Home » 2017 » May » 05

Daily Archives: May 5, 2017

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.


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.*






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.


“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.


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: