since writing such things out have always been therapeutic… but like my other attempts of avoidance… Some of me thinks that maybe I should just lay myself down and see if my mind can work it all out through dreaming instead…

Perhaps one might say I am running away doing such, but quite frankly, I really just don’t want any of these feelings to grow any more than they have and somehow result in some stupid panic attack.

Dog Damn It…

I wouldn’t say I hate dogs in general. I never have disliked dogs just as I have never been extremely interested in them. I, at times, do hate my mom’s dogs, however… particularly her most recent – Mackie.

Why my mom’s dogs in particular? They always display the same rowdy, greedy, disrespectful, trouble-making behavior. They can often dance on my nerves to the point my thoughts become quite drastic. Of course I would never act on such thoughts…well, except the remote shock collar idea…


They always display the same behavior because my mom spoils them until they are rotten. Mackie for example will stuff his mouth with anything he can fit into it. He particularly loves dish towels, socks and underwear. Mom never worked on stopping this. All she ever does is take the item away. Because of this, he has determined it is a game and thus will “play” keep away. Mom is fine with this; she likes his three year old child behavior. I find it exasperating and he won’t take me seriously because of this reinforcement.

The same is applied to plastic objects, paper and fabric softener sheets. All things listed in this paragraph and the one above are things he loves to tear to shreds or at the very least chew on until it is indiscernible. Again, the most she’ll do is take the item away from him. He is never punished. In fact you can’t punish him because he begins darting around thinking you are going to play or simply runs off because he knows he can outrun you. The times I do near corner him, he goes straight for mom. “She‘ll protect me” he practically oozes. It is frustrating as mad.

Then there is the case of getting on the furniture. Mom lets her dogs on her bed. Why my dad allows it, I don’t know. They will hop right onto it, rub and roll around all over it, smear their slobber on the bedspread, track leaves and whatever dirt is on their paws into it, shed plenty of fur in their wake… sigh.

Typically I avoid sitting on the bed, but recently I have been taking residence in her bedroom because of a broken knee she is recovering from. During this time Mackie has been allowed to sleep on the bed with her all the time now. I don’t mind this when he stays at the foot of the bed… but when I get up to do something and return to find he has taken up my place… I really don’t want to sit there anymore and just want to smack him.

Sigh… I really don’t see what my mom sees in such a delinquent. I must say though.. When he wears my nerves down… I’d really like to smack him over and over with something. Sadly a rolled up newspaper is like a fly’s wings batting to him and he is too damn quick to be caught anyway. Hence the mention of a remote shock collar… Man… I hate to admit to this but sometimes I’d like to shock him whenever he does something bad.

I do not mean to be inhumane… but…sigh… I hate him sometimes. I really do hate that dog.


I made a blunder in the night. I have a somewhat self-deprecating sense of humor. It translated rather poorly tonight and now based on the data, I believe I have hurt a dear friend with my words. I concluded it is likely an insulted, affronted sort of hurt. Sigh…
Before this, occurred there were many questions and ponders running about my mind. What started all of these thoughts was a single one. It has been many years since my suicide attempt during my high school years. To this very day though, I still cannot say I see much point in my life and thus feel rather comfortable (or is it resigned?) at the thought of dying.
This isn’t the same as feeling suicidal, mind you. I just… do not really see the point in my life. Yes, yes… there is point when it comes to others. There are those who are fond of me and I apparently enrich their lives as they do mine. If I were to learn I was to die today, however… I don’t think it would bother me terribly.
Said friend I made the fumble towards had been in a great depression not too long ago. During that time, he had felt something akin to that. At least, that is what his words had come to translate to me. It was indeed his depression that brought those thoughts and feelings. I wonder if I should take this to be a hint that I am still depressed? Yet, recalling my depressions of the past… these thoughts on the matter don’t bring on such a feeling.
Admittedly, tonight I have been a tad bit melancholy, but I always have such moments. I figure it is my body’s chemistry. Though I do take drugs for my bipolar, the medication has never been able to prevent all moments of depression or mania. It does keep them quite subdued in comparison to the time I was improperly medicated though.
Anyway, in the case I have also recalled those who say “fuck my life” or simply “I hate my life”. I do not ever recall ever thinking or saying either of those. I have found life to be a rather troublesome endeavor and wondering the point of mine, but I do not believe I have ever expressed great hatred towards my life (being on this earth/existence/whatever) itself.
Some might say my suicide attempt in the past rather cries out my saying those phrases… but back then I recall not adverse feelings towards my life then either. If anything I thought my existence was pointless, the future was a black hole and that in all sincerity… my parents would be better off without me. Though my best friend would miss me and those who cared for me would mourn my passing, I felt certain they would move on as all people do upon the passing of a loved one. Life just had no meaning to me… so I believed whether I was on this earth or not would not matter.
Truthfully, I still see no personal “true meaning”. I do know my life has meaning to others now, however. I have witnessed that I mean a great deal to my parents these past years. My mother and I have even developed a rather “symbiotic” relationship. We even each other out wonderfully.
I enjoy my time with them and our pets. I am content with my lot in life for th most part and recognize I am quite blessed. I rather think it a mercy I was adopted into the family I am a part of now because it allowed me to have the parents I have. I am grateful I am able to live securely under their protection and away from the real world.
Still, other than for the sake of others… I must admit, I have no idea why I am here otherwise. Once my parents are gone and if my friendship with the aforementioned friend should end… Yes… I would see absolutely no point to my existence.
I occasionally wonder if I should talk to my mother about this, but I rather fear she will take it the wrong way and believe I am suicidal. She feared that earlier this year after the big fight I had with my sister. I didn’t feel suicidal at that time either, but that didn’t stop her fears and beliefs.
Another thing I wish to write down… in regards to a likely god… particularly God of Christianity… it is said He has a plan for us and to have faith in Him and His intentions for us. Often times trials will be set before us. I often wonder this passing year… if my trial is finding my place in this world. I seem to have been born with many limitations. Are those my trials to overcome in His great plan for me? If so, I’ll accept the challenge. It is a rather interesting challenge when you think of the challenges others have been said to face.
Nevertheless… yes… why am I still here on this earth? Why is God keeping me here? What is my point of existence and why was I given such a challenge due to being born so ill equipped in making connections?
Hopefully I’ll find out some day… and if not, at least I’ll be dead and no longer have to deal with it. Hopefully death will indeed lead to lack of all connections to this physical plain and I will return to start of it all… I’ll become energy and become a part of everything and nothing all at once. There will be no consciousness, but there will be existence. There will be a belonging.