Tag Archives: fear

Little Anomalies

I was going to write about how I experience empathy, but I’m suddenly tired and unable to think. That’ll have to be for some other time, like in a couple of weeks.

I’m going to visit my family tomorrow, and I’ll be there for about two weeks. So, I probably won’t be on here. Not that I’ve been on here much lately, anyway. I haven’t been very good at keeping up with blogging lately. But my summer shouldn’t be too busy, so perhaps I’ll be on more regularly in June.

A couple of odd things lately:

I’ve started experiencing intense smells in my dreams. I thought there weren’t supposed to be smells in dreams? And that if were are smells, those smells were intruding from real life. But these smells are most definitely not from my sleeping surroundings. I smell things that couldn’t possibly be there. All sorts of things. Cake. Mud.

I’m curious as to why this is. I’ve never had a keen sense of smell to begin with. Why would I suddenly begin smelling things in my dreams?

I’m also someone who usually sleeps curled up, as scrunched into myself as possible. If I’m on my back, which I am often, I lie rigid with my arms around a stuffed animal, behind the pillow, or alongside my body. My legs are then crossed at the ankles or just stretched out straight right next to each other.

But lately, I’ve begun to sprawl out in my sleep. Consistently. I have to be sprawled out to fall asleep, often, too. Why would my sleep position suddenly change so dramatically?


I think I’ve figured out why Supernatural resonates with me so much. For some reason, it puts me in an artistic mood, the same mood that impels me to write my stories. I’m not sure how to explain what this mood feels like. It’s got ingredients of inspiration, flashes of emotions and tableaus, bursts of creative energy. Then when I write, it’s like I go into a half-trance, like I’m here but also placing myself in another place. Occasionally I have to pause and sit there, perhaps close my eyes, until the right mood arrives for the part I’m writing. Like something in my brain has to percolate and I have to wait for it to finish until I can fully articulate it.

This artistic mindset explains the weird impulse I’ve been having to write fanfiction. That is not something I do. I don’t want to write any of those novel-length types, just really short pieces. I keep getting glimpses of imagined emotional moments that I feel like writing. I’m not silly enough to have acted on the impulse (so far?), thank goodness. Fanfiction is not a world I wish to deeply involve myself in . . .

I’ve also gotten snippets of an idea for a non-fanfiction short story; it revolves around thoughts about God and angels.


I’ve been thinking about my lack of ambition again. I’m afraid to strive for anything because of the big break.

Today, I described it to my therapist as a “pretend breakdown.” She asked why I called it a pretend breakdown, and I explained it’s because I wasn’t truly non-functional. Wouldn’t I be non-functional if I had a breakdown? Problem is, it’s hard for me to tell, since blending in and not drawing attention to myself are big motivators for me. The therapist didn’t say much in response to that, so I assume she agreed with me. I kept getting irritated during therapy today and thought she was acting like she was bored. Logically, I know she wasn’t, but I wanted to start cursing and getting angry and telling her to fucking pay attention and that if I was boring her maybe I should just leave. Luckily, I reined in those impulses. See, these are the sorts of instincts I have, and with very little justification, and that’s why I feel I’m a bad person.

Then I talked about how hollow I felt, and she asked if I’d ever found anything fulfilling. I said writing, but then I’d sometimes begin thinking it was pointless and lose that fulfillment. She said she thought I could talk myself out of feeling fulfilled. That could perhaps be true. She asked if the point could possibly just be the fulfillment itself. But I can’t fully buy into that, because why should the point just be to make myself satisfied? If it doesn’t serve some other purpose, if all my writing does is sit around and no one ever reads it, what’s the use? It’s a lot of work for very little.

Anyway, back to the big break. I’m afraid. I’m afraid if I have any ambition, reach for anything, I’ll have another big break, and I’m not strong enough to go again through whatever that was.

For some reason, toward the end of the session, I started feeling emotional. We were talking about my upcoming visit to my family, and suddenly a rapid montage of the past played in my mind. I remembered everyone not getting along. Then I imagined lots of shouting and me inwardly cowering and wanting to run away and not get involved. Brief feelings that everyone hated me, intense feelings of self-worthlessness. I didn’t explain all that, though.

If you read my blog at the beginning, you might dimly remember when I used to whine about my childhood. All of that just briefly took over. That’s not a can of worms I’m going to open right now, ha.

Now, my family never hated me; I just felt that way. If anything, these days there are moments when I can almost feel their love radiating off them. This has to do with what I wanted to say about empathy–sometimes I feel as if I can perceive people’s emotions radiating off them when they speak. Maybe that’s absurd. I don’t know.

Oh, gosh, I can’t believe I wrote so much. I’m done with my random rambling.


Filed under General Musing

30 Days of Truth: Day 29–Fat! Fat! Fat!

I said I was going to finish the 30 Days of Truth by the end of September, and darn it, I will!

The title is a reference to this Wallace Stevens poem, “Bantams in Pine-Woods,” that suddenly popped into my head as I was thinking about this post. It’s a weird poem that has nothing to do with what I’m going to talk about. It seems like it has undertones about masculinity, actually.

Something You Hope to Change About Yourself. And Why.

I’m going for the somewhat superficial here, my weight. I’m ginormous. I weigh a lot, and I’m only 5’2″. (Fun aside: I often have to ask a student to pull down the screen for me when I need to project something. I’m that short. I’m pretty sure I’m shorter than most, if not all, of my students.) According to the BMI, I’m severely obese. I’m not going to say how much I weigh because it will sound disgusting. I will sound hideous. Then you’ll realize that it’s no wonder no one ever finds me attractive. 😦

There are two somewhat practical reasons I need to lose weight: 1) It’s giving me an enlarged liver and 2) If by some miracle I’m called to be on Jeopardy, I don’t want to look like a giant tub of lard on TV.

Weight is a complicated (and even somewhat triggering) issue for me, though. I often don’t care. I wonder why I should conform to society’s standards about what I’m supposed to weigh.

But I’ve often been derided for my weight.

It just feels like it’s so much work to lose weight. And exercise is so boring to me.

But I realized one thing not too long ago. I could be decent-looking (nay, perhaps even pretty) if  I weren’t such a fatass. I feel like this knowledge should motivate me to lose weight, but the whole idea still seems too daunting.

I have problems with eating healthy, though. I don’t cook. Cooking is boring, and I’m not good at it. Plus, it seems like such a waste of time to cook just for me. If I cooked, though, I would eat better food.

I’ve tried exercising, but I have problems with that. In a gym, I’m too self-conscious. First of all, I’m so huge. Second of all, I’m afraid that I look dumb. Like I’m not being rigorous enough or I’m getting tired too easily.

The gym also makes me think of P.E., which is rather triggering. I was always the worst at P.E. I often didn’t dress out for it in middle school because some other students intimidated me. They didn’t want to have me on their teams.

Okay, so I thought I could walk around the neighborhood. I did that the other day. But–and here’s a confession that makes me asinine–dogs make me nervous. Barking dogs in particular. Even when they’re safely behind a fence. There were a couple of dogs who barked at me rather viciously, and they made me nervous. I hurried by so I could go home and get inside. Ever since before I can remember, I’ve been somewhat nervous around barking dogs. It’s an instinctive thing. I’d try to get over it and pretend like that fear didn’t exist because everyone made fun of me for it.

I don’t know what I’m afraid of. That they’ll attack me? (This actually isn’t that far-fetched. My mom was once attacked by a dog while she rode her bike. This happened when I was in college, though, not when I was a kid.)

Maybe I can go walk in a park somewhere. But does walking really burn that many calories?

I suppose losing weight would require a lifestyle change, but I don’t know how to implement it. How to do it without triggering myself or getting discouraged because I don’t seem to be losing weight.


Filed under 30 Days of Truth

Nocturnal Woes

I’m afraid to go to sleep, especially at night. I don’t know why. It’s not just because of that suicide dream, although Lord knows that could be reason enough. I think there’s something else there that I fear, something I don’t ever remember. Throughout the big break, I was always afraid to go to sleep, too. That’s when I developed irregular sleep patterns, although I’m sure grad school probably contributed to that as well.ni

I had a weird dream last night. My brother and sister and I were staying at a shady motel for the night. For some reason, the price was eight dollars. (Specific numbers often appear in my dreams, which is why I think they’re symbolic.) Anyway, this motel was a dump. It had a rickety balcony. There was a pool in the middle of a field, and it looked hazardous. But the worst thing was the smell. I felt overcome by it, like it would suffocate me. I couldn’t stay there with that smell anymore, and I told them so.  I said I wanted for us to go find somewhere else to stay. They scoffed and told me that if I wanted to do that, I’d have to go find someplace on my own and pay for it. But all the other places in town were much too expensive for me to afford by myself. The dream ended before I made a choice.

I just don’t know what to say about how I’m feeling right now. I think some of this is paranoia.

I’m sure I’m being silly now, and in a couple of days I’ll probably feel embarrassed about my current state. But I’m paranoid that there are blips in my awareness.

This does happen occasionally, but there’s more now. At the store, I bought an Icee. As I was counting out my change, the cashier asked me if I was all right. I had no idea why she’d asked me that. I felt perfectly fine. Then I went to the machine and did what I thought was fill the cup perfectly. But then all of a sudden it was overflowing, and I had no idea why. Then I turned and was surprised to see the cashier right there ready to clean up the mess. I think she must’ve been watching me because I looked odd.

Another thing I’ve become paranoid about: On Friday, I bought some grocery store sushi. I thought I grabbed a couple of packs of soy sauce. I decided to eat on the coffee table, and then I spilled my soda. After I cleaned up the spill, I looked everywhere near where I’d just been and didn’t find the soy sauce. I still haven’t found it. What if I imagined getting it in the first place?

Okay, I’m pretty sure I didn’t imagine it. I’m being paranoid, surely.

But I’ve come back to a basal sensation I felt most intensely during the big break, a feeling that’s been there my whole life.  I feel irrevocably, utterly empty. It’s a hollowness that can never be filled.

I keep alternating between amusement and despair.

And there’s some imposter syndrome thrown in there. I feel completely unlikeable, and I feel that I’m a fraud and everyone on here will one day know I’m unlikeable. One day everyone will know, and I’ll be laid bare in my despicability.

Of course, if I’m unlikeable, then I’m also unlovable.

I’m foolish. I feel as if the emptiness will be filled if I feel as if someone outside of my family loves me. I know my family loves me, though I didn’t when I was a kid. But they’re also very critical.

When I was a kid, I hugged my stuffed animals to make my emptiness go away. It didn’t really work, but it helped.

I feel like everything I do is futile. Why even put in effort if I’m destined for mediocrity?

No doubt the Seroquel will knock me out soon. But still, it looks like it will be a most unrestful night.


Filed under Mental Health