Casting Pearls



I’ve begun smoking fags, smoking cigarettes just to keep my fucking hands busy. Seems some mind altering substances are addict approved: plain tobacco, food, food, food, and tobacco. What a fucking load of shit. Sleep alters your fucking mind. Caffeine alters your mind. But hey! Go ahead and indulge; it’s not like you’re drinking alcohol or smoking marijuana! No! THOSE substances are BAD. Let’s say it again in this feel good fucking world: those substances are BAD. And people who do them to excess – which we’ll determine, not you, thank you very much – are BAD. BAD, BAD, BAD. Like a rabid dog, we need a few shots to calm down and then extensive goddamn fucking conditioning to stop doing these things. But go ahead and smoke tobacco. Stuff your face with whatever. Drink one FUCK of a lot of coffee (if I accepted coffee every time it’s offered I’d be an addict….but addiction to caffeine is acceptable…this is bullshit).

Yesterday, three. Today I stick to two.

Rage is an amazing fucking emotion. Kind of forgot how fucking useful it can fucking be. Tried to calm down there for a while, be a fucking normal person who didn’t fucking say fuck with every other fucking word and maybe didn’t feel like fucking killing everyone and everything on this fucking planet. Doesn’t fucking work. Back to the fucking rage. Not only has it kept me from toking so far, it’s also kept me from eating. Handy fucking dandy. I can get thin and angry at the same fucking time. Maybe this is how all those thin fucking bitches get made; they go to therapy and get fucking pissed off at everyone and then let their rage drive them.

My wildest thoughts have been fantasies of me returning to Addiction Central to go psycho bitch on their asses. Pounding Yoda’s face repeatedly. Letting it all go with Heike, screaming at the top of my lungs as loud as I know I can get my voice without a microphone, which is pretty goddamn loud. Maybe throwing a few things around (Heike’s face does not deserve pounding, only Yoda’s). Basically making sure that anyone in that building, from the secretary to each and every doctor tucked away in their own cubby-hole, knows I’m fucking unhappy, unpleased, and disgusted with what fucking happened.

I don’t have a lot of calmer thoughts right now. The best I can manage is knowing that any action like the above would result in worse notes on my file, worse circumstances for me in the long run. I’m showing restraint, not any real ability to calm myself.

I still want to hit something.

My body remains tight. It must. If I let it go, all hell will break loose. Even in sleep I hold my arms crossed tight against my chest.

A fucking fatal heart attack sounds good right now. Or a brain aneurysm. Or maybe just go ahead and jump off the top of that building while I can still fucking get over the top without help.

What’s the fucking difference?

…And yes, if I DO top myself, I’ll include a goddamn fucking note in my fucking pocket telling all that it was Yoda’s comments that set me over the edge, Yoda’s dissing that made me turn this inwards, Yoda’s fault, Yoda’s fault, Yoda’s fault, it wasn’t a bad fucking day it was professional incompetence and won’t someone PLEASE fucking address it?

Since it would be in English, it would probably be ignored.

And it’s not like I want to go back to the US or Canada or Ireland. I fucking don’t. They all had problems, they all sucked ass in one way or another. So far, this is the only place that’s worked for my bro. Doesn’t mean it will work for me, but he’s put up with shit for me so I guess it’s my turn. If that means I end up as a pavement pancake, so the fuck what? I probably will top myself in the end. My mother did. I’m bipolar or whatever. Sick in the fucking head, tho it’s all in my fucking head and therefore no one can help me fucking change it. So suicide has always been a very probable death for me. I’ve never seen that as a problem. Everybody’s got to die.

I’m feeling this way and I’m trying to write a positive piece as a guest blogger for Lucky Otter. It’s not easy.

You help. Just being able to write it out for as long as it takes helps. There’s no one interrupting me, telling me to calm the fuck down. I can go until I can’t go anymore. Then I can finally sigh, and remember fully – not just in my head, but in my entire body – that I must let it go. I’m not actively hurting Yoda thru my anger, although I wish his balding head DID burn with each and every negative thought I’ve had. I’m not actually DOING anything. Doing something would imply a change of sorts, and so far my shouting at the sky and writing so fast all anyone can hear is the clack of keyboard keys does nothing. I’m attempting to get myself to a spot I can talk to Heike without sarcasm. It’s the only way I’ll be taken seriously. This is definitely something I would have liked help with; my anger and dealing with it has always been a problem for me. Too bad it’s the very people who I THOUGHT were there to help me deal with shit like this that are setting me off.

I feel like a goddamn clam. All closed up and with these sand grains inside that are irritating the fuck out of me. I don’t expect to start vomiting up pearls, tho I might. These are the feelings that first drove me to create.

Now if only the swine would get the fuck out of my way….


6 thoughts on “Casting Pearls

  1. Fucking right, rage is a fucking amazing fucking emotion, fuck!

    Sorry, I’ll show some restraint as well, since you have to. Glad you’re getting all that crap out of your system though. Raging is healthy. Maybe write that positive guest blogger piece and having to come up with positive things will force a little bit of calm through your system! Doctors these days hand out labels and health rules like Oprah does new cars. And then they think they have the right to take a mental 2 by 4 to your head. And then when you rage and accidentally take real 2 by 4 to their head, YOU’RE in the wrong.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Abso-fucking-lutely!

      I think I’ve learned my lesson. No more discussion of anything that doesn’t have to do with what I consider to be my real issue: bipolar. No more mommy stuff, no more trigger discussion. No more volunteering of information. I’ll answer their questions, but I’ll do it the way an old boss of mine, an attorney, once talked about how witnesses need to answer: as short and succinct as possible. No extraneous talk whatsoever. I have to guide them. Keep bringing them back to the real issue. Seems like I have to do their job for them, actually. But hey! I’ve never done this before. I had unrealistic expectations based on what I’ve seen and read in popular media. I thought I was entering a safe space, and establishing a trusting, respectful relationship. I was wrong.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I think they’re probably too human to expect any sort of dignity out of them, and I say that with the utmost respect to humanity, as you can tell :P. I suppose there are some who can do their job properly but those are pretty hard to find. At least you can look at the positive: you’re taking control of the help you’re receiving haha.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. HA! And I write that wishing the inflection to be the most nasal sneer you can imagine. I’m pretty used to working with what I’ve got, tho. Been doing it for a long time. As long as I remember to keep my guard up I should be alright. Just seems completely moronic to talk about keeping my guard up while talking to counselors who are supposed to help me get over shit.

        Liked by 1 person

      3. I keep my guard up around my psychologist. It makes me feel like I’m contradicting the point of therapy but at least I’m able to get help with what I feel like I actually need help with and let the other stuff just do what it does best: be other stuff in the corners of my mind 😀

        Liked by 1 person

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