Tag Archives: mental health

It’s Happening Again

Well, hello, blog. (*Dusts it off.*)

It’s been six and a half months since I’ve updated, and I didn’t even realize it. Sorry. I’m a shitty blogging friend. But I’m still and still and still folding into myself, isolating.

I don’t expect anyone to read this, but I feel the need to document it. I don’t think I’m having another big break, but there is something that happened during the big break that’s happening again. My sleeping trends are out of whack. Then, I would be nervous and reluctant and afraid to go to sleep at night. Also, I would often sleep during the day.

That’s what’s happening again. I don’t want to go to sleep at night, and then I’m out of it during the day. My mind in general is out of it, and I feel like I’m wading through a morass to access any thoughts. I can feel myself doing a shoddy job on my tasks, and what’s more, sometimes I can’t bring myself to care. The only reason I care is that I know I would regret losing my job, that if I suddenly disappear and stop completing tasks, things would only get worse. I’d lose any source of income.

I just want to live in my own make-believe world. I feel like I can’t function in this one.

My therapist and psychiatrist have been talking about suspected Asperger’s. I realized that, when it comes down to it, my problems don’t matter. Social anxiety, anxiety, and depression. Asperger’s, which would not technically be a problem but a “difference.” I live in this world, and in this world, no one’s going to cut my any slack for mental health issues or accommodate me for any potential Asperger’s. If I have Apserger’s, I don’t even want people to know because I think they would view me through the label of that lens rather than as a person with many facets.

Anyway, my problems don’t matter, and so I have to live up to “normal” standards if I’m going to get anywhere in this world. But I can’t. Oh, I’m pretty sure I can’t. I’m not strong enough.

I just keep feeling like everything’s going to come tumbling down.

And I feel so much hatred, mostly of myself. But then sometimes I also just hate every single person I run into.

For a few months, I’ve been meaning to write a post explaining my absence and explaining why any future posts may be sporadic. It’s mostly related to my isolationist tendencies, but there’s also the factor that I’ve been gone so long that I don’t know if I could catch up anymore. (And my embarrassing new-ish Supernatural fanfic hobby.) Maybe I’ll write that one later, but for now, I’m just writing this ramble because I need to get it out of my system.

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The Me I Could Be/The Me I Could Never Be

Wow, I can’t believe I haven’t updated in so long. I really had no idea how much time had passed. Time keeps drifting through my fingers. I’m sorry that I’ve been a crappy blogging friend and haven’t been around.

I’m okay. I’ve remained cocooned in a bubble of self-isolation. My emotions seem to be a yo-yo, though.

The week before last, I visited my family. A week ago, I went back to work. For some reason, my anxiety was working overtime, and I kept thinking I was on the verge of a panic attack. I thought I could feel everyone hating me. Then I had this conversation that seemed to insinuate people there liked me. And for the rest of the week, I noticed other small signs that appeared to indicate that idea.

I went to therapy, and we talked about how I wasn’t content with the status quo in my part-time job situation. We were discussing this job I’m thinking of applying for. I doubt I would get it, but I was thinking of applying as practice. My therapist thought that would be good because I would put less pressure on myself with that goal.

Anyway, after the session, something clicked. I had this vision of the me I could be. Of what I used to be like before the big break, my competitive, success-driven self. My self that strives for competence and always achieves it. (Well, except for the pesky social anxiety, which was ten times worse in the past. I think even though I don’t take medication that strictly addresses social anxiety, it helps. Of course, I think all my problems are tied together and influence each other, but that’s a subject for another post.)

I felt this understanding that my perception of what people think of me is sharply different from reality. That if I feigned competence, people would believe it. (Because really, half the time I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.) That I could hold a higher position and do well at it.

But then something in me flipped. I knew that this vision of the me I could be was actually the me I could never be. Every time I imagined myself succeeding, I imagined myself failing spectacularly afterward. Making stupid and costly mistakes. Anytime a person wants to talk to me at work, my first thought is always I’m in trouble or didn’t do a good job. I feel like that result is inevitable. I also had urges to sabotage any success I may have. Like I can’t let myself succeed ever. Because I don’t deserve it. Because I’m always panicking, and I’m gonna choke.  I might as well prevent the future disappointment by sabotaging myself first.

Then I started thinking that if anyone who likes me really knew what I’m like inside, the terrible person I am, the messed-up person I am, they’d be revolted.

It’s just really no one’s ever liked me. For much of my life, I had no friends. I have only one now. The idea of people liking me doesn’t compute. I’m overly sensitive to it. My therapist and I once talked about my biggest trigger, rejection. Perceived rejection. I can see little things as rejection. In general, I’m just much too sensitive, like easily shattered glass.

After I realized that the me I could be was the me I could never be, all I wanted to do was cower in a corner. I can’t go through the big break again. I don’t think I could make it through another one. For the past three years, my life has revolved around laying low, my priority being to prevent any repeat of the big break. Three freakin’ years. I’m pathetic.

Even after all that time, my will is a crushed feather. I’m all uncertainty and indecision.

I’m too broken. Thus, the me I could never be.

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Marooned in Myself

It’s hard to explain where my head space has been for the past few months. I don’t know what I should be saying right now. For the past few days, I keep coming on here to post then freezing and having nothing to say.

Well, at work, a few months ago we applied to have my job become a full-time one. The fiscal year begins in July, and since I haven’t heard anything about the matter, I assume it’s a no-go.

This is going to sound really childish, but I’ve always had a belief that things work themselves out for the best. In my life, that used to seem to happen, anyway. It’s also kept me going. But for the past year, things haven’t gone that way, and I’m just afraid I’m destined to fall. That belief is stupid, anyway. Loads of people don’t have things work out for them, so why should they for me? I’m not so damn special. Plus, the world often isn’t fair.

Ideally, I’d like to stay at my current job and have it be full-time. I’m decent at it. I like it there. I’m finally starting to feel like I belong. After two and a half years, which is kind of pathetic, but still. That’s the way I am. It’ll probably take me that long to feel comfortable someplace else.

I feel like this ideal is what’s best for me and my mental health. The pressure of starting over terrifies me. The idea of interviewing and looking for a new job terrifies me. That’s why I’m not assiduous at job-hunting.

For the past few months, I’ve been isolating. I continue to isolate. It’s like I live in this dream world in my mind and ignore large concerns in favor of small ones, only living from day to day. I drift. I let my mind be consumed by stories, both my own and those of others, whether that be in the form of books, movies, or TV shows.

And I like it.

But it can’t last. Bigger concerns will no doubt crash into it all one day. Plus, I feel hollow and alone. I can’t stay like that perpetually.

But I want to stay like this. Keep my anxiety at bay. Be consumed by fantasy because it’s all I have, because I don’t belong in this world.

The more I isolate, the more anxious I do become when I have to be around people. The more I just shut everything out.

The more I don’t read others’ blogs. I feel so guilty about it. I do care about the bloggers I follow. But I fear that maybe I’m lying to myself about that, because wouldn’t I stay more caught up if I did?

Yet I don’t. I continue to remain in my bubble. And the worst part is, I’m not even doing that badly. Just isolating. But perhaps that’s why I’m not doing too badly in the first place–I’ve inured myself into a self-contained isolationist world.

I don’t know. I don’t know what on earth I’m rambling about. But there you have it: the unlikeableness of me.

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My Mind Is Bound to Ramble

I can’t believe how long it’s been since my last post. Time has been going by much too quickly.

I finished Season 8 of Supernatural. I loved the finale, but there are a few thoughts I had about it . . . but I won’t waste space here rambling about something most readers don’t know about. Plus, if you ever do watch the show, I don’t want to spoil it too much.

I’ve been working a lot on my Supernatural fanfiction story. I have actually posted it online somewhere, but it’s a bit embarrassing, so I’m not going to link to it or anything. Funny thing is that this story has helped me get my creative energy back, while my short stories didn’t. With the latter, I’d struggle with what to say. Part of it could be because I’m not as concerned about the quality of the fanfiction. Don’t get me wrong, I have a standard to maintain, but the other stories require more attention to polishing, especially if I want to try to submit them somewhere. Except I don’t even know who the audience could be for my latest short stories. I’ll keep pondering the matter, though.

I’ve finally started editing my novel, working on a chapter a day. That pace might change once I get further into the story because the chapters get longer. Well, toward the very end they get almost ridiculously short. So far, most of my editing has consisted of deleting things that are irrelevant or rewriting sentence that don’t make sense. I have a hard copy I wrote notes on, and I follow along with it, but I also go with my instinct at the moment. I’ll read a few paragraphs then look at what I wrote on the hard copy. Oftentimes, the phrasing I want to change is the same. What I want to change it to is as well. I like reading both copies as I go through the story, getting two perspectives (current and past) on the initial draft.

There have been some things I’ve been meaning to write about, like therapy, or Asperger’s, or empathy. Maybe one day I’ll get the motivation to write those posts.

Speaking of therapy, my therapist is moving to another practice. Luckily, I get to follow her. Problem is, that practice is at least 30 minutes away. But I really do think she’s the best therapist I’ve had so far, which is why I’ve been meaning to write about sessions with her. I don’t want to gamble anymore with the therapist bin; it could be years until I find another one I like, if ever. So that’s why I’m going to continue to see her.

When she told me she was leaving the place I currently go to, I teared up because the news was unexpected. More so because I didn’t want to look for another therapist. She asked how I was feeling about the situation, and I said I just felt like I wanted to give up rather than do another search. My one thought was to ask if I could see her at the other practice, but bringing up the idea made me nervous, almost shaky with panic. After me talking about how anxious I felt about what I wanted to say, I eventually made the request. I don’t know why bringing up the idea made me that panicky. I’ve revealed other things before that should’ve been more likely to induce anxiety. It probably goes back to my fear of rejection and blah blah blah.

Anyway, at the current place, she had to make sure I could get approved for meds only. Because apparently they don’t like you seeing a pdoc there if you’re not seeing one of their therapists. I was afraid of how things would go, but it seems they’re working out on that front.

Well, that concludes today’s ramble.

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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.

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Immersive

I like to completely immerse myself in almost everything I do. It helps me connect with the material, get work done. If I’m in the zone, I’m in the zone.

But there’s something dangerous about my predilection for immersion–it threatens to take me away from reality. This is why video-gaming entertainment would never be for me. (That, and the fact that I was never good at video games, nor did I enjoy them all that much.)

But I immerse myself in other things–books. Movies. TV shows. Food.

Anything can become an addiction, so much so that I will live inside that world rather than reality. Not  that I’m unaware of reality or ignoring my real-world responsibilities. Far from it, but my mind is elsewhere. Perhaps it’s not an addiction per se, but it’s something akin to addiction at least.

Blogging used to be one of those immersion activities. That’s one reason I don’t blog as much as I used to. It might not have been noticeable to anyone reading, but blogging had started to consume my life. I suppose there were signs, such as the fact that I occasionally mentioned that my blogging life seemed more real than my “real life.”

Writing is different. My stories, they’re an immersion experience, but they’re much more than that. By “immersion experience,” I mean something that I submerge myself in. While that happens with my stories, there’s also more to them than that. With them, I also take parts of myself and submerge them in the stories.

But with reading, it can be a different story. Sure, I absorb knowledge about writing styles and analyze what I’m reading, but that involves me burying myself in the book’s contents.

TV shows are easier to immerse myself in than movies. There are dozens of episodes, and the result is a TV show’s own intricate universe. It’s easy to get lost in that universe.

We all need a little escapism now and then. That’s why forms of entertainment exist. But I’m afraid, for me, it might go too far. It’s not something anyone would ever notice. I don’t seem to indulge in entertainment any more than a normal person would. (Food, maybe.) But my brain, my mind . . . it halfway lives elsewhere.

Sometimes I wish I could let the fantasy, whatever it is I’m immersing myself in, take over. Then I’d have an excuse for the fact that I’m often drowning in the real world.

I fervently want to live in an alternate reality. I want another life, not my own. Not because my life sucks–it’s not that bad, and there are tons of worse lives out there. But I just–I don’t know.

There’s a hollowness, an emptiness, inside of me that never goes away. There’s a sense of intense guilt that fucking never goes away.

I don’t want it, any of it. The loneliness. The knowledge of how abject I am.

No matter what I do, it never fucking goes away.

That’s why I’m so pathetic that I am compelled to immerse my mind elsewhere.

There’s nothing I can do to express the intensity of it all. I can’t act against myself; I’m too cowardly. I can stuff my face, but at the moment it’s not working as an act of self-destruction, but as an immersion experience. It sounds beyond pathetic, the fact that I will immerse myself in the taste for one split second, for each bite, and let that be all there is for that second.

I need to do something to punish myself, but I can’t. I can do nothing but wallow and cower.

The more the darkness consumes me, the more I immerse myself in other things, other things that my mind buries itself in, other things that can do nothing to counteract the darkness, that can in fact increase the darkness even as they give me one ephemeral moment in which I am free.

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Is It God?

First, I want to post this short clip from Supernatural, from an episode I watched last night. In it, Castiel has just told Sam and Dean that he’s going to try to find God. Dean makes a joke about hearing God was on a tortilla, and Castiel responds that God isn’t on any flatbread. This part makes me laugh so much. Misha Collins, who plays Castiel, has such a straight face, and for a second it’s clear that Castiel’s considering the possibility. The moment is just great.

A couple of thoughts about God did occur to me earlier today. I don’t wish to get into any theological or religious debates, but I want to document this train of thought.

Earlier today, I was thinking, I wish I could feel as if someone loved me unconditionally, that there was an everlasting force of warm love surrounding me. It seems as if that feeling could help me with some of my troubles. Maybe even fill the hollowness that I sometimes feel is engulfing me.

Then I remembered, that’s precisely what I thought when I was fourteen. (Have I really changed so little?) That’s when I went through my religious phase. I firmly believed in God, and for a couple of years, I believed that a feeling of fulfillment was coming. But it never came. That’s one reason I turned away from religion. That, and I’m not much of a fan of organized religion in the first place. I feel like it keeps people from thinking for themselves. Why should I believe something about the Bible just because an “authority figure” tells me that’s the right interpretation? Why can’t I interpret it myself? This is actually how Protestantism formed, the idea that the common person should be able to read the Bible for himself or herself, not have a third party as a medium (i.e., the Catholic church). Plus, some of the most hypocritical people I’ve met have been the most fervently religious. But I’ve known many wonderful religious people, too, and I admire them.

Then of course there’s my whole personal background, what with my parents being of different religions and so not raising us with much of either one. I can’t accept the idea that there is only one true path to God. There are many paths, and the path can be different for everyone. People might believe contradictory things, and that can still be right since God is ineffable.

Well, I mostly believe in God. I say “mostly” because I can’t prove God exists for sure, so I’m slightly agnostic. It’s a character trait of mine; I can’t commit to something unless I’m 100% sure. There are also some principles I believe in, and they go along with my beliefs about God, but I don’t want to go into that topic right now.

Anyway, I was driving, and I was wondering–if I give myself to God, accept the idea that God unconditionally loves me, accept it fully, 100%, would I feel that warm love? Would it help me?

But is that possible, or would I be deluding myself? Would I be thinking something is true merely because I want it to be true? I don’t want to commit myself to a lie. I can’t be 100% sure unless I have tangible proof, and if I can’t be 100% sure, my mind won’t fully commit to an idea. (This aspect of myself is what has frustrated most therapists I’ve seen, but I can’t change it. I’ve tried.)

This might not make any sense, and it’s probably a passing fancy, anyway. At least, this angle is not something I’ve thought about much before.

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