So, I sat down at my laptop today to try to do some creative writing, since I was in a strange mood and also because I haven’t set any time aside for non-academic writing since the semester started. What followed was pretty unnerving, when I re-read it. Mostly, because I can’t tell if it makes any sense at all, or an uncanny amount of sense. It’s probably just the former, and I’m still thinking strangely. 

For the bored or curious, here’s my semi-psychotic rant:

Life, you know, is madness.

Well, I believe the term used is “absurdity.”

The term used by philosophers. They chose well.

Absurdity. Not many people get it, if one really can get it (and I believe I have.)

Evokes laughter, doesn’t it?

Laughter. Yes. I laugh a lot, don’t I?

At the absurdity. At everything. Well, it’s all one and the same, really. You see, I’ve realized that laughter isn’t madness. It’s the most natural response in the face of the cold, serpentine gaze of “reality.”



I’ll tell you. Ha.

The meaninglessness of everything gets to a person rather quickly, once you accept that as the truth. Life was a random accident, evolution, a curious coincidence. All we are, all we do—it’s all temporary in the face of the void beyond the existence we know. (Assuming, of course, I’m right. This is all assuming I’m right…)

Yes, we can search for meaning. We can create meaning. I’ve done plenty of searching myself. Lots and lots of searching. But when we die—what then?

I was afraid of sleep once, you know. Death, while awake, you can mostly see coming—sure, sure, there’s the occasional split-second freight train accident and such. But for the most part, you feel the pain and know it’s coming. But sleep, death’s bastard brother, is much more sneaky than life, when it comes to its dealings with death. One minute, you’re dreaming, the next moment, you’re not. So simple. So completely fucking terrifying.

Don’t worry. I can sleep now.

Most nights.

I once visited a cadaver lab, as a student. I was making jokes the whole time, which my fellow students either appreciated or tried to ignore (the ones that weren’t passing out from the mere sight of the gray-skinned, well-preserved, bony corpses, that is.)

The one I dissected was an old lady. Had been an old lady, in life. Now, it was a cadaver. Of course, hair, clothing, eyeballs… that was all gone.

When we got to the stomach, the girl to my right passed out. I helped catch her, keep her from heading face-first into the cadaver’s open body cavity, and the professors led her into the hallway.

Once they were gone, curiosity overcame me.

I had to see the face (so tastefully covered with a towel.)

So I pulled off the white, stained towel, to look the corpse in the eyes. Sockets.

Was it grinning? It seemed that way for just a moment.

I left that day thinking of laughter in the face of death.

That’s why I laugh. You see now.

If I weren’t laughing, I’d be crying.

Those empty eyesockets beheld a terrible truth. They saw non-existence itself.

Laughter, madness, sanity, solemnity…

(Perhaps I am the sane one.)

(I know why skulls grin.

Yes, perhaps it has to do with having no lips.


But maybe, just maybe, it’s because they know the terrible, mind-crushing, amusing truth.)


The Thing with Feathers

Happy belated New Year, everyone. I know I’ve been absent for quite a while; the end of my semester got really busy. It turned out well, though. I’m proud.

I’m proud of something else, too, and that would be my progress with my own mental health. I’ve been doing really well lately. And I’ve realized something, too. Discovered something, rather. Something I’ve never let myself become acquainted with before.

No, not alcohol.


In an earlier post, I compared my mental illness to a corvid, always with scaly talons digging into their perch (my shoulder) and inky black eyes watching my every move. To continue the bird symbolism, my hope for my own future is a fledgeling right now.

I’m keeping it from leaping off because I’m afraid it might fall and die.

At least, however, I’m keeping it alive.

I’ve never allowed myself to have hope about the future, to have hope that things wouldn’t always be the way they were for me. But somehow, as things have gotten better, I’ve started looking up, so to speak.

And I’m doing well. I haven’t felt this good about my life in years. Things are going great for me–relationships with others, my classes, my lack of psychotic breaks lately–and I have no immediate reason to believe this will change. And even if they do, I’ve already come to the realization that misery really can be only temporary, and that is a realization that I hope will stick with me.

Who knows, maybe my new outlook on life will grow and take wing.

I know that my mental illness will always be my dark companion, but I can ignore it now and focus on my future.

New year.

New attitude.

Yeah, things are looking pretty good.


I think I’ve hinted at this before, but I am a terribly haunted person. I’m plagued by phantoms of my past. Memories like ghosts. I’m trying to move on, and I’ve made progress overall, I think, even though it seems like for every three steps I take in the right direction I fall back two more.

I’ve been having disturbing, compulsive thoughts lately, and I admit that I am writing this at this very moment in part to distract me. And where does my mind tend to wander when I let it? To my past.

I’m going to write about one of my worst memories here, one of the many events in my life that have made me who and what I am. A warning: this is a pretty dark memory, and if you don’t care to read something troubling at the moment or if you think it might trigger an episode within yourself, please, by all means, go read something else.

For anyone left, here we go.

Rewind time to several years ago–I was still in middle school, living with my mother and my brother and sisters. My biological father was still in the picture, and I had not even met my adopted father yet. My father had, at this point, nearly killed me and had sent me to the hospital a few times, but this memory is not about one of those times.

My parents fought often, as they always did, and usually, things ended violently, though it was never my mom doing any of the violence. Frequently, I would collect my frightened and/or crying siblings and take them upstairs to the spare room, shut the door, and pop in a Star Wars DVD and turn the volume on the sound system up. Eventually, they would become engrossed in the movie, and since this often happened late at night, they would fall asleep. And I would sit and worry, and sometimes, if they were all three asleep, I would sneak out of the room to listen at the top of the stairs, and worry some more (what I heard there was never reassuring.)

On one particular night, my parents were in their room fighting. Well, shouting loudly. The fighting hadn’t begun yet. It happened in a flash–my father traded berating my mom in favor of hitting her.

Then, he drew the gun from the closet. And aimed it at her.

I was terrified. In that moment, I was certain he would kill her. I was sure of it. And in my stress and terror, I really think I dissociated a little bit, because this next part felt more like I was watching myself do it.

I ran to the kitchen and got the biggest knife I could find (and my mother, being quite the culinary expert, had more than a collection of kitchen tools) and then dashed back to the room.

The son of a bitch, my father, had his back to me, and only my mother saw me approach. She wanted me to leave, I know it, but I couldn’t. I was going to kill him and end this once and for all, in my early-teenage mind.

Did I mention that my father was a muscular ex-Naval officer?

It should come as no surprise, therefore, that when I held the knife to his neck, he easily twisted it away from me, tossed it to the ground as easily as he had my self-confidence and trust in people.

But he had set down the gun to do it. For just a few seconds.

It was enough.

My mother had dashed forward and obtained the gun.

“Get out,” she commanded to him.

He stood there, I swear to god, with a grin on his face. My mom repeated her statement, and he shook his head and walked–out of the room, out of the hallway, out of the house. I ran to the door and locked it.

I was shaking, physically. My mom and my family were safe; I expected to feel relief.

Instead, I wanted to die. I was miserable and confused and my heart was racing. I went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of wine that belonged to my mother as well as a plastic glass, and sat down at the table, and succeeded in leaving my mind for a little while. I managed not to pass out at the table, and must have dragged myself to my room first, because the next morning, I woke up on floor.

It was the first and only time I had intentionally drunk to get, well, drunk. Afterward I vowed that I would not allow myself to self-medicate my misery with alcohol again, and though at times it’s come close, I’ve managed to hold by that promise to myself. Because ultimately I know that if I started, I would not be able to stop, and that is not how I want to end up.

So, there you have it. I’ve revealed one of the ghosts that stalk the corridors of my mind. And to be honest, I do feel a little better now. Reflecting on this incident from my past has reminded my that my situation is better now. My mom is now happily married to a genuinely great guy who is proud to be my father, I hear my siblings are doing well in school, and none of us have heard from my monster of a biological father.

I don’t feel entirely better, but at least reminding myself that that situation is far in the past helps with my mood a little.

Coming Out of the “Crazy” Closet

It’s tough to be mentally ill, especially with a psychotic disorder, especially around Halloween. It’s even tougher than it has to be because people equate “mentally ill” with “dangerous,” and this is not the case. I can’t help but spout the statistic here that most people who are mentally ill are non-violent, and most violent criminals are not mentally ill. But the media perpetuate this stereotype, as I discussed in an older post. This is especially true around this time of year. And let me be clear here: I love horror films. I’ve been enjoying watching as many as I have time to watch on TV the past few weeks. I love the old Psycho, Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th, Hellraiser, and all their cheesy sequels that are as much fun to laugh at as the originals were creepy. And the list goes on. But I, unlike so many others, am capable of realizing that the depiction of mental illness in these films is no more real than the zombies in The Walking Dead, or the superpowers in The Avengers.

A lot of people, unfortunately, aren’t.

This stems from the fact that many people don’t believe they are exposed to real people with mental illnesses outside of the movies (I say “believe” here because chances are they do indeed know someone with a mental illness and just don’t realize it.) The few studies that have been done on the impact of film on stigma of mental illness indicate it really does have a negative impact because of this (I’ve been doing a lot of research on this lately for a presentation I’m putting together for one of my classes.) The news media also don’t help; news channels are likely to showcase sensational stories about people with mental illnesses committing crimes.

All of these leads to the fact that most people with mental illnesses don’t go around talking about it, especially not those who are able to hide their mental illnesses from the general public. This is bad because it creates more stress on the mentally ill who hide their illness, and also because people who hide it tend to internalize the negative stereotypes of people with mental illnesses and of mental health practitioners (if anyone is portrayed almost as badly as the mentally ill, it’s mental health professionals, who are also likely to be insane killers in films) and not want to seek the care they need.

I admit here, even I’ve been very closed about my psychotic depression in the past, not on this blog, but in my real life. But I’m becoming more open. Many of my friends at the university are aware I have psychotic depression, and this gave me the opportunity to educate them about mental illnesses and show them with an example (myself) that people with mental illnesses are just people, not inhuman monsters. I’m becoming more open in general, too. No, I don’t go around telling everyone who will listen intimate details about my suicide attempts or psychotic breaks. Rather, when people ask why I’m a psychology major, or why I’m so determined to eventually get my Ph.D. in clinical psychology, I explain that I have some experience in the field, on the patient end.

If they regard me as crazy after that, they at least don’t show it. But I’ve realized it’s really hard to be a mental health advocate when you aren’t being honest about your own mental health. Serving as a human example also makes the arguments of mental health advocacy more powerful, I think. I’ve also decided to find what mental health advocacy groups the university has, and if there are none, possibly start one myself with a group of people.

So, that’s it. I’m becoming more open. I don’t expect to face no adversity at all for this, but rather, I’m willing to face whatever I face.

It can’t be worse than sitting in shamed silence when a clueless friend casually mentions “crazies in straightjackets.”

Here we go.

Father Issues

I acknowledge that I have some father issues. These can be summed up in four statements:

1) My biological father was (and still is, I’m sure) an abusive, manipulative, and violent man. I truly consider him the most evil person I have ever personally known.

2) I deeply hate him.

3) I am a total jerk to my adoptive father most of the time, and for some reason he still deeply cares about me.

4) Despite number 3, I have realized that deep down I really, badly want to do things that will make my adoptive father show his approval of me.

The first statement is just a couple of facts that won’t change. As for the second statement, I realize that it’s probably unhealthy to harbor such a strong hatred. My close friends have warned me that it’s probably hurting me more, that it’s letting him win, etc. But the fact is, you don’t just wake up one day and decide that you aren’t going to hate your former abuser anymore. It takes a long time. I have had years now, years away from him to calm down my anger. But it just hasn’t changed; I still would, given the chance, try to make him feel pain like he always did to me. I realize that’s an issue that should be worked on, but I feel helpless to do anything about it right now. Maybe it just needs some time before I’ll be able to reflect on things with a cooler head.

The third statement is something I’m not really to proud of, but half the time I feel like I can’t help it. I don’t even really know why I’m such an ass to him. Maybe it has something to do with him taking the verbal abuse much more passively than my biological father would have? I don’t know. All I know is, I get angry and take things out on him and he ends up very sad. Part of me feels bad about it, but the rest of me feels like I can’t help it. I’m sure I can, it’s just another thing I need to figure out and work on.

The fourth statement was kind of surprising to me, but I realized it was true. When I lived at home, I was constantly trying to impress him. I would show him my programming projects, I would take on more than I could handle with my class load at school, I would do anything to earn his approval. And when, instead of a good job, he offered me helpful criticism–because I can recognize it as such now–I was crushed, and often, resentful.

Organizing my thoughts and problems like this really has helped me to gradually overcome them, in the past. Maybe eventually, I’ll be able to do the same thing with these.

How I Am Raskolnikov

Because I wrecked my car some time ago, I rely on city buses to get around town. It’s not so bad, but one of the main problems with it for me is that I’m kind of stuck on campus during my breaks between classes; I can’t go home like everyone else. So, my solution to this is bringing my Nook everyday and reading. Lately, I’ve been reading the great Russian classic, Crime and Punishment.

And I must say, I really, really enjoy it.

I’ve come to realize this is partly because of my strong identification with the protagonist, the former student Rodion Raskolnikov, known as “Rodya” to his friends and family. Raskolnikov is poor, lives in a small apartment owned by an absurdly shy landlady and is brought meals by her nosy employee. As mentioned above, he was a student at the university before he decided to leave.

He is brilliant, but moody. Sometimes he is desperate for human interaction, other times he desires fiercely to be left completely alone. He sometimes displays extraordinary empathy, and sometimes none at all. He is absorbed in his nihilistic thoughts, and almost Nietzsche-like views. He believes, at first, that good and evil are simply constructs, and that he is above them, and this is partly how he justifies his murder of a hateful old lady (the other part being that he intended to steal her money and use it for public benefit). He can be terribly irritable, even to his own mother and sister, whom he deeply loves, in actuality. And all these things, sans the murder, remind me strongly of myself.

But he is human; he is haunted by guilt, manifesting often in terrible nightmares. His crime begins to drive him to the brink of insanity. He begins to act suspiciously, almost on purpose, because deep down he hopes he will be realized and turned in for the crime.

Reading the novel, I feel strongly for Raskolnikov and his plight; I can identify with him. And I have not finished the book yet, but as it is a classic, and I have heard about it before, I do have a vague notion of how it ends: he turns himself in, and finds redemption in his sentence of exile. With the help of a prostitute with whom he has just begun a relationship, his views on things change.

I hope to someday meet someone who can help calm my mind, as Sonia (the prostitute) does for Raskolnikov. I also hope to change, to become less bitter, less of a nihilist, less of a person in constant inner suffering and turmoil.

Only time will tell if these frail hopes are ever realized. For now, I am finished writing this post. I want to get back to reading Crime and Punishment.

I want to read the ending for myself.

Even More

So, I thought I would just do a quick post here. I just wanted to say that my plan of eating healthy and physical exercise has continued to pay off: I’ve lost another several pounds since my last post about it.

I didn’t realize the mental stress that my sudden weight gain had been causing me (in addition to some physical stress, which is to be expected when you gain weight as unexpectedly and quickly as I did). That is, I didn’t realize it until I started to lose it all. It really did something to the tiny, fragile confidence that I possessed, and now that I am feeling good about my appearance again, my confidence is beginning to be restored. (Not that there was ever much confidence there to begin with, mind you).

Just goes to show that if you can make a plan and continue to stick to it, you really can accomplish just about anything. Even something as difficult as weight loss.


So first of all, let me apologize sincerely to my readers for not posting in forever. I was in the process of moving, and now that everything is unpacked and in its place, I find the time to make a new post.

And this new post is about weight. I gained, in the past several months, a tremendous amount of weight. And the most frustrating part is that I didn’t do anything differently. I had started a new medication, Abilify, at the beginning of when I began my rapid weight gain, and I and my doctors suspect the two are closely related. Additionally, I recently found out that at some point my thyroid stopped working properly, which contributes to pretty much all the problems I have. No, seriously: rapid weight gain for no reason, depression, psychosis, lack of energy… all could be related to my underactive thyroid.

But there’s good news, too. Firstly, I have been put on thyroid medication, which should cause me to lose a few pounds right then and there. And, I’ve started doing the whole eating healthy and exercising thing. It sucks, but I don’t have a choice. I have to get back down to the weight I was (which was pretty thin). So, I have my work cut out for me. But the point is, it’s do-able.

Dreams and Nightmares

I don’t usually remember my dreams when I wake up, but when I do, they are inevitably bizarre and/or incredibly random. Last night, I had an entire dream revolving around a two-dimensional integer array. That’s right, I had a whole dream about programming code. Just don’t ask me what the plot was; if there was a plot, I don’t remember. Probably made no sense anyway.

And then there are those dreams that I wish I had not remembered. While my dreams are at best hazy in my memory, my nightmares–the ones that I remember–are always vivid, realistic, and seared into my memory in detail.

“Your nightmares can’t be that bad,” you might be saying. Well, take this one that I had not that long ago: in my dream, I was in a parking garage. It might have been underground, I don’t know, but it was dimly lit, as those tend to be. I was in my car, sitting very still, and watching. The target of my silent staring was a blonde woman, tall, thin, pretty (and I would swear she is no one that I know in real life) and walking quickly to her car. Then I moved like lightning from my car and began to approach her from behind.

The easily disgusted might want to go read a different post now.

She realized I was trailing her, but it was too late–as she screamed for help I grabbed her and forced something over her nose and mouth–chloroform, maybe? She was limp in my arms in a minute and I dragged her back to my car. I drove her home (the home in my dream was a small apartment I have never seen before). I proceeded to take a knife and slit her throat. Then I made quick work with the body–I sliced all of the meat off her bones. I remember a black-and-white dog approaching me as I worked, and I commanded it to go away, that it would get some soon enough. I put a generous portion of the human flesh in the dog’s bowl, and it ran to it and hungrily began to snap it up. The rest, I cooked up and ate myself. I even remember what it tasted like in the dream–roast pork. (Yeah, I couldn’t look at roast pork for a while after having this dream.)

I’m not one of those people who believes in universal dream symbols. I disagree with Freud (as do plenty of modern psychologists) when he said that dreams contain latent symbols–a gun might represent masculinity, for example, for the obvious phallic resemblance. I think that, if dreams have any meaning at all, the meaning of objects and events in the dream are specific to the dreamer. For example, I’m pretty sure I had that code dream because I’ve spent several hours lately finishing up a massive project for class.

Of course, the jury’s still out on what the hell it means to dream about being a cannibal-serial killer.


Emotionality and Me

I was talking to my therapist yesterday, and she brought to my attention my ever-flat affect. We discussed my lack of emotionality, and she told me that I likely dissociated from my emotions as a child. Basically, it went like this: when all I felt was pain, my mind basically said to itself, “Well, if this is what it means to feel emotions, this sucks,” and for the most part cut itself off from emotions to protect me. With the notable exception of anger. Even if I don’t always express it, anger is the one emotion that has been my constant companion for years.

However, now that I am no longer in constant immediate danger, this lack of ability to properly feel and express emotions is sort of a problem. I long ago realized that it made it difficult for me to empathize with people–a large part of empathy is sharing in others’ joys and sorrow, and my version of joy or sorrow is but an empty shell of what I once felt and what I believe others feel. This effectively leaves me feeling isolated, even when surrounded by friends.

I often feel numb. Sometimes, I imagine I should be feeling something, but it eludes me. It’s true; I sometimes feel nothing at all. That used to scare me, but I think I got used to it somewhere along the way, which somehow makes it all the worse.

I could try to work on changing on all this, but there are two problems with that, the first being that I don’t know how. The other issue is something that may exist only in my head, but it’s a very real issue to me: I more or less know who I am with low emotionality. What would happen if I were to suddenly become a very emotional person? I feel like I wouldn’t know myself anymore. Would I seem like a different person? I don’t know. Because as much as I sometimes feel numb and alienated, I at least know who I am.