Blah! Not a real entry. (Are any of them, really?) But I have to get this off my chest.
My manager is, in a lot of respects, really great. However, when she is in a bad mood she likes to go on power trips. Today, for example, I was going through a box of toys and I threw away this little plastic Jack in the Box mascot toy. (I don't know where the owner got it. Does Jack in the Box even do toys? They're not like McDonald's.) Anyway, you know how it looks. White face, blue eyes, pointed noise, black suit.
It was grimy and dirty and gross (like actual dirty and there was a dent in its head), so I chucked it. Of course at that second, Linda comes around the corner and sees my misdeed. Then she launches into a twenty minute lecture about how we can't afford to be throwing away perfectly good toys. The toys are all 25 cents as it is. Chill Linda.
Worse than that, she actually stood over me and watched me clean it off and put it back in the box. I have to wet a rag with this solution of rubbing alcohol and something else and it smells terrible. All the while I had to look at the ugly face of that toy and it just made me so mad.
But what really pissed me off is, well, I didn't just throw it was because it was gnarled and nasty. I have this phobia. Linda knows about it. So I'd hoped she'd understand why I chucked it. Not that she should be yelling at me anyway. She's so cheap.
It's just, when I saw it, I couldn't help it. I mean, it's hard. It's just. I don't like- well- don't judge me okay. For some people it's clowns. For some people it's spiders or snakes or heights or even dogs.
For me it's people in business suits.
I have a crippling fear of people in really nice, black suits. Everything from the gleaming tie clips down to the polished black shoes sends me into a panic attack.
. . . crazy, I know, but what else is new?
More About Me
The laundry list first. The kind of stuff you put on a job application. I mean, when I turn in job applications I spend most of it explaining my criminal record. What normal people put on their applications then.
I'm 24. Five foot six. My weight is my own business. Employed. Thankfully, gainfully employed at a thrift store. I sort through the stuff that comes in. I throw things away that are too terrible for anyone to touch ever again. Think blackened. Think rotting. Think toys that are moldy and can't be washed. One time I found a banana peel among a box of sunglasses. Not pleasant.
Living by myself. Yay. For the first time in a while. After, well, after I left college. No, that's not right. After I was taken from college. After circumstances converged, here meaning my mental illness, I was removed from college. Really from the general population at large.
Spent a year in an institution. Then therapy and medication at home. Then telling my mom I was ready to move out again. Then apartment.
Not very nice. It has a bedroom, a bathroom, and one large room with the kitchen and the living room. Smallish, but I live a smallish life. Smallish feels right.
Medication repertoire is as follows. 2mg of Lorazepam for the anxiety. 16mg of Iloperidone for the hallucinations. 200mg of Paroxetine (Paxil) to make everything a little happier. I like the Iloperidone the best. Anti-psychotics give you the best dreams.
But enough about therapy and medication. How about friends? Not many. Sarah works with me and I met Mike when I used to go to group therapy. They're nice. Age appropriate, surprisingly.
What else?
I used to be into the internet. I mean, really into it. 4Chan and everything. Tried trolling for an embarrassing period, but that phase passed. Forums, but a certain kind of forum. More on that later. It's too soon to talk about that.
I like flowers and cats, but I guess everyone does. I love used book stores and diners where they pretend its still the fifties. It's a simpler time, you know? I also love chick flicks. Especially anything by Nickolas Sparks. The Notebook always makes me weep.
I hope this is interesting. I hope it makes sense. This is as much sense as my life ever makes. But I feel good now. I feel happy. Mark it down as a day when I felt, happy. Nice.
I wish I felt a little less lonely sometimes, but I'm working on that too. Meeting people is hard. Keeping them is harder.
So if you know any people that need others, send them my way.
I'm 24. Five foot six. My weight is my own business. Employed. Thankfully, gainfully employed at a thrift store. I sort through the stuff that comes in. I throw things away that are too terrible for anyone to touch ever again. Think blackened. Think rotting. Think toys that are moldy and can't be washed. One time I found a banana peel among a box of sunglasses. Not pleasant.
Living by myself. Yay. For the first time in a while. After, well, after I left college. No, that's not right. After I was taken from college. After circumstances converged, here meaning my mental illness, I was removed from college. Really from the general population at large.
Spent a year in an institution. Then therapy and medication at home. Then telling my mom I was ready to move out again. Then apartment.
Not very nice. It has a bedroom, a bathroom, and one large room with the kitchen and the living room. Smallish, but I live a smallish life. Smallish feels right.
Medication repertoire is as follows. 2mg of Lorazepam for the anxiety. 16mg of Iloperidone for the hallucinations. 200mg of Paroxetine (Paxil) to make everything a little happier. I like the Iloperidone the best. Anti-psychotics give you the best dreams.
But enough about therapy and medication. How about friends? Not many. Sarah works with me and I met Mike when I used to go to group therapy. They're nice. Age appropriate, surprisingly.
What else?
I used to be into the internet. I mean, really into it. 4Chan and everything. Tried trolling for an embarrassing period, but that phase passed. Forums, but a certain kind of forum. More on that later. It's too soon to talk about that.
I like flowers and cats, but I guess everyone does. I love used book stores and diners where they pretend its still the fifties. It's a simpler time, you know? I also love chick flicks. Especially anything by Nickolas Sparks. The Notebook always makes me weep.
I hope this is interesting. I hope it makes sense. This is as much sense as my life ever makes. But I feel good now. I feel happy. Mark it down as a day when I felt, happy. Nice.
I wish I felt a little less lonely sometimes, but I'm working on that too. Meeting people is hard. Keeping them is harder.
So if you know any people that need others, send them my way.
I Know I'm Not Clever
It's my birthday, of sorts. Not my actual birthday, which I hate, but it was a year ago today I started this brand of anti-psychotics. It's the birthday of the new me. The me that can function in society.
My therapist suggested I start keeping a journal. I've always liked staring at my computer screen more than an actual notebook, so I decided to start a blog instead. Just as many people will read this anyway. Probably.
You're probably wondering now what's wrong with me, and, believe me, the list goes on. Social anxiety. Panic attacks. And, at one point, hallucinations. That and some other stuff. Some other bad stuff I don't want to get into now. But I will. One thing I've learned from all of this is that you have to talk about it. Even if it's only to a blog. Even if it's only to yourself.
The worst thing that ever happened to me happened because I didn't talk about it. I tried to deny it. Everything built and built. Baking soda and vinegar trapped in a bottle. A rabid bird in a tiny cage.
But that's all over now. No focusing on the past. No rewind button, no fast forward or pause. It's just play, play, play all the time, and for once I'm happy to do so.
So welcome to the new and improved me. I've got my crappy retail job at the St. Vincent de Paul's (crappy only in the sense that all retail jobs are crappy), friends I can rely on, and a happy mental state. What more could a girl ask for?
I also haven't seen the creature in over two years, and, in the end, that's all I really wanted.
My therapist suggested I start keeping a journal. I've always liked staring at my computer screen more than an actual notebook, so I decided to start a blog instead. Just as many people will read this anyway. Probably.
You're probably wondering now what's wrong with me, and, believe me, the list goes on. Social anxiety. Panic attacks. And, at one point, hallucinations. That and some other stuff. Some other bad stuff I don't want to get into now. But I will. One thing I've learned from all of this is that you have to talk about it. Even if it's only to a blog. Even if it's only to yourself.
The worst thing that ever happened to me happened because I didn't talk about it. I tried to deny it. Everything built and built. Baking soda and vinegar trapped in a bottle. A rabid bird in a tiny cage.
But that's all over now. No focusing on the past. No rewind button, no fast forward or pause. It's just play, play, play all the time, and for once I'm happy to do so.
So welcome to the new and improved me. I've got my crappy retail job at the St. Vincent de Paul's (crappy only in the sense that all retail jobs are crappy), friends I can rely on, and a happy mental state. What more could a girl ask for?
I also haven't seen the creature in over two years, and, in the end, that's all I really wanted.
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