There has been this ongoing thing in the Facebook community and it sort of gets on my nerves. Being thankful because it is November and Thanksgiving is near, and perhaps people are trying to make good with Santa for all the horrible things they did before November. Oh look at this person, being all nice. Hmm… What happened to the other months? I have decided to rebel and start complaining. It is a hit with a few people. I’m sure others roll their eyes and just keep scrolling. Uttering things like, ungrateful bitch and so forth. If you are reading this and you are that person, just know this gets worse.
Anywho… I mentioned, in a post, that I would dedicate an entire blog to complaining. I have thought about this since there is so much complaining to do. I could get petty and talk about drivers, school, meaningless life bull crap, but I thought to save that for Facebook. Then I thought I could gripe about the economy or politics and then realized I’m not the type that argues with people unwilling to change. That’s right, I said it. So what in the world could I possibly complain about? Oh yes. Me.
Here is the complaint. I am reading this book. That isn’t the complaint, that is the beginning of my story. Anyway, I am reading this book. A memoir and it is so funny and wonderful and sad and joyous. I love it. And the author’s ways are really rubbing off on me. As I am reading, I am intrigued that a person can have so many mental illnesses and still be so hilarious. That is when it hit me, like a feather because I’m fragile and bricks scare me. I am funny, sometimes, and I have a ton of crap wrong with me! Ever read any of my stories? The really disturbing ones? That is when I am in a dark place and I actually have imagined my self doing some of the sick, twisted shit I write about. I have severe mental issues. I have been diagnosed with some debilitating disorders and I often wonder how I manage to survive. I don’t blog about my crazy mind because I am ashamed. The more I keep reading this book, the more I see how one person just accepts their odd behaviors, their mental illness and shares it with everyone and turns something very scary into something very funny, the more I feel like it is okay to talk about myself. Yes, mental illness can be funny. I can say that because I have a list of mental illnesses. I am not kidding, a list.
And that is my complaint about myself. Being ashamed. Why am I ashamed? Because people will talk about me, judge me? When have I ever cared about that? Apparently my subconscious has. Probably because I am afraid someone will Google me and come across some crazy post about how I am partially insane. Which is very disconcerting since I haven’t “made it” yet.
I am ashamed. And honestly embarrassed about the whole thing. I have seen four professionals in my life time. Which I consider a lot since I am so young, 33. I wrote a funny list the other day when this idea came to me. The not so funny part is that I keep remembering the time that one psychologist said this one thing, and the list gets bigger and I have to re-word it so it remains funny. It is hard work being mentally ill. I am slowly going to try to get over my stigma of myself. And by slowly, I mean just letting it all out. So the next time you read something disturbing on this blog, a poem that is highly depressing, or a rant that makes you wonder if you should lock your doors, you will know why, and I will feel better knowing that you know.
Essentially I am this: a hyper sensitive, misophonic, (misophonia), depressed psychopath with a mood disorder, PTSD, and high anxiety, who is prone to severe panic attacks. So please don’t touch me or make weird sounds because I will suddenly see an opportunity to kill you. But I won’t because I won’t do well in prison. I’m too pretty.
If some of those disorders look strange to you, I have provided links so you can become informed. Because not only do I find my self entertaining, I also like to find myself educating the masses.
On a side note: metal illness isn’t really that funny, at all. I go insane about once a week and sometimes more. It depends on the stress around me. Every other day I think of death and ask why I haven’t killed myself yet. I struggle. Luckily I have great friends, family, and a really funny husband. It is only barely laughable if you have it and laugh at yourself instead of leaving notes for people to find or leave yourself for people to find. Like this one I made up a week ago. I kept it to myself and then cried because I was shocked that I could think of such a thing. But if I do go, at least I will remain true, sarcastic, and always a bit funny.
Suicide Note: If you can not find me, I am in the shower. Sorry about the mess.
(don’t laugh too much. It isn’t really funny, Plus it is November and Santa is watching.)
I also want you to know that this was really hard to write and I considered multiple times that I should delete it. But what would that accomplish? Not much.
Have you seen the app, Bitstrips? My husband made this. He knows me too well. (bottom picture, obviously)