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CBD, Psychedelics, and Alternatives

Since we’re on the subject of alternatives, let’s talk about CBD.

CBD, if you’re not aware, is an acronym for the Central Business District and Common Bile Duct and the Convention on Biodiversity.

It’s also is a shortcut way of saying CannaBiDiol, a compound within Marijuana plants. It accounts for about 40% of the overall extract from the plant, it’s highly known for being non-psychoactive, and is one of 113 cannabinoids within Cannabis.

You all know I have a long history with Marijuana, Mary Jane, that sticky-icky-icky, just as long as I’ve had a history with psychotropics, the psych meds, the poison, the Rx’s, whatever. Medication made it impossible to wake up in the morning, impossible to last throughout the day, impossible to not gain weight, impossible to feel like a human. Marijuana made it possible to tolerate the day, and not be present for it, which kind of sounds like a win-win to a 14 year-old who hated school, hated living, hated going home, hated waking up, hated everything. That’s why I poured vodka into the Gatorade and water bottles and chilled in class pretty fucked up.

I enjoyed that. I enjoyed all that because I wasn’t really present and I could skate through life without caring too much about the next day or even the present moment. Marijuana was helpful for my anxiety until I got deeper into mood altering and I’d sit with it until the world presented itself through a fish eye lens and I had to ask people if reality was real. People were changing shape and colors and I couldn’t really hear anything but myself; other people needed to shout in order for me to really understand through all my laughter and confusion. It felt like a very, very mild LSD hit. The last time I smoked a large hit of marijuana was about two years ago and the paranoia hit me bad. I kept hearing radios and cops in the bushes.

dmtaRegardless, I am a huge advocate for Marijuana and psychedelics like DMT and Ayahuasca. What I did with Marijuana was no different than what people do with heroin: abuse it. Were someone to use it for a purpose other than to escape reality . . . well, that’s a different story. These plants, psychedelic and otherwise (coke leaves, e.t.c.) have been used by indigenous tribes across the globe for centuries as spiritual healers, as pain relievers, as body stabilizers. Psychedelics aren’t for “trippin’ balls, dude”, they’re for reaching a different level of consciousness, they’re for getting in touch with the spirit world.

Westerners who try psychedelics with the mindset of “hallucinations aren’t real and they’re scary” get a terrifying experience. Others who have grown up around the understanding that this reality may not be the only reality, who have been at peace with the world around them and themselves go into psychedelics with a completely different mindset. It’s not very surprising that when confronted with something like psychosis or what we would consider “schizophrenia” over here–well, they often have a better prognosis and more positive experiences than those of us in the western “developed” world. Check out the striking difference between the U.S diagnosis of “Schizophrenia” and the experiences of those in India with the same diagnosis.

That being said, I’m going to document my adventure with CBD oil. I hear it’s fantastic for anxiety, and my anxiety has been terrible, I can’t wake up without shaking, I can’t go to work without shaking, I can’t go to meetings without shaking, I can’t do anything without shaking right now. Even eating makes me anxious.  There are CBD edible chews, oral gels, oils, wax (#dab), and you can vape it if you so choose. Personally, I’m more of a wax/oil type person (#DAB) only because it makes the former stoner in me nostalgic. But, edibles are nice too.

I’m not squiring oral gel into my mouth with a giant kiddie syringe. Looks fucking dumb.

I hear CBD is also wonderful for epilepsy and hard-to-treat seizures.

I hear CBD has the potential to be helpful with psychosis.

I hear both Marijuana and CBD can help depression, PTSD, and dissociation.

That being said: work with your problems within yourself, outward, whether that problem is psychosis or anxiety. Don’t expect a pill or a supplement or an oil or a wax or a leaf or DMT or aliens to get you where you want to be. 98% of it is up to you. 

For me, 2% will be up to this CBD oil.

If I die, you’ll all know why: the dispensary sold me heroin instead of CBD obviously.

 

 

What’s Wrong With Dr. Phil’s Wife’s Face? Seriously. Someone Tell Me.

So, I should probably be working towards my final for this online class and my other articles, but you all know me and my spontaneous writing sessions. It’s like my gaming sessions: I’ll game for a week or two or three, every day for hours until both of my hands shrivel and turn black and my finger tips fall off, then I won’t game for a few months.

May is “mental health awareness” month or whatever, yada yada. If you all want my opinion on this, you can refer to this post particularly, because I’m sick of reiterating the same thing every year.

But, this post will probably seem fitting for that cult-mindset (Ooh, bringin’ out the big guns now), because it’s about another person who claims to be a mental health advocate herself. Well, it’s not really about her, but more so about what was said to her, that I don’t necessarily agree with. And you know when I don’t agree with something, I have to put it out there on the internet for a bunch of people to not agree with me. That’s the way of the world, right?

I am not a Dr. Phil fan. I think the show is highly dramatized, and although subjects are approached with caution, I feel we’re pressured to believe that this Phil dude (who isn’t really a psychologist, did you know that?) helps people in a way no other person could. His wife’s face scares the fuck out of me (Sorry), and these people’s lives are almost exploited on television. I don’t really know how that makes mental health issues look, particularly if he advocates things like “bipolar disease“.

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Is This Meme Still Relevant?

You all remember the girl who was on there who believed she was pregnant with Jesus or whatever and claimed she’d been diagnosed with “paranoid schizophrenia” and her parents argued and said she “hadn’t been” . . . what was that episode even? Jesus Christ. Personally, I liked the man who said he wrote one of Taylor Swifts’ songs. I think Taylor should just give him the rights, because she’s only embarrassing herself by admitting she writes that shit she sings.

Anyway, A few weeks ago I guess this woman, Emily, who says she is a mental health advocate and posts pictures of herself online with her multitudes of self-harm scars, was also on Dr. Phil. She says that she shouldn’t have to be ashamed of her scars and she should be free to wear the shorts and short-sleeves that she does without feeling shameful for it.

As a self-harmer (although, I haven’t struggled with it in a while, since October 2016) I agree with her. Would I go around posting every scar and cut, old and new, online: no. That’s my personal preference not to do that. Whether she does or not, whatever. People who say she’s influencing people to cut themselves–I don’t understand that. If those people who see her are choosing to self harm, they are dealing with far deeper issues than just watching her on social media. Trust.

She said she continued to struggle with the self-harm, PTSD, and the accompanying anxiety and depression that comes with PTSD, and Phil asked why she thought she could call herself an advocate if she struggled so much.

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Well, that was the first thing he said that made zero sense and proves he has very little personal experience with mental health struggles. You can easily be an advocate and have moments of struggle within yourself. You don’t have to be “perfect” or “cured” to be an advocate, to be understanding and compassionate for others. In fact, if you think you’re “perfect” or “cured”, you must be one strange advocate, because no one is perfect and you can’t cure or rid yourself of your humanity so . . . that’s some fake bullshit. If you think you have to have never struggled at all to be an advocate, than you’re really fucking stupid.

In the same clip, they were speaking about the influence she may or may not have on people. The woman says she gets many people who message her and tell her that her confidence with her online persona has helped them see a counselor, talk more about their struggles, e.t.c, you know the deal. Phil responds with this exact quote:

“But you understand, my point of view is, mental illness of any form is nothing to be ashamed of, but neither is it something to celebrate”.

Well fuck me, let me sit in a hole of pity over my “illness” and be afraid to be proud of who I am, how I am, how I act, and my quirks. Fucking God FORBID we embrace this portion of our HUMANITY. Oh, the HORROR.

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In my very experienced opinion, it is something to celebrate.

In his very professional opinion, these “illnesses” are proven biochemical and neurological, well, defects. You wouldn’t celebrate someone’s terminal illness, right? Than let’s certainly not celebrate the diversity of the human mind and the human condition. That would be horrific.

It’s something to celebrate to me because it shows there are multitudes of ways to experience this reality. It shows people deal with pain and life in different ways. It shows that the human mind is much more complex and real and human than we will ever know. That, to me, is fascinating, and worthy of celebration.

And just because we can celebrate it, doesn’t mean that’s invalidating the struggle. If anything, it helps prove that struggles can make you stronger.

Does that mean I agree with this woman, this Emily? No. I don’t disagree with her either. If she feels free and content with herself by posting these things, fine. I wouldn’t do it, but I’m not her.

If you want something to talk about for #MayMentalHealthCultMindsetMonth, why not talk about the diversity of how our brains react to this life we live? Because that’s essentially what’s happening: life is a traumatic experience in itself and we all have different ways of dealing with that. If you want to believe that makes you defective, be my guest. Seems kind of self-defeating if you ask me.

I think I’ll go put on a party hat and grab some Whiskey Sours for Thoth and I.

I’m Back . . . Pt. 400?

I feel like I did that thing for the umpteenth time where I’ve been absent for a while, or so far gone in my head that my presence on this website has been a Double Debbie Downer. Love how that alliteration just wraps your mind in a fuzzy blanket, don’t you?

I don’t remember writing those previous posts of mine. But now I’m back for the time being, with an energy burst. I’ve got a lot to talk about, a lot to say, and mostly I would like to give a completely sincere and in no way passive aggressive shout out (again) to everyone at WordPress and the Admin team there for, you know, basically making the free version of this website worthless. Bravo. That’s amazing. I appreciate the changes, they’ve truly changed my life for the better. I mean, things would have been great had you not done what you’ve done, but I get it, you need to make money too.

bqmg7atzThat being said, there are going to be a lot of changes to this site. The first change is that I will be owning the domain and upgrading very soon. That is a must. By June, at the latest. The site will change, the pages will change, the content perhaps as well. I intend to regain my Google traffic that I had back when I first started this website, when you didn’t need to pay at all for some basic S.E.O privileges. And $300 a year isn’t horrible, but for someone who is impulsive with money, who is taking a vacation this summer, and whose car has acquired at least 1200 dollars in repairs, 300 dollars is basically my life.

I keep referring to what I started this website for: sharing a story, being sarcastic in the face of the mental health industry (ALEX GORSKY), Pharmaceuticals (FANAPT, SAPHRIS) fighting the idea of stigma, and presenting alternative topics from the mental health field. My personal rambles into the rabbit hole and outer space sometimes interject, but no one’s complained about that yet. You all missed my stint with the Egyptian God, Thoth these last few weeks. I really don’t want to post that on here. Just know it was a wild ride.

I want to start having people share guest posts, stories, experiences, ideas, and make this website more communal once I upgrade, which will be an amazing opportunity to connect with other bloggers. In the meanwhile, if you have a story brewing inside of you about mental health, about your experience, your recovery, spirituality and mental health, anything like that, my email is located at my “This Is Me” page, and I’d love to start inquiries about this. If you’re feeling reserved, no worries, I’m going to be scoping all over the internet looking for people who want to share a story or opinion for the next few months. I’ll probably come across you.

I was going to say “if you’re feeling shy”, but then I realized how much I despise the word shy. At this point in my life it’s become an insult. More on that later.

A lot will change. Stay tuned.

3693041-2Secondly, if you’d like to read something of mine that is a little different than what I usually post on this website, I’ve managed a guest post on a fairly new website (I love being apart of new websites, watching them grow and being apart of that is the best) called AlternativeMentalhealthrevolution.com. Beautiful website, it was wonderful to collaborate with the owner, and if you want to check out my post, it’s here. I hope I did justice to the topic I covered. I really hope I did. I should have mentioned this a long time ago, but I’ve been in and out of space for a while these last few weeks. It feels nice to be out of it again.

Dissociation, psychosis, dissociativepsychosis, I don’t know what it is, but I need to get it under control.

Anyway, I did another post for MentalHealthTalk.info. Another wonderful editor and owner to collaborate with, I thank both of these websites for allowing me this opportunity. I thank Trish especially from Mental Health Talk, because I was writing my article for her in the midst of one of my dissociative episodes, or whatever, I still don’t know what to call it–reaction to stress? I don’t know. But I got distanced from the article severely and took eons to get back to her. So I appreciate her patience and diligence. Anyway, this post is more orientated towards my story a bit. If you’d like to check it out, it’s here. Again, should have really done this earlier.

That leaves two more surprise posts I have lined up. I’ve been on Thought Catalog, that was amazing. I was on Mogul, a kind of women empowerment website, and that was amazing. But this next website, which I still need to send some samples to–it makes me nervous just thinking about actually getting something accepted on it, even if it’s just a blog post. This next website I’ve looked up to since I was about fourteen and just learning about psychiatry and its troubles. It’s where I learned a lot of truth. When I’m featured on it, it’ll be on here. It should be fairly soon, assuming I get my shit together.

The final post will be for a few semi-popular sites. I’m doing a few more for some websites that are pro-mental health and anti-stigma and kind of based on the medical model, but they didn’t object with my pitch so hey, I take that as a free reign to *respectfully* talk shit.

Thought Insertion, I like to call it. Quite Ironically. Because I’m planting thoughts in people’s heads just from them reading the article. Don’t think about it, believe it.

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Just one person reading about alternatives could change a whole lot.

At any rate, that’s what I’ve been up to. Decoding messages from Thoth, dissociating, writing articles, obsessing over my cat, accepting my failure in academics and relishing in my small everyday successes.

More to come.

Stay tuned.

You all have been with me for the last year and a half or so, don’t give up on me now.  Things are just getting good.

 

Saved By The Brain

Today has not been better, today has been significantly worse. I did not sleep last night, not because of anyone in particular, but because of myself, and when I did sleep this afternoon it was for a few hours and I’ve woken up highly panic stricken. I could not finish my meal. At least my kitten is here sleeping and being a lazy ass instead of consoling me. I’m going to get a puppy just to spite her.

Hours and hours and hours of this again tonight, I see. And people wonder why I have to drop so many classes. Well, half the time I’m In la-la land, not knowing what the fuck is going on, and the other half I couldn’t focus to save my life. I have one class left, people, one online class as of today: failure is imminent.

Whenever I ask my brain for compromise, it never seems to want to give me an answer.

It gives me shudders to keep thinking about the black outs I’ve had. It gives me shudders to wonder what portion of my brain controlled my body during that period. I never thought about that. 

I’m sure someone reading this has had a blackout rage or you’re driving and suddenly you’re in your driveway and you don’t know how you got there.

That’s what it’s like, but worse. The largest black out, the one in high school, is the one I can remember the best because I remember everything being black. There was silence. It was like someone spun me in my seat and turned me around to the back of my head where I could see nothing, hear nothing, but recognize I still existed in some form. I remember consciousness coming back, and everyone screaming and me being blocks away from when I remember. Someone was shaking my arm too, I think, or gripping me, probably so I didn’t walk in the street again.

It was like someone was trying to kill me. That’s what It felt like, because when I realized what I’d done, I panicked . . . inside, I panicked. Because I was pretty close to death at that moment. It was an intersection with four lanes going across and two lanes across the way, one to go left and the other to go right. We were waiting to walk across the four lanes. I crossed the moment the light turned green for those cars in the four lanes. I know that because the last thing I remember is the light turning green, and then everything went black.

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At least it didn’t look like this.

It’s odd to me that when I try to put together memories, it’s like they’re floating around in a soup, slowly sinking from my grasp. I can barely remember last week. Were you to ask me about yesterday, it would take a lot of concentration to remember.

I thought this was how everyone operated. And now you’re telling me it’s not? Well fuck me.

It’s like at the end of every day, someone is in my brain smashing my experiences to pieces, and sending the shards in all different directions, so I have to go hunting for them if I want to think about something. I thought everyone had a little demon elf in them shattering their memories. You dont????

I’m not panicking anymore, so that’s nice. Now I’m getting this eerie sensation 1) I’m being watched through my window and 2) I’m being possessed. I’m going to hold my ground and assume this drifting of my mind is the reason why I’m not panicking anymore. I can’t panic over something I don’t have the capability to think of at the moment.

Thanks brain, you’ve saved the day again.

 

 

It Helps.

I see WordPress’ game. I see the “buy our business or premium plan  to have SEO’s (the right to search engine optimization). 8.99 per month or 24.99 per month for the business plan. Come on, man. Fuck you. Fuck your shit. No wonder everything has been so wonky since their updates. Eventually, I’ll pay your 24.99 per month, and everything better run seamlessly and I better have two million views a day and if I don’t I’m suing WordPress and taking the C.E.O’s job.

Yep. I’m doing that. Totally.

I’m posting twice today, I haven’t done that in a long while.

I ate a burrito today.

I know this isn’t Instagram, but I’m talking about my food anyway. It was a big supreme burrito, I don’t think I’ve eaten good for the past few weeks, I don’t really know, and I’m reading “Spider”, and my heart drops in my stomach and my veins go cold and my leg starts bouncing, it bounces like a spider on a web in a rainstorm, and voices are faint, other people’s voices not ones in my head, they sound as if they’re coming through a balloon lodged perfectly within my eardrum, and my blood is racing, tingling even, and I can’t focus on the words in the book because they don’t exist to me any longer.

So I’m here now, listening to my heart thump in my ears over Twisted Insane.

Like I said in the post earlier, I’ve been digging around too much, facing up to too many things, and the panic is rising, rising, rising, and I’m sure I’ll snap at some point soon, I’m assuming.

Like right now, if this person continues fucking arguing with me over what I’m feeling. Don’t you hate people who do that? Who argue over how you’re feeling when you’re the one feeling it? This is why I keep my mouth shut if someone in my household asks “what’s up?” Why should I say anything if I’ll just get an argument?

All I wanted to do was enjoy my burrito. That’s it, that’s all. All I wanted to do was get rest before work tonight.

I should have seen this coming, I couldn’t handle the slightest of noises this morning. My mother opening a package pissed me off beyond control. Tapping, birds chirping, cars passing, everything has just made my nerves jump under my skin. I’ve been shaking for a good three hours now. When I’m not shaking, and I sit still, I still feel like I’m shaking.

You know how when you’re on a really fast roller coaster, like the Gold Striker at Great America, and you step off and you’re kind of giddy and your legs feel weird and you’re bouncing in your skin from the adrenaline? That’s how I feel right now.

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Never been? Get on it. And be in the front. It’s the best. 

It’s shitty when you know your brain is dealing with something big, but you don’t really know what it is yet. When I try and talk to someone about it, I forget what I need to say. I’m sure that’s my brain doing it on purpose. We’re not supposed to share things, we were taught that from the moment I was born with belts, shoes, and insults.

My chair is broken. Fuck, I almost face planted. Well, at least I’m laughing.

Listening to really fast rap when you’re this wired is not helpful. I’m going to stop listening to this now.

I love my kitten. I also wish I had a service dog, one that could nudge me through all this bullshit. They’re good for PTSD and panic attacks, I hear. They can walk into stores with me, e.t.c. So much money and training through.

My brain and I, we’re different people, always have been. Not because “split personalities errmahhgawd”, but because we developed separately.

I also love how I can literally be screaming at everything, slamming things, shaking in my shoes, and no one talks to me. I love it. It helps so much, God, does it help.*

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*EXCESSIVE SARCASM

 

Into The Further

I’m reading a book right now called “Spider” by Patrick McGrath. I got it for 4 dollars at a bookstore.

Yes, I still go to bookstores. Yes, I still buy books with paper in them. And yes, I got a better deal than you did on your kindle. Stop suckin’ on that jellysickle.

I will say, I’m enjoying this writer’s interpretation of madness and confusion than that of that “The suicide of Claire Bishop”. That author also fucked up when she went in all those interviews saying “schizophrenics this, schizophrenics that . . .”. She had a weird tone about her. The delusions were also kind of cliche. Sorry. It was a cute book.

629845Anyway, this Spider book doesn’t state any particular madness, but I mean you can piece it together if you feel like being a Diagnosing Danny. You don’t really understand what’s going on until 3/4 of the way through the book, and even then it’s shaky. The author did a great job of conveying a very thin line between what really happened and what the main character feels is happening.

With all this recent talk about dissociation and me, with the dots being connected and the disturbing possibilities surfacing, I found one particular passage in this book which really struck me, and for whatever reason I feel like sharing it.

“The front of my head does not satisfy the doctor so he is permitted contact with what used to be the back of my head but is now a sort of chamber occupied by a Dennis Cleg with ‘my history’–but Spider’s never there! Spider is elsewhere, though the doctor suspects nothing. Similarly with the dead souls: all is well provided spider is elsewhere–but let me for a single moment show myself on the outer wheel of the web in which my fragile and beleaguered being lives–and this is the moment I am destroyed.”

Dennis Cleg is his name, Spider is the name his mother used to call him. I don’t want to ruin the book, but it’s centered around his mother, father, and the landlord lady he lives in some halfway-house with.

The “dead souls” are the other residents, drugged up and zombified.

More:

“I must bury it within wheels, wheels strung on radicals forming compartments–allotments!–containing only dead things, fetid, empty chambers where shadows and feathers, coal dust and dead flies, drift about, where the smell of gas is pervasive, and this is all there is–these holes, I mean, these smelly holes I’ve built around the Spider to save him from the gales and storms of the world?”

I would say these two passages, each one after the other in the book, are very self explanatory about the dangers of vulnerability, about the confusing safety of compartmentalizing yourself and storing those pieces elsewhere in your mind and body–the safety in numbers.

About fifteen minutes ago I was very upset about things. I can’t really remember what things, which happens a lot with me. It’s not uncommon for my brain to take pains and hide them from me, which also ends up hiding any solution or revelation I’ve come up with. I did not know this was associated with dissociation, it’s been happening for many, many, many years, before I knew the term “therapy” existed.

You all know how I don’t care much for labels. I won’t sit here and try and navigate the DSM 5 or the spectrum of dissociative disorders, like I said in the last post I’ve had enough of that happening to me in the past. But I will put some unspoken pieces together.

My memory is good for everything that doesn’t involve myself. Sounds weird.

 

When you start throwing around terms like dissociation, people immediately think DID or multiplicity, and the controversy around that.

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The idea of multiplicity–that spectrum–doesn’t deserve the slack it gets. Everyone is multiple. You change your face every time you step out your door. Some people have fully formed personalities that communicate or don’t communicate, that take over, that hold memories to themselves. Some people have personalities that recognize themselves and some that don’t. Sometimes they have inner dialogues, sometimes not. The point is: sometimes you’re present, sometimes you’re not. Whether it’s because of multiplicity or not.

I won’t say that I feel I’m somewhere in that range of people. I don’t want to invalidate anyone’s experience. But I understand how my experiences correlate. I understand that when I fall victim to these other states of consciousness that used to be called a version of psychosis . . . that I’m not present for a reason, that I’m being distracted by myself for a reason. A reason I’m also not allowed to know.

That’s kind of fucked up.

I’ve spoken to my subconscious mind before, she’s come in different forms to me in my dreams, and she’s showed me what it’s like back there in the realm of my subconscious. Have you ever been on the beach during a storm? You can’t stand on two feet because the wind whips you in all different directions, the waves try and crash but they can’t because they’re also being whipped around by the wind, and the water is so choppy sticks and driftwood are flying up in the air.

That’s what my subconscious looks like, I saw it. I saw the ocean of it. I have a feeling it’s much worse now. I’ve been poking and prodding for the last few weeks and it’s not happy about it.

Also, Into The Further: new album by Wrekonize. Check it out. This song embodies life:

 

 

Why I Let Go Of Labels

Has a label ever really done anything but sit as ink on a piece of paper?

Another good reason: “Scientists SURPRISED to find no two neurons are genetically a like”. 

Really? That was a surprise to you? Dude. IQ of 35 in these researchers.

It’s funny how research that contradicts the current belief that the same type of treatment for the same type of “psychiatric disorders” makes sense doesn’t ever hold weight against the industry. And it’s kind of funny that the researchers for the pharmaceutical companies with shitty, half-assed studies that literally reveal nothing and yet have more weight than the study above.

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I’m kidding, this shit isn’t funny, it’s just sad.

In high school I was obsessed with labels. I wanted one. I wanted one so people would believe me when I said I was having trouble–otherwise, no one seemed to care.

I wasn’t good with people, I couldn’t stand in front of the class without fainting, I was super sensitive (a teacher once told me not to put a pencil tip close to my eye and I started bawling because I felt so degraded and stupid), I couldn’t go to school unless I got up at 4 a.m to prepare for the day. I needed three hours, not for hair and make up or whatever, but because I knew the anxiety would hit. Then I’d meet up with a friend, smoke some weed, head to class, and bullshit my way through the day. I’d smoke again at break, then lunch, then after school.

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Legalize dis shit WorldWide

I found something called social anxiety disorder and resonated with it like I’ve never resonated with something in my life. I thought having that would solve my life. I’d see more therapists, correctly this time, things would be better.

Did that. Didn’t work. I was 14 and started thinking maybe this wasn’t the problem. Something else had to be wrong with me.

GAD? I was always anxious, after all. PTSD? I’d been through some shit. Dissociative disorders? I was blacking out, you know, and I couldn’t really remember my childhood. Avoidant Personality? I did skip classes to avoid the mind-splitting anxiety. Anti-social personality disorder? Well, I did have vicious thoughts and I didn’t really give a fuck. Selective Mutism? I never did grow out of my shyness and I always froze up when people talked to me. Higher on the Autism spectrum? Well, I did love routine, I struggled understanding social customs, I stayed in my own world . . .  Agoraphobia? Well, I never went outside of my room, I was too nervous. Paranoia? People were always talking about me and working against me, they all hated me. Or was that just low self esteem? No, it wasn’t, it couldn’t be something that simple. Bipolar? My moods were fucking whacked. Schizoid personality? I rarely showed real emotion and, again, I didn’t give a fuck. But wait, wouldn’t that contradict the bipolar? Hmm, well I did have very active fantasy worlds, I remembered a few hallucinations as a kid and I was totally paranoid . . . oh no: I was totally schizophrenic. Totally.

db9

Or, I was all of that, and one fucked up teenager.

I was terrified. I was going to go crazy. I had always been a weird kid, I was always being sent into conferences and therapists and teachers were always worried and I brought alcohol to school in middle school and someone snitched on me and I threatened to kill them and they were scared of me until senior year of high school and I knew a lot of bangers and people brought tazers to school and . . . and . . .

And my terror was justified. Because social anxiety was brought up. PTSD.Autistic traits” (Jesus Christ), Agoraphobia. Depression. GAD. Schizotypal. Prodromal Schizophrenia. Schizo this, schizo that, how many words can you put schizo in front of before it loses its luster?

And now, dissociation.

I gave up labels when I was 16 because they all overlap vaguely and the words never gave me the justification I was seeking. I wasn’t really seeking justification anyway. I was seeking help. Hopefulness and understanding. I didn’t really get any of that.

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Hanratty’s asylum

Dissociation isn’t really a label, but it has been brought up again because of what I’ve noticed in myself. The whole, you know, not remembering anything in my childhood. The whole, you know, blacking out and walking into intersections. The whole, you know, going in and out of these states, these states that were thought for a long while to be a precursor to psychosis, where I’m met with a challenge, a thought, stress, flashbacks, e.t.c and suddenly I’m interacting with Thoth, the Egyptian God, which is who I’ve actually spent this last two weeks with, he gave me a message to decode, or battling the impostor in my classmates who has left her body and entered mine, or I’d quit a job at an amusement park because the bosses are also impostors, planning to get me locked up in prison . . .

And what confused everyone was that you wouldn’t know it if you looked at me. And what confused people in the past was that the voices I did hear weren’t causing me impairment and I didn’t hear them every day. I didn’t see things everyday. Was it just stress? Well, I wouldn’t be eating or showering, but I’d look okay too. I’ve babbled before, but I could be focused too. You could have a general conversation with me; I might seem spacey but you’d just blow it off for tiredness or general strangeness. I’m a good trickster, huh?

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hahahahah kill me

There’s been a general back and forth about all this in the world of past psychological services that I don’t talk about because it’s all bullshit.

And my psychologist asks me why I didn’t tell the hospital last October what was really going on. Well . . . I really don’t want to get smacked on a cot and forced drugs, that’s why.  Had I been truthful, I would have lost control and anger would have replaced rationale. They already offered me drugs three times and I was only there for a little over 36 hours.

And when I’m back out of that fog, which could last a few hours, a few days, a few weeks, a month, two, three, whatever, I find I can’t remember what it was that happened before it all. I won’t be able to remember the thought, the stress, the pain, that pushed me to that point.

It’s a protection method, I know this now. After 21 years of bullshit, I get it. What exactly my brain has protected me from the past . . . well, only my brain knows. It must be in a hell of a lot of pain, and have a hell of a lot of empathy to protect me this viciously.

Does that mean I should be labeled with a dissociative disorder now? After all that in the above paragraph? I don’t think so. Keep that shit away from me. Next thing you know there will be a Schizociative Affective Generalized Attenuated Psychosis Post-Traumatic Bipolar Syndrome type IIX and I’ll be the first one labeled it.

I need to know all I needed to know now. It’s all about discovery and healing at this point.