#i have a deep creeping fear of what i think is my bipolar disorder

[muffinrag]

i want to play pathologic but my haruspex run is going sooooo badly. like i know it's supposed to be bad but it's just so bad. also i just feel kind of sick to my stomach all the time rn and it's not fun to play such a difficult game when i feel like shit

[gothicprep]

Meditations on True Crime: A Very Long Post

In around February of this year, I was researching a potential video related to how true crime media portrays websleuths, contrasted against their efficacy in each specific case. The introduction was a brief primer on the genre’s evolution, beginning with its general association with low-budget LifeTime films, to a hobby with more dignity than that. I remember finding an article talking about Serial, and there was some commentary in there from another large true crime podcast host.

I didn’t think it was particularly useful for my purposes, but it said something to the effect of “true crime as a hobby can help women reconcile the trauma related to being in a world that is so hostile to us.” I rolled my eyes at it. It seemed dishonestly saccharine, like it was giving a sort of post-hoc legitimacy to just enjoying whodunnits. I didn’t think about it again for around seven months after I’d read it.

One of the subjects that I intended to talk about was Elisa Lam’s death and the online reaction to it. The story was adapted into a Netflix series a few months prior, and I was freshly reminded of how poorly it all sat with me. If you aren’t familiar with her name, she disappeared in Los Angeles’s Cecil Hotel in 2013, and her disappearance went viral after the respective police department release footage of her behaving strangely in an elevator. The case attained quick viral status and extensive discussion, due to the nature of the video and the hotel’s morbid history. When her naked body was discovered in a rooftop water tank a few weeks later, speculation exploded. But an autopsy isn’t an immediate followup, and the online sleuths would lose themselves to their imaginations in the time between. Many people wanted the murder solved, but many let their speculation fly off the rails. Shady hotel coverups. Metal musician murderers. Fear of the homeless. Ghosts. Demons. Government tuberculosis research. The gang was all there.

If you weren’t active online back then, it’s difficult to properly convey how huge this all was. Everyone was expecting Elisa to have been murdered. Iron-clad. Beyond the shadow of a doubt. She wasn’t. Her death was ruled an accident. She had a severe case of bipolar disorder and she wasn’t taking her medication. The severity of her illness was also not previously disclosed to the public. The working theory is that she experienced a manic episode with psychotic features, climbed in the tank in this state, to eventually strip out of her clothes in late stage hypothermia and drown there. It’s a horrific and painful way to die. All that’s left of you is water contamination – insult to fatal injury.

People weren’t happy with this, but not out of any sympathy for Elisa. There was palpable rage from many who had been following the case. No, she was definitely murdered. No, her killer needs to be brought to justice. No, this isn’t the real story. I don’t like it. I’m not satisfied. There needs to be an ending better than this.

Tragedy isn’t exactly in the habit of being kind to us.

When news of Gabby Petito’s disappearance was spreading, I noticed a lot of similarities between hers and Elisa’s. A woman in her early 20s vanishes while traveling, under very unusual circumstances. Footage was released during both investigations, which portrayed these women in mentally vulnerable states. The story was viral online. People rifled through Gabby’s instagram in the same way they did with Elisa’s tumblr. Social media detectives established an inappropriate amount of investment. Everyone is sure of a specific outcome. The family deserves answers.

Let’s talk about answers for a second. I’d like you to spitball a comprehensive explanation for this one: how could something like this happen? I’m not looking for a “how” in terms of events or circumstances. In this case, this isn’t a question. It’s a protest of the unfairness of it all. My daughter. My sister. My friend. Someone who meant so much to me. It’s a prayer to a vacant sky. It’s not a question, it’s agony. Nothing shy of resurrection can feel like justice. Even if the case leads to a criminal trial and conviction, it does nothing to fill the void loss burns within us. There is no good answer, because there aren’t answers at all.

Let’s talk about ourselves for a second. I noticed many people draw parallels between what they’d seen on the bodycam footage and their own experience with abusive partners. “This could have been me.” Do you really think this is appropriate? Could have been, would have been – these are statements with hypothetical validity. It has nothing to do with you. To emotionally identify with someone does not evidence anything. You’re here. She’s gone. This isn’t about you. She isn’t in the position where she can co-sign anything you say. If she can’t speak for herself, don’t invoke her.

Let’s talk about true crime for a second. It’s funny how true crime marketed to men has a distinctly different texture than true crime marketed to women. The former seems to involve knocking the perpetrator down a peg. It portrays them as something worth our disgust and ridicule. The latter tends to foster emotional identification with the victim. Podcasts and other media in this category tend to be by women, for women, and generally discuss women. This story is presented as catharsis for women who see themselves as similar to them. This woman is no longer a person, but an idea. And it makes me think of that stupid article quote that I resent myself for not having bookmarked. This is reconciliation. These women, in their passing, can be a motivating factor for us to break up with that one dumbass guy. I’m so happy this was a wakeup call. I’m so happy that this made me think about my own experiences. I’m so happy that this did so much for me. Sure, someone actually died, but what is that when compared to my own self-actualization?

I made a comment on Twitter about how disgusted I was with how people spoke of Gabby in such an evasively self-interested way, and someone who likely was of no relation to her interjected with how the family deserved the truth. Truth? What truth? What peace will grisly details give them? Is there any meaningful difference between knowing your loved one died of murder or collapsed from exposure? Or are you just a nosey person who’s projected an inappropriate emotional dog in this fight? Do you want answers for her family, or for your own curiosity?

I really don’t trust shit like that, nor am I willing to give leniency to people who say such things. I think we’ve been conditioned to relate to dead women in a way that’s completely separate from who they actually were. Alive, they’re deep, multifaceted individuals, with an array of likes, dislikes, quirks, and endless little details. Dead, they’re a concept to serve a purpose. The purpose is generally a form of narrative catharsis. The creep gets thrown in prison. A woman’s abusive partner gets the comeuppance he deserves. The story needs a good ending. The story needs an ending that satisfies me. People aren’t stories. Life is not a novel.

The real trauma of others will never belong to you. This not your therapy tool or plaything. This is real pain that will never be theoretical for plenty of people. Know your place. Keep your distance. Don’t objectify the dead.

[esmiblood90irisglimmer]

The Creepy Man In The Red Car (True Story)

I recently posted this story on Reddit last night but was removed for dumb shit reasons. I decided to post this  incident in order to come terms with it. And accept that it indeed happen and there are creeps everywhere you go. No matter how safe you may feel.

This event barely happen a year ago and it still gives me a creep till this very day. It happen during the week before spring break. It was my senior year and I decided to buy some brownies and zebra cakes to sell at school. Needed to make extra money since I was clearly a broke 18 year old girl. To give you a clear background, I live in Texas and the weather over there is kind of bipolar (not making fun of people who do have bipolar disorder). One day it would be sunny, then it would raining, next thing you know there’s a tornado warning on the news. You’ll soon find out why I mention it in the first place.

I remember this being a Monday and I run out of stock of my inventory. So I let my mother and my nephew that I was walking to Family Dollars. It took me a while to convince my parents to finally let me walk to the store. I was the youngest child and youngest daughter or my father and mother were clearly a bit of helicopter parents. One day, they decided that I’m finally old enough to walk alone toward the stores across the street. I live in the very back of my old house so it usually take about 20 to 30 minutes back and forth. I’ve been doing these for three years and had no problems about it. I’m a Hispanic overweight girl and I don’t those nasty catcalls or perverted dude that honk at random girls attempt to flirty with them. I was clearly bless being overweight and also being a somewhat antisocial and awkward girl that never interacted with people. So it was a good thing to have somewhat of a tan.

Anyway, it was a Monday and so I did my task and walked to Family Dollars to get my snacks to sell. Pay for them and just enjoy my day like it was a regular old day. That was until I was walking back on my home is when I was nearly scared for my life. I reach to my neighborhood and why halfway toward my house until I notice a red car. It was driving out of the neighbor’s and I assume it was a family going out for a dinner. Or a relative visiting family member since they’re in town. I thought nothing of it and minded my own business as I continue walking home but soon I notice the car getting close to me. Weirded out I assume that the car owner was going to the front office to pay rent. But nope I was proven wrong, this red car parted about a couple of feet ahead of me.

My heart began pounding against my chest and my stomach turning into a knot as the window roll down. This hispanic man probably in his mid twenties or early thirties. I don’t remember since it’s one of the memories I don’t wanna revisited. This man innocently ask me if I know this certain street road. Relaxing a bit probably realizing that I’ve must been overreacting and being paranoid. I politely told him no, that I didn’t know that street road. Thought that was it but I was proven wrong again.

This man proceed to grab his phone and asks me to give him my personal phone numbers. That’s when red flags started immediately appearing in my mind along with a blaring alarm. I was stun and immediately frozen on the spot. That this man had the audacity to ask a random young girl for her phone number?! Let along from his car that he could’ve kidnapped me and I didn’t even know it. I place my house key between my fingers as a form of a self defense tactic that I’ve learn from my brother. I felt my blood run cold and was stuck in a tight situation. If I run, this man could potentially follow me home with his car. If I say no, I fear that this man could get out of his car and be physically violent toward me.

Not the only thing I’ve come up with my voice fill with venom and my face becoming my “resting bitch ass face”

“Uhm, I’m 16!! Still a minor in the government eyes” I spatted

This man immediately started sputtering with fear saying I was 16 despite the fact I was actually 18. Apologizing saying that I looked older and drove off with no hesitation at all. Taking a deep breath realizing that this whole ordeal is finally over. But I was weary, shock, and emotionally disturbed. I was walking slower than ever and kept looking back in case this man change his mind and drive back to me. I didn’t realize that I’ve finally return home and told my mother this whole event. It immediately shock her saying that this wasn’t the first time that a random man try attempting to kidnap a young girl. It freaks me out that my old neighborhood whom I call home for my entire life that I’ve ever heard of it.

When my father heard of this, he was immediately angry (Not at me though) that this man thought it was ok. To be driving in the place we call home in your own damn car and just bluntly ask a random girl for her phone number. As if, that’s attractive or his own way of flirting. My father wanted to go out and look for this man. And wanted to him with his own pocket knife collection he owns. Mom and I manage to cool him down and convince him not to.

The one thing I didn’t mention to my parents or whether I felt it was part of my imagination. I believe that I saw on the passenger seat of that man car. It was a large bladed hunting knife...and I was wonder...what would this man do if I did give him my number? Or I flat regretted him? Would he threaten me with the knife and take advantage of me? Or something worse that I don’t wanna think off.

Creepy Man In The Red Car....Lets Not Meet Again

[roomalthoughts]

depression (recovered post #7)

It’s 10:15pm and I’m sitting on my bed…looking at the wall, just thinking about life. I think it’s time for me to really open up about how it feels like to have depression for some of you that haven’t experienced it before. Right now, where I’m mentally at…I think it is time for me to just say it. I’ve open up enough to let you guys into my life. And right now, I really do feel depressed.

I’ve felt several waves of emotions today and my mother stated that I really need to go back to counseling. She thinks I have bipolar disorder (and I agree with her because I’ve studied enough psychology to know that I’m a really unstable person). My dad’s side has some form of bipolar/depression shown and I would not be surprised if I actually get myself retested again and it comes out with bipolar disorder. I’ve had moments where I would start crying and the next minute, I’m fine then I would get mad and irritable. It’s an ongoing cycle for me and I’m scared of myself. I’ve had several suicidal thoughts lately and that’s a red flag for me to get help again.

I hate to admit it because I feel weak to ask for help, but I know I truly need it. At the moment, I am crying because I know I have some healing left to do and I know that I will never be 100% healed. I am broken as I can be and it hurts to admit it because I try to prove to others that I’m okay…but in reality, I’m not. It’s hard.

To paint a picture of how I’m feeling right now:  imagine sitting in a dark room all by yourself. There’s a screen in front of you and all of a sudden, you start seeing all the things you’ve done wrong. You see where it all went wrong on everything that happened to you and you feel the emotions that you felt in that moment. Flashbacks. You feel a wave of hopelessness and you believe that you are not worthy. You hear fear talking to you and it gives you chills down your spine.

You aren’t worthy. You are a nobody. You don’t deserve anything. You really should die. The world will be a better place without you.

You feel another wave of emotions but it’s anxiety this time. It gives you chills down your spine and your body goes in a fight or flight mode. You truly start to believe in everything that your thoughts are telling you.

You start crying and thinking what in the world is happening to you and why it is happening to you. You try to pull yourself out of that blackhole, but it’s nearly impossible. It may take you hours or even the whole night.

That’s how I feel right now. Hopelessness…distraught…anxiety…all those negative emotions are getting the best of me. I try to pull myself out of the black hole by writing my thoughts down. I type it out and hope that I feel better. 90% of the time it works, but that 10% I feel like I won’t make it through the night. I will toss and turn in my bed and just force myself to sleep. I try to listen to music and just think that I’m okay. I am not in any danger (because anxiety likes to give me more hell than I need) and I will not let my thoughts get to me.

The past haunts me still. I’m still fearful of everything going wrong. I’m still fearful that I will never be good enough for anyone down the road. I am still fearful of doing the same mistake with someone else and breaking their heart. I am still fearful of failing at my job right now. I’m still fearful that I may have done something wrong at my job and I might get in trouble for it. I’m still fearful that I’m not the best leader that I can be where my coworkers can depend on me. I’m still fearful of my midterm testing because I don’t know all of my form and I’m afraid of screwing it up and making a fool out of myself. I’ll start shaking when I have to do my form in front of my class because I’m afraid that I will screw it up so bad that I will die of embarrassment. I always compare myself to my peers in my taekwondo class because I feel like I’m not doing a good job. I never give myself credit for anything and that kills me.

Fear is what holding me back and it eats me alive because I’m not open about my fears. I’m not open about anything in reality. Yes, I’ve written blog posts about my past and even though a few people reached out to me to let me know that I can vent to them…I still fear that they will walk away from me because I’m too much of a burden for them. I’m still fearful of losing people in my life because I’ve lost enough that I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m afraid of not doing the right thing for myself. I overthink and overthink and overthink until I see the sunrise. I overthink to the point that I drive myself mad because I cannot make my mind up on anything.

What do I want in life? I sure would love to get married to the right man and have kids someday. I would love to be a mom and take care of my kiddos. But in reality…I don’t think that will ever happen because of my mental state. I’m not qualified to be a mom personally and that kills me…my desire to have a family is pretty strong. My desire to get married to a man who I can have fun with and talk about Marvel and DC stuff while playing video games or going out on a road trip is pretty strong. I want someone who can lift me up instead of tearing me down. I want someone who will point to God for me when I feel hopeless. I want someone who I can talk about anything. When I mean anything, I mean pretty much anything. No secrets. Just honesty. I always day dream about living in a home where I can see the beach from the window and be carefree.

I hate to be a pessimist, but I feel like that dream specifically will never be true. I’m not wifey material in my opinion and I still have a lot to figure out on my own.

Where do I see myself in ten years? Honestly, I have no clue and the future scares me. I’m beyond terrified of change yet I yearn for it so badly. I don’t know what I’ll be doing and that drives me mad because I like to have a plan for everything. I journal everything down. I write down goals and plans that I want to reach at a certain time. I cross off every goal that I’ve met and just keep writing down more goals…because I’m a goal-orientated person.

Why do I have to deal with so much trauma even though it happens years ago? Some things stay in my mind for quite sometime or even forever. I have buried enough trauma down deep that I no longer can really remembered because I just don’t want to think about it. I will have nights where they do come creeping back and I’ll start to panic. I always sleep with a big teddy bear because I hate feeling like I’m sleeping alone even though I have two cats that love to cuddle with me. I’m always fearful for wearing certain clothing items that will reveal too much and get too much attention. I’m afraid of getting scolded at because I like to wear loose pants and t-shirts. I don’t like wearing tight clothings (expect for leggings because those are really comfy) because I feel like I don’t look great in them.

I always get to certain places earlier than usual because I don’t want to rush. I hate going out in public because I don’t want to run into people that I don’t want to see because of the damage they’ve caused, even though I know I should swallow my pride and let it go (considering that I’m a very forgiving people, some of them, I haven’t been able to fully forgive them yet). I like to go grocery shopping early in the morning because no one is there and I can get out there faster. I like to go out of town to go shopping and take wild adventures outside of Warsaw with my family. As some of you guys should know, from my past posts, I’m dying to move out of Warsaw and live somewhere else where I can start fresh.

Fear’s got a hold on me…

And I hate staying up so late at night because my brain won’t shut up. And I know it will be a very long night tonight…

To end this post, I’ll post the lyrics from a song called Death by White Lies:

I love the feeling when we lift off

Watching the world so small below

I love the dreaming when I think of

The safety in the clouds out my window

I wonder what keeps us so high up

Could there be a love beneath these wings?

If we suddenly fall should I scream out

Or keep very quite and cling to my mouth?

As I’m crying, so frightened of dying

Relax, yes, I’m trying

This fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

I love the quite of the night time

When the sun is drowning in the deathly sea

I can feel my heart beating as I speed from

The sense of time catching up with me

The sky set out like a pathway

But who decides which route we take

As people drift into a dream world

I close my eyes as my hands shake

And when I see a new day

Who’s driving this anyway

I picture my own grave ’cause fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Floating neither up or down

I wonder when I’ll hit the ground

Well, the earth beneath my body shake

And cast your sleeping hearts awake

Could it tremble stars from moon light skies?

Could it drag a tear from your cold eyes?

I live on the right side, I sleep in the left

That’s why everything’s gotta be love or death

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

[chocolate-brownies]

Want more from Nadia? Learn from her in person at Wellspring in Downtown Palm Springs this October, and learn what it means to #ExperienceWell. Tickets available now! 

Reverend Nadia Bolz-Weber says that she had her ass saved in a church basement, not a church sanctuary. Nadia grew up going to a traditional church in a conservative Christian denomination three times a week. As a teenager, she was troubled by what she felt were contradictory teachings and ended up leaving the church for a life of heavy drinking and drug use. Ten years later, she realized she needed to get clean, and started attending 12-step meetings. It was these meetings in church basements that Nadia credits for helping her to redefine and reestablish her relationship with God.

During these years, when Nadia’s nascent faith was beginning to reemerge as a driving force in her life, one of her good friends—also a recovering alcoholic and fellow stand-up comedian—lost his struggle with bipolar disorder and committed suicide. In the wake of his death, Nadia’s community turned to her (one of the only ones among them with a faith practice) to perform the funeral. As she looked out across the mourners, a motley crew of academics and queers and recovering alcoholics and comics, she became aware that this gathered crowd of misfits had no real home in which to hear this traditional message. They had no pastor. “Oh shit,” she realized. “I think that’s me.” She entered seminary shortly thereafter and was ordained in 2008.

Nadia’s upcoming book—Shameless: A Sexual Reformation—comes out early next year. For it, she’s asking women in her community to mail her their purity rings if they have them, which she says she’ll melt down and sculpt into a vagina and mail to Gloria Steinem upon completion. We sat down with Nadia to hear her take on Christianity, religion, sex, and shame. Watch to hear her take, and then read on below for more.

Wanderlust (WL): Let’s start right off the bat talking about this idea of sin. Is sin real?

Nadia Bolz-Weber (NW): I think a lot of people are very turned off by the term “sin” because of the way it’s been used against people, because it’s like somebody implying that you’re bad and immoral. If you really strive in your life to be a good person, the last thing you want is someone being like, “You’re horrible and you should feel bad about it.” But, there’s an author named Francis Spufford and in his book Unapologetic, he redefines, instead of using the word “sin,” he uses this term “the human propensity to fuck things up.” And then you’re like, “Oh, I definitely have that.” Right? Like, there’s something in me that no matter what, I’m gonna end up hurting people, or I’m gonna end up having selfish motives about something that I pawn off as being virtuous motives for something.

WL: Is organized religion a symbol system that causes people this kind of pain or trauma that they then need to reconcile?

NW: I think religion, especially when it comes to messages around our sexuality, causes a really particular type of harm in us. Now, the culture, the broader culture, also has some very damaging messages. There’s the commodification of sex. You can “know” how worthy you are of desire according to how close you are to a body ideal. Once you’re too old, or too fat, or too plain, you’re no longer worthy of sexual desire and so there are these damaging messages that society gives us around the commodification of sex. 

I sort of hesitate to indulge in the sin of false equivalency though because messages from religion, those go down to our created place, our source code. Those seep into us in a very deep level and the difference is that the society has … our society has never said that the creator of the universe is disgusted by my cellulite. Do you know what I mean? So, the religious messages are saying, “This is God. God feels this way about you as a sexual being.” And that can be pernicious in a very particular way.

WL: Let’s talk about your experience with sex then growing up. When was the first time that you were talked to about sex? When was the first time that you were able to sort of explore that with yourself?

NW: My mother, bless her, who is an amazing woman, who I have a great deal of respect for, you know, handed me a Christian sex-ed book and was like, “Let me know if you have questions.” The basic message is that, men are supposed to be the leaders and they’re supposed to have this competency in the world and what the real focus for girls is trying to be as pretty as possible and quiet as possible so that you can attract them so that they can take care of you and you can have babies.

WL: How did we get there? I mean, in the Bible, especially the New Testament, Jesus is hanging out with prostitutes. How did we get to this point where all of a sudden, women were the quiet demure and men were superior? What happened in the church? How did sex and femininity become marginalized?

NW: I think a lot of the sort of really misogynistic interpretations of scripture, and also the fear of sex stuff that came into Christianity came in with a lot of the church fathers, a lot of the original interpreters of these texts and theologians in the Christian tradition. They were doing what really any of us can do, which is going, “We have some concerns with ourselves and the world, and we’re going to go to this sacred text and see what kind of direction we can get.” Well, Augustine interpreted the Garden of Eden story in a really particular way that we are so influenced by that we don’t even know the difference between the text and his interpretation.

For instance, the word sin isn’t in there, the word temptation isn’t in there, the word temptation’s not in there, the devil is not in there, “original sin” is not in there, fall from grace is not in there. All of that is stuff that Augustine interpreted into the Garden of Eden story. So then it’s like, “Okay, well who was Augustine?” Well, brilliant guy, however had some sexual hangups like all of us do. His original shame, his story, his original shame came from an incident in the bathhouse with his father when he was going through puberty and he had an erection and his father commented on it. 

In the same way, the Song of Solomon is this beautiful erotic poem in the Bible, and it’s most likely the only book in the Bible that was possibly written by a woman, and it is mostly an erotic poem about a very shameless woman who has a lover and she loves her body and she loves their body and she loves sex and eroticism, and she has no shame about this. So what happens? Origin, another sort of church father comes along, and he goes, “No, that’s not about sex. That’s about Jesus’ love for the church. It’s just an allegory.” And okay, well who was Origin? Origin was this guy who was so terrified of sexual temptation, no kidding, he castrated himself. He cut his balls off. Is that the guy we want to go to for direction?

WL: Where did the idea of shame come from, and why do we feel it? How does it sort of creep in to our everyday lives?

NW: I see shame as being this hidden thing that drives us sometimes, because it’s this dark thing that I need to make sure nobody sees. I need to put all this energy into pretending something about myself is not true or something about myself is the whole truth. Or I need to make up for it, or I need to keep proving myself, or whatever because of this suspicion I have that something’s bad about me. I think if we could bottle shame as an energy source, it could easily replace fossil fuels, because it can really be this driving thing in our lives. But what it will never lead us to is freedom. Never does shame lead us to freedom.

Learn more from Nadia at Wellspring!

—

Lisette Cheresson is a writer, storyteller, yoga teacher, and adventuress who is an avid vagabond, homechef, dirt-collector, and dreamer. When she’s not playing with words, it’s a safe bet that she’s either hopping a plane, dancing, cooking, or hiking. She received her Level II Reiki Attunement and attended a 4-day intensive discourse with the Dalai Lama in India, and received her RYT200 in Brooklyn. She is currently the Director of Content at Wanderlust Festival. You can find her on Instagram @lisetteileen.

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The post Sex, Shame, and Scripture: Debunking the Doctrine of Desire appeared first on Wanderlust.

[unclebiggs]

It began with M

It Began with M

Chapter 1: It Began with M

I have told this story for what feels like a hundred times. Anytime someone mentions hearing a ghost story, or tells of a experience they had in the past, hell even anytime someone asks "Have you seen the trailer to this movie?" I always responds with my personal dealings with the afterlife during my late teen years, still a boy but slowly becoming a man, in a 2 floor apartment in Chicago. 

Recently some friends of mine suggested I write my stories down, turn it into a horrific tale of a truly spine tingling experience. A decision I have come to regret since that day. 

I now spend every night, since I started writing, repeating the same routine. The same one I learned years ago when this story began. 

"You don't belong here... You don't belong here. YOU DON'T BELONG HERE!"

  I don't understand why it works, or if it works with every sitstuation, I just know, from what I dealt with, repeating those words, sternly, always pulled me back away from what lies in the shadows.

  I guess a little back story before we begin would be best, without it, all of this would just come off as unstructured ramblings of a man crazed by paranoia. 

  The same month this story begins was the same month I was diagnosed with BP-1 or more commonly known as Type 1 Bipolar disorder. A manic episode in school and a few paranoid fueled delusions, was enough to scare my parents into secretly getting me help. Because hell, no one wants to admit their child may have some screws loose in their old noggin. I understood their fears though. One day out of the blue, I completely blanked out and lost my shit, and started screaming and attacking some kids at school. I don't remember what started it, nor do I remember how it ended. I went from sitting at my desk, bored to tears as my teacher lectured the class on the fundamentals of Algebra. "You will need to know this for every day life!" Was what she would yell at us, whenever she caught someone ignoring her teachings. It happened almost every day. 

 After that, the next thing I remember was my teacher crying, another students face scratched and bloody, and a 2 ton behemoth of a man pinning me down with this tree sized calf pressed firmly into my upper chest. Close enough to threaten the wind pipe in my throat, but far enough that I could breath. Barely. 

For some months before this attack, I started to believe that I could feel the thoughts of students and teachers in my school. They were not pretty thoughts, not at all. Tortured and angry, they all hated me, they hated, the kid  that always had a smile on his face. Or that's how I remember it at least. Honestly, these days its hard to even know what did and didn't happen. I guess I'm not starting any of this with a whole lot of confidence, makes it hard to believe a story when even the writer can't recall memories and suffers from delusions. 

     That's how it all works though with ghosts, or spirits, or phantoms, whatever name you want to give them, they don't like to be remembered. I have no clue as to why, what purpose does hiding from us serve them. 

     Most people are lucky enough to never remember any experiences or interactions that they had with the dead, but trust me when I say, we've all  had at least one experience. Those moments are usually wiped from our minds or at the very least altered, leaving people confused as to what transpired. Sometimes though, clues are left behind, and with them, we rebuild our broken memories, that is if we choose to remember at all.  

     The easiest clues to spot are the chunks of time that seem to just vanish. If you ever had a unnerving feeling of an unseen figure, slowly creeping towards you from the shadows, or one that lurks in the corners of your eyes, like a hungry wild cat stalking it's next meal. That overwhelming presence that fills us with blood curding dread when we sit alone in a deafening silent room, chilled with malice intent. The sensation that causes the hairs on your arms to stand tall with teeth grinding trepidation, and then... nothing. Feelings gone, nothing in the shadows, no figure waiting in the corner, just you in a empty room and time lost in the unspoken commotion.

         I feel like Hollywood has a small part to play for the unsettling and confused reactions we garner from these moments. Movies have tainted our minds with preconceived ideas of what dwells in the darkness. With an over reliance on special effects makeup and CGI, they have convinced generations of people into believing that the things, that go bump in the night, are tangible. Demons, monstrous creatures, paranormal activates, they all are given a face or a form. 

       As if they can be touched by our shivering hands when we cautiously reach out for a possessed porcelain doll, once a beautiful treasured item pain-stakingly created by a manic artist, now cracked and aged from years of neglect. Or as we reach for the rustic doorknob, loosely held by dull worn out screws, to a heavy and creaking wooden door. The only safety sitting in the pathway between us and a loud, wet cracking sound on the other side. Like bones crushing under the pressure of monestrous slobbering mandibles. 

My first clue, my frist experience all started with the woman next door to the apartment I lived in. My parents owned the 2 floor building we lived in. We called the second floor home and my sister and her family lived on the first. The basement, which used to be where our family held parties, was now just a storage space for all the junk my family no longer wanted, but didn't want to toss away. Just tossed and forgotten in the cold and stale basement. For a while I used to enjoy chilling out down there after school. Even though it smelled funny and dead bugs littered the floor like bread crumbs leading to their nesting spot, it felt safe. I would clean up the area when I could, drop a few bug traps, I did my best to keep it maintained, but it was a never ending battle. 

I can't remember her name, the woman next door, with every attempt to remember her, even when she was alive, the memories get revised. With every revision, comes a new name for her. Though, as odd as it may sound, her name in every version of this constantly changing history, always started with an M. Massiel, Michelle, Meghan, Misty, Miriya, Monica, Marisa, Maria, May, Martha, and so many others that I decided it was just��best to call her M. 

She was an older woman, but like her name, her age always varied, but her undeniable beauty never changed. M wasn't the most beautiful woman that I have ever come across, hell over the years I have come to meet plenty of woman that society would deem much more stunning. Still she had that alluring beauty, the kind that caught your eye and refused to let go. Especially when she smiled. When she did, you felt safe, her cheerful and honest grin felt familiar. 

Then one day she changed. She used to walk the neighborhood all the time, her daily exercise, which she did around the same time. Early in the morning, and around the hours that I would head out to the public bus stop and wait for the green limo that gathered the bored and tired denizens of the morning routine, heading out to their daily grind. For me it was school. 

Even on the cold winter snow filled days, she would take her daily stroll. Then they started to become infrequent, eventually she stopped completely. Still, since she also lived on the second floor, I would sometimes see her through her kitchen window that sat right across my bedroom window. Her smile was gone, face pale, the cheerful demeanor that she radiated was gone. Then a few weeks later she just wasn't there anymore, and then, unexpectedly one night she was.

I was in my bed with both my adorable but annoying chihuahuas, Nunuk and Mimi. After some time of tossing and turning, I was finally falling to sleep. It was in the moment between where the mind begins to drift into the warm embrace of a dream filled deep sleep and the slow decline from the bodies external senses, that I felt the sensation of someone sitting at the edge of the bed. 

     At first, it was just my legs that rolled slightly towards the incline, as the pressure of weight on the bed grew, more of my body began to tilt in it's direction. With every inch I turned towards the thing that was sitting at the edge of my bed, the further away I was pulled from the safe arms of my dreams and forced into the grips of a horrific realization. I was not alone. 

          I awoke from my sleep and sprung upright, eyes blurred, and too dark to clearly see, but I knew what was there or should I say wasn't. My dogs stood at the other end of the bed, their fur standing straight up, and ready to attack, though I wasn't sure exactly as to what they thought they were going to accomplish. I could barely open my eyes, especially my right eye, so there was no way for me to know for sure what was there by sight, something that over time I would learn was pointless anyways, but by instinct, intuition, I knew exactly who was there. 

     I could feel her eyes on me, and if the idea of her lifeless body sitting at my beds end watching me sleep wasn't enough to scare me, then her smile, normally filled with joy and compassion, was now overflowing with something much more sinister. M, who had now been dead for a few weeks, was in my room, sitting on my bed. I had to act, but for whatever reason I still couldn't completely open my right eye. The more I attempted to force my eyelids open the stronger a sharp pain would shoot down my eye, into my jaw, and finally work its way down my spine. I panicked with confusion and pain, and bolted out of the bed to turn on the light. 

     There was no one there, nor where there signs that anyone had ever been there. I could finally see again with my left eye, but my right still rang from pain. I turned to the door and stumbled my way into the bathroom to see what was wrong with my eye, thinking my ordeal with the presence of M was over with. As I stood in front of the mirror prying open my eyelids with my hands, a new dreadful sensation began and I could feel her pacing with a panic, back and forth past the bathroom's door way, like a scared and confused animal trying to escape a small room. I fought the urge to look towards her direction and just continued to stare straight ahead into the mirror. I thought to myself, if you can't see it, then it can't hurt you. At that moment, and only for a moment, I completely forgot about M. There, in the corner of my eye, resting in the bed of the socket was the tip of a small yellow string. 

     As I cautiously reached for it with my left hand while my right kept my eyelids open, I wholeheartedly expected M to walk up behind me, or even worse appear in the mirror in front of me, grinning her now dead and haunting smile. The second I felt the edge of the string in my finger tips, is when time began to slow. I pulled and pulled on that blood soaked string for what felt like hours and with every tiny centimeter that I pulled from my socket, a shot of pain worked it's way down every nerve in my body. My legs and arms shook from the constant barrage of pain, but I couldn't stop pulling on the tiny yet hellish string. 

      It was almost an addiction, I had to see just how long this thing was. At one point though, I began to wonder what was in my grasp, was this minute thing that made its way down my eye even a piece of thread? Could it be a part of me, a thread of flesh maybe, a fiber of tendon, or a collection of nerves? Was I slowly tearing the flesh of body from the inside out?  

     Finally, as my thoughts reached a feverish high of gore, one that I couldn't handle anymore, where I ironically thought that I had reached the end of my rope, the tiny rope in my eye fully came out, and in that exact moment, M's presence was also gone. 

          Back then, I believed M was the one who placed the string in my eye, but the more I think about it. The more my memory of that night gets revised, the more I belive, she was only there as a witness to the whole ordeal, maybe even a concerned one. As for the bloody thread that I pulled from my eye, the one that took forever to remove, was only 3 inches long. 

     The night was silent again, and as if I was in a drunken stooper, my recollection of the whole ordeal began to wain, even before I attempted to go back to my bed. My dogs, who were so scared and ready to attack were now fast asleep, as if nothing ever happened. Like the rising sun that was filling my room with light, it dawned on me as to what was going on. M or something else, someone else, wanted me to forget everything that had happened, but why? I had proof of my ordeal, something more than just a clue, one that I still have to this day. My reminder that I am not a complete crazed and delusional poor soul, constantly tortured by paranoia and fear. Regardless on how insane my story sounds, I still have the yellow 3 inch string now stained with the rustic color of dried blood. 

Chapter 1: End

Chapter 2: Then came the Shadow

     (I find myself once again repeating. "You don't belong here!" Usually only have to do it once a night, but the night is still young and this is the second time I had to push away the shadow. )

     Three months had gone by since that first encounter, which is almost how long it took before I was able to sleep through a whole night, and not wake up in a cold sweat, at exactly 4:44 AM. I know such a cliche, such a sad "Hollywood" attempt of suggestive mania.

     Not surprisingly, the first few days after M made her presence known, were the worst. I didn't sleep at all during that time. Every slight sound like the house settling in the cold night air became an muffled whisper, or the dance of lights and shadows caused by cars driving through the neighborhood, the bright beams from their headlights piercing into the house gave way to illusions of something making it's way to me. This constant fear kept my nerves on high alert and my mind racing. I was now always short of breath as my heart pounded, every night burst with overwhelming angst. 

     Worse, were the days at school. Lane Tech was a massive and bustling school, with over 4000 students walking the halls between class periods. Each of us rushing and bumping into each other, trying make it to the next class before the tardy bell played it's malefic song. 

     Before M, the sensation of having that many people around me all at once, never really took a toll on my mind. After M, every person I saw, that didn't exactly flow with the stream of the crowd, became a potential threat. Were they just an altered thought in my head, masking the true world around me, around everyone? Were they something from the otherside, watching me? Have they always been there, have they always watched us all, but now because of my recent experience, I see them too?

          I wanted desperately to tell someone, anyone, what I had experienced, but how could I? Who would believe anything I would say? Fuck, even if I didn't take into account all of my other mental instabilities , I wouldn't belive my story of a woman who wasn't there and the time lost to the malicious acts of that horrible night. 

     Plus, chances were, if I had told anyone what I had saw, explained why my right eye was blood shot red and the lids surrounding it had become swollen and purple, franticly throbbing, they would have sent me to a loony bin. 

     Honestly, for a time, I contemplated the idea of being sent to a physic ward, and not just because of the one night, the idea crossed my mind several times, before and after M. Recently, with everything that has been happening, the idea has crossed my mind again.

          It wasn't a bad idea either. I could get away from M and everything else that dwelled in what felt like the last stop before purgatory, aka my home. In doing so though, I would have to pretend that it was all in my head, that not one bit of it, actually happened. I would be letting the world win, by letting them think my bi-polar grew into something more, and I was now just another pill-popping nutcase. 

 The night I pulled that bloody string out of my eye, I convinced myself that I had proof of my story, in case anyone thought I was crazy. The next day however, I realized how silly that idea was. It wasn't enough proof to show everyone that spirits were/are real. Showing them the string would have brought the wrong kind of attention to myself. It would have just solidify my families worries for me. I needed hard evidence to show that M wasn't a bad dream, that my mind wasn't slowly losing itself to decay. Until then, I was on my own.

I'm currently back on sleeping medications. It helps better now then it did back then, which at the time only gave me a few hours of sleep but once the clock hit 3:33 AM, I was awake, usually in a cold sweat. As the months went on though, as the nights grew longer, I had less issues waking up in the middle of the witching hours. I eventually got off the meds, but I never really did learn how to have a full nights sleep again.

It was around that time, when I felt comfortable with living in constant fear of the night, that I learned spirits really don't care about the time of day. They are around us at all times, always moving, always phasing in and out of the realm of our senses, and altering perception and memory. It's hard to notice the small changes, names, dates, hell just numbers in general, so easily forgotten or confused. Which is how they get you to question things, like the small changes, because when you question the small things, then everything becomes... questionable. 

The reach these spirits have too, how far they can influence a mind. That, as I learned was just as scary as any experience. 

     In the late 90's the new craze sweeping the nation was buying webcams for your personal computers. Now, no longer were people confined to communicating to friends, family, or complete strangers, with just AOL's instant messenger. With the advancement in both video and internet technology, people could communicate with the power of a web browser camera. 

     Being young and determined, meant I had to be at the cusp of technology, and I needed to get myself a webcam so I could chat with friends online. Being young and broke meant that I would be on the clearance section at the cusp of technology. It didn't matter though, I had met a very lovely woman on the inter-webs and she made some very.... Interesting suggestions... But only if we both had webcams.

Before you even think it, yes she was a real woman, and not some 55 year old, obese man, looking to lure a younger man into the back of his white windowless van. I watched America's most Wanted, I knew the signs and I knew what to look for.

     The people who owned the building before my parents, turned the outside back patios of both the floors, into sunrooms. On the first floor, the room was connected to the kitchen, on the second floor, where I lived, it was connected to my bedroom. The bedroom itself was tiny, smaller than the sunroom, so small in fact, that I could barely fit both my bed and a dresser in it. So the sunroom is where I kept my TV and computer. It was a nice little setup, even had a futon in their facing the TV.

I had been home for about an hour or so after a long day of school, when Margret, the lovely woman from the internet, who was not a man, messaged me. I heard the notification bell my computer makes whenever I receive a massage. "Is now a good time? Are you parents around?"

Big honest smiles and vibrant red hair have always been my greatest weakness. I learned this as a young child, the night my parents forced my sister to take me along on her date with a not so suitable gentleman. My parents didn't trust her enough to be alone with this guy, but they trusted her enough to assume that she wouldn't take me to see an R rated film. Well she did, and the film she took me to see was Bram Stoker's Dracula. If you've seen the film, you'll understand my love for confident redheads.

     Which is exactly how Margret was. Beautiful and confident in herself, definitely way too good for me, and yet for some odd reason, she found me attractive. 

     We met on some random chat room, it's been so long though, that I can't remember what chatroom it was, I just remember answering three simple questions "A.S.L". I guess something about being a 17 year old guy from Chicago, just did it for her, or at least enough for us to start talking in  private chats. 

     She moved quickly and she wasn't the biggest fan of my hesitations. "Do you have the cam set up? Are your parents home?" She asked impatiently, as if we were in a do or die situation. I had bought a webcam the night before and mentioned to her. From that moment, she was ready to play the game of "I'll show you mine if your show me yours". Actually I was past due for showing her mine. 

   She was always honest with me, something that I truly loved about her, it made me feel safe, a theme you will notice with me. So early on she informed me that being nude in front of the camera wasn't new to her. There were other guys on the internet that she had shown herself too, it was a rush for her. I didn't care though, I knew nothing was gonna come from this, it was all just cyber fun, plus you know... boobs.

     What wasn't fun was that my nerves were shot and my hands shook with the frantic speed of a humming bird's wings. I had never done anything like this before. I mean, I had been with one girl at that point of my life, but that didn't change the fact that webcam nudity was new territory for me, and I wasn't sure as to how to approach it. Still I had to do it, I told myself, I needed to man up and give Michelle a show she would never forget. 

     I reached for the keyboard, stared at the screen all while trying desperately to shake off my anxiousness, so I could respond "Almost, my whole family is about to head out and watch some movie, so I'm gonna tell them I have too much homework to do and that I can't join them. Once they leave is when we can start." My heart was racing, I could actually feel the blood coursing through my veins with increasing velocity. The blood flow made my head feel weak and dizzy.

After about an hour my family said their goodbyes and headed to the movies and dinner. "We won't be back til late." My mother Massy yelled as she walked down the stairs. My mother was a tiny little woman, with the typical old lady short curly hair. Yet she had the voice of a viking when ever she yelled. 

 It was now past show time, my family had been gone for at least ten minutes, and at that point I was just wasting time, sitting on my bed, scared to shit. What if she found my body to be unattractive? What if she made fun of, the things I had to offer? None of it mattered, I reminded myself. I had to do this, I had something to prove, so I took a deep breath and proudly proclaimed "Here goes nothing." The last words of dead men.

     I turned on the web camera, and synced with her computer for a private event. We said our joking hellos, and she asked me if I was OK with this. She wanted to make sure that I felt comfortable, even if she was being pushy. I told her I was, but I needed a second, I wanted to check myself in the mirror one last time. She laughed "You're handsome, you have nothing to be nervous about. I get it though, I was scared to fucking hell my first time, so go ahead, we have all the time."

We really didn't though, eventually my family would return from the movies, but that was a technicality I wasn't gonna waste our limited time discussing. I quickly headed to the bathroom, not so much to make sure I looked fine, this was as good as I was gonna get, but more so for one last pep talk in the mirror. Get my head in the game, both of them.  

Then it happened, with every step towards the bathroom came a step towards the oppressing feeling I had the night M came to visit, as if I was making my way to something massive and hungry, with me being the only meal. Why now? The sun, while red, setting into the horizon, still shun its light through the windows of the sunroom and settling softly into my bedroom. I had always believed it's comforting glow would keep me safe, like my mother, all mothers, used to tell their children. 

Again, that gaze. The one I felt before, someone who wasn't there was watching my every move. The atmosphere became thick, it was hard to breath, I felt as if I was tumbling through, while gasping for air, between the crashing waves of a winding violent rapid. I reached for my chest to try and help myself breath deeply but quickly pulled it back when I felt my heart viciously hammering into my chest as if it would rather die then deal with what was up ahead.

"No!" I yelled to myself. "This was just anxiety from the cam show, it just finally got a hold of me." A desperate idea I attempted to use to free myself from my frozen drowning body. 

It worked, briefly, I stood in front of my bedroom door, that lead to to the bathroom hallway and dining room, my words of encouragement gave me the strength I needed to reach for the door handle. It shook in my hand. The screws, dull and loose from years of abuse, barely held the knob in its place on the heavy wooden door.

I half expected to hear the sounds of something inhuman, waiting for me on the other side, as I turned the creeky rusty knob. My expectations were shattered.

"Hel...lo?" A fractured, electronic sounding voice, coming from behind me.

( You don't belong here.)

The hairs on my arm raised high, as if they themselves were trying desperately to escape the disjointed voice I heard coming from behind me, coming from the sunroom. Spine tinglingly chills weakened my knees. I didn't want to turn around and see what was transpiring in that room.

"Haha, you ... so adorable and f...ny! but I'm ... tell yo... uncle to have you ... your face to me. ...Have to see ... really are."

 That voice, shattered and nestled in static.

"Now how do you ... that? You have ... even met ... before."

It took a moment to register, but I knew that voice, it was Margret's voice. Who was she talking too? I could barely hear her, but I couldn't make out any other voices. I started to think that she was just talking to herself or someone at her home, that was until I heard the creaking of the apartment's wood floors. 

It came from other side of the door with the sounds being distant and muffled at first. A second creek, a third, and fourth, each one louder and closer than the one before it.

 As the sounds came closer and closer to the door, it became clear that the old wood planks were being pushed upon by a heavy slow moving force.

Again the floors creaked and bent as something moved even closer, now it was coming from right across the door that I was standing in front of. The creaking became louder and the room started to sway back and forth, slowly. 

With the movement of the room, the thickness in the air and the sounds of wood giving away to an unseen pressure I felt as if I were trapped in the bottom decks of an old wooden ship, aged by the unrelenting force of the ocean. 

 The heavy movements stopped for a brief moment and the room slowed in its rocking but still moved like a hammock in a slow breeze. It was then that I noticed the room becoming darker. I watched in both horror and fascination as a shadow, fluidly moved from under the crack of the door and began to fill the room around me. I watched as the light from the fading sun behind me, became buried under a endless void that would drive even the greatest minds to madness. As it slowly made its way closer to the sunroom, objects in my room began to lose shape, I could no longer see what was where, if it was even there at all. 

Bile filled my throat as the darkness took hold of the world around me and movement of the room began to increase again. Then the sounds of wood snapping under some massive weight continued, but this time, the sounds were coming from my room, from right behind me!

"Scared? Well ... scared of t ... ... me, right?" Margret asked. Was she, and whoever it was that she was conversing with, talking about me? Was this silent voice telling Margret what was happening? Of how terrified I was at that very moment?

I felt a cold grip grab a hold of my soul, as I heard the creaking step behind me. . Not a malicious grip but one bursting with desire, a wanting for I had and for what it didn't. I began to understand what this thing wanted, it was obsessed with me, or more accurately it was obsessed with my essence.

My pervious thoughts of M were completely wrong. It wasn't her dead smile I felt on that first night. It was this... Thing! I knew I felt her presence sitting at my beds edge, that I never doubted, but when I felt her pacing at the bathroom door as I ripped that thread from my eye, it was because she was concerned, scared for me, and maybe for herself as well.

" Wait, ... Is M? ... he have ... girlfriend?" Margret asked hesitantly.

Margret mentioned M?! I knew now, for sure, that whoever Margret was talking to, that person was in my house. 

The sounds became more like steps as it made it's way to the sunroom, and with each step, the room swayed even harder. I could feel the wood floors beneath my feet begin to give way to the weight of this thing. I nearly lost my balance as one of the wood boards snapped and disappeared into the shadows.

Every fiber in my body begged me to just run out the bedroom, down to the front doors and make my way outside. To never turn back, to never return to this ghost filled abomination I reluctantly called home. My mind though, wouldn't let me. It was now perverse by all of this, it had become an adrenaline rush, a drug. I pierced into another world and my mind needed to know more.

"Oh, is yo... ..cle coming back? Well it was nice talking.. ... Sam, maybe next time you ... Be... scared so I ... your face."

     It seemed like the thing finally made it way to the doorway of the sunroom. The steps stopped and the room now jerked violently back and forth that I could barely stand. 

"Sam? Who's ... talking? ... sounds angry! Sam?!" Margret's voice was now filled with nervousness and concern, her happy playful attitude from just seconds ago, were now washed away. What did she hear? Was it the sinister  force which made its way across the room, that had changed her demeanor so quickly and deeply? 

I had to make my way back to the sunroom. I needed to know what was going on, but I was still so scared. I closed my eyes, and stumbled as I  turned my body towards the sunroom. Even though I knew I had yet to actually see a spirit, I was convinced that it was only a matter of time before I did. If there was a perfect time for a phantom to show itself, it would be at this moment. 

"Just open your eyes. Just open your eyes." I angerly told myself over "and over. Just open your eyes." 

Slowly I cracked open my eyes, one at a time and with a continuous flinch, until both were open fully, and ready to accept what lied before me, but just like before, nothing stood in front of me, and yet I knew something was there. I could feel it, and whatever this thing was, had a pull to it. The sensation of standing at the edge of a muddy steep incline, the ground slowly giving away to my weight, while this entity waited at the mouth of the drop with feverish hunger. It wanted something from me, but what I couldn't understand.

It didn't matter, I wasn't going to back down, I would learn all that I could while the opportunity was there. I gathered my nerves and cautiously took my first step. The floor now groaning to the extra pressure of my weight as I stumbled towards this thing. All light was now gone, I was in complete and total darkness, the air still filled my lungs like a thick liquid. I began to gasp for air, the room tossed and turned, I crashed into things in my room when either I fell towards them or when they shifted in the movement of the room.

My next step caused a loud pop in the floors causing me to fall completely, I was sure this thing ahead of me would notice my movements... nothing. I reached for where my bed should have been but the rocking of the room must have shifted it elsewhere. I couldn't get up and I could barely crawl. My breaths were getting more shallow and I was desperately fighting the vomit that continued to build in all the chaos. 

I heard Margret's voice one last time, but this time it was clear, there was no electrical static. "Sam?! Oh dear God Sam?! What the fuck ... is that?!"

                       Then... Silence.

                   (You don't belong here) 

Chapter 2: End

[sleeplessdreamer1029-blog]

So many thoughts, so little time. 

My brain is a jumbled mess, and I can’t sleep.  Again.  As usual.  I hate it.  Most of the time I don’t know why it is that I can’t sleep, but tonight I know.  I forgot to take my meds today, and my brain is at war with itself because of it.

Who would’ve thought that meds could both help and hurt my brain?  Certainly not me.  I always looked at them as helping.  I never understood why people would stop taking their meds.  Now I do.

When I went to the doctor a couple months ago, it was because my current meds didn’t seem to be working as well as they used to.  Cue three more diagnoses on top of the one I already had.  I thought bipolar disorder was bad enough.  Anxiety, adjustment disorder, and PTSD got tacked on.  All of a sudden my world both made more sense and made less sense all at the same time.

I had suspected the anxiety for a long time.  I had a full blown panic attack last summer, the first in my 35 years on the planet.  But I had no doubt what it was.  Fear building in my chest.  Feeling trapped.  Body tensing, heart racing, breathing shallow and ragged.  It finally took over and I ran out of the restaurant.  I know why I was getting anxious, but I have no idea why it went to that level.  Especially when it never had before, for any reason that I can remember.  For many many years, I worried about just about everything under the sun.  Some things for good reason, most for no good reason.  I didn’t want to go for hikes in the woods because I was terrified of ticks.  Still am.  I love dogs but am terrified of the bigger breeds.  Of anything with a loud or deep bark.  Makes sense since I was attacked by a german shepherd when I was 6, right?  But this is almost 30 years later, and I still jump and try to hide.  Fear of change.  Fear of social situations.  My mom always told me I’m a social butterfly, and maintains that belief to this very day.  What she doesn’t understand is that it’s one thing to talk with people in the grocery store or for a few minutes after church, it’s quite another to sit down with another person and get to know them one on one.  That kind of situation terrifies me.  Going to gatherings where I only know one or two people?  You know those memes about how someone follows their mom around or makes friends with the cat?  That’s me.  100%.  Stupidest thing though, I was a cheerleader in high school.  I went to parties in college.  I used to love meeting people.  Then as time went on and more and more people betrayed, abandoned, and hurt me...especially when I needed them the most.  Get up the courage to finally leave my ex-husband after years of should have, and one of my oldest friends stops talking to me because of it?  I didn’t know how to handle that.  I pulled away from everyone.  I can’t begin to describe how much that hurt, how deep the wounds went.  How much worse it was than the years of neglect I went through.  How it still hurts to this day, more than a year and a half later.  I still see her on Facebook.  My little sister works with her.  But I’m fearful to talk to her.  The couple of times I’ve seen her in person have been just about the most awkward encounters I’ve ever had in my life.  And that’s counting my ex-sister-in-law talking to me on Facebook. 

The adjustment disorder was a new thing that came out of the blue.  I didn’t expect it, I had never even heard of it.  But it made sense.  All my life, I’ve never really been able to sit still long enough to settle down and adjust to life and live like a normal person (whatever that means.)  Moving around all the time as a kid, being uprooted before my junior year of high school yet again after having been promised that there would be no more moving until after my brother and I were out of high school.  I tell my mom that I’ve forgiven and let that one go, but the truth is I don’t think I have.  But that’s a tale of woe for another day.  All of this culminated in the changes over the last two years.  My ex being let go from the military.  Moving to the small town I graduated high school from, where I thought everyone would be looking at me like I’m the same person I was in high school.  My ex going away to school for nine months and coming back a completely different person, and not in a good way.  Things were bad enough with him to begin with, I didn’t think they could be worse.  Me hitting a breaking point and filing for divorce.  The online relationship I found afterwards that I thought could be something, that I poured my whole heart into, that I opened myself up to.  That he just disappeared.  Trying to navigate dating.  Meeting the man who is now my husband.  Moving in with him three months after we met.  Getting married three months after that.  Being told that we needed to move out a week after the wedding and having to move to a whole new state because we couldn’t afford to move into anywhere in the town we were because move in costs were too high.  Surgery.  Job changes.  That’s all a hell of a lot to ask a person to deal with in such a short period of time.  I know I sound like an idiot for getting married so soon after getting divorced.  But I don’t regret it.  Not in the slightest.

Hearing the PTSD diagnosis was a relief.  It validated how I felt during my first marriage, let me know that I wasn’t crazy for the way I felt.  The way I still feel.  The fears I have tied to it.  It let me know that it was all real, not just in my head.  Not something I made up.  I left that appointment crying because of how big of a relief it was.

She kept me on my lamotrigine and zolpidem, and added two new ones.  The trazadone got nixed on my next appointment.  The couple times I took it I actually slept worse than without it.  The hydroxyzine stuck though.  It’s supposed to be “as needed”, but if I don’t take two pills a day, I freak out.  A month or so ago, I had a panic attack when my husband and I were going to bed and he made an offhand joke about divorce.  I freaked out because I can’t go through that again, ever.  Last weekend, I forgot to take them on Saturday.  Had a night terror and woke up screaming on Sunday morning.  I forgot to take them today, and now I can’t sleep because I’m worried about losing my husband, and I’m hurt by how both he and I acted right before bed.

I understand the stopping of the taking of the meds because the hydroxyzine makes my brain fuzzy.  I can feel the fuzz creep in, and I don’t like it.  But I also don’t like what happens when I don’t take them.  The fuzz is the lesser of the two evils.  I would rather be fuzzy and calm than freaking out.  I would rather be relaxed and able to navigate life and deal with the fact that sometimes the wires in my brain don’t connect thoughts properly and I scramble for words from time to time.

I have my first appointment with my psychologist this week.  I don’t know how to talk about any of these things, let alone begin to work on them.  To work through them.  To better myself.  But I took the first step.  I went to find out about my meds.  I suppose I took the first two steps, since I made this appointment too.