It does come to a conclusion of “pathetic” when one sees his or her parents, whom happen to be forty years older, are more energetic and productive then him or herself.

I still have a few weeks before it can be said that I have managed to survive on this planet for thirty years. In that small amount of time, however, I really felt as though my life has equaled that of a rather elder age… elder than my own parents apparently.

Again, I am sure there are those outside myself and my mother who are of hopeful certainty that I am just not putting in enough effort… but as it goes… I think it was that constant effort – that desperate effort that was always pushing my mind, heart and body beyond my personal limits – is what has aged me so quickly.

Yes… am only so old physically. Yes, my physically body is healthy. Nevertheless, there has been much lost.

I can think back to just five years ago when I would be constantly doing at least something. I’d be interested, searching, creating. I’d get absorbed in things from reading, trying games, researching, listening to music. I’d be getting responsibilities that I could get done without any repercussions on my health done. I was very efficient.

Now, I see many things I used to do just sitting around collecting dust. The website I used to store character studies I would get down right obsessed in is pretty much a memorial. The stories I’d write remain on hold because the inspiration dies off too quickly. The story I’d always read once in a while to enjoy as well as tweak is daunting for me to look at now. Games I found I could play and truly enjoy on the computer have been left unused for a great amount of time due to finding them either requiring too much energy and focus, too painful on my tennis elbow and/or just too time consuming for me to be able to keep up with. Drawing is pretty much near impossible and I really just lack inspiration to draw anyway.

There is simply a profound sort of tiredness. Even with little things I would address right way like mail… there are envelopes and boxes I will let sit for a couple of days before finally opening them. Once upon a time it would be an immediate thing. The same goes with emails – but most of those tend to be charities asking for donations or signatures for petitions…

I really think those years of my adolescence truly spent the amount of stress, energy and livelihood that usually is reserved for the time one s twenty to their fifties or sixties… then, upon finding a nice half decade of relative peace… I’m finally becoming something of a drying husk.

Some of me wonders again… if I weren’t medicated and my bipolar were to run wild once more… would I have the energy again? I quickly think of the repercussions, however… The anxiety, the stress that would come when my obsessive ways get out of hand and my need to finish things in full swing… I’d just be harming myself by pushing my body past its natural limits once more. Ultimately, it would just lead to the drying husk to become completely dried quicker.

Still, I rather miss that energy, that proficiency. I won’t weep over the loss, however. I make do with what I can. My interests and passions slowly become more and more subdued. What I read becomes simpler and simpler… perhaps one day all I’ll be able to handle are children’s picture books. Music is a rarity and I am more likely to “listen” to a song stuck in my head than anything else. There are things I think of that I would like to look up, but often I place it aside for a time where I believe I’d be in a better state for absorbing such information… Other things… briefer and only once in a while…

There are far worse things in life and if anything can be said… with this tiredness, though I get so little done… there actually is little case of worrying over boredom. The mind must be awake, active and focused to be able to become bored. Mine is rarely that these days… instead it merely finds the thought of rest appealing and sleep is rarely ever boring.

Still, it can be troubling. It can cause unease that I’m really just becoming a sloth. Yet, I wonder… do those who are slothful ever care that they are lazy? Also, do they ever think that it would be nice to die at an early age? I think dying by the time I’m forty or fifty would be nice. I hope I die around the time both my parents have passed on.

Admittedly, I somewhat store away “useful” information of ways to suicide if I should someday find myself unable to patiently wait for my time to come.

I do not mean to be ungrateful. For all one know, we may have but one life and when it is gone, it is gone. I do love my parents and I do have the small precious things in life one finds in the everyday. I enjoy our animals. In my parents progressing years, I find amusement and fondness in some of their dwindling senses.

Nevertheless… like how some people who have indeed reached the last chapter of their lives… I just feel ready. I feel fine with the thought of passing on. I cannot see much I can bring to the future. All that potential, all that drive… It was used up. Rather than a slowly growing flame that would slowly reach its peak and then slowly dwindle in turn… Mine blew up into a firework… and the remnants of that flame are quickly disappearing like drops of water on hard, dry desert soil.

Again, I know the future is unforeseeable. After all, back during my teen years I never saw myself being eligible for Medicaid or that I’d be a case that apparently proved so substantial they practically approved it automatically. So, yes… maybe something will happen this next decade that will show a future I never saw possible… or maybe it will just be like now, only the progression of what seems to be myself slowly breaking down due to some aspect of my age will be more severe than now.

Yes… I do feel sorry for my parents if this keeps up. They do not seem to mind. Since I talk about these things to my mother, she knows some of the dilemma I am facing and believes my words, my guilt, my fears… Nevertheless, I still find it pathetic. In a logical view, our positions should be switched if anything. In a strange, physical-yet-not-way, however… I believe I feel older than my parents. Sigh.

While I know I have written about this before somewhere, I might as well get it down here. Over a short time span I find my body seeming to be breaking down. This is not in an easily detectable case, though. Outwardly I look fine. I get good results on my yearly physicals. Even though I have high cholesterol in my genetics, I seem to keep it in the good cholesterol category. I have always weighed inside what is considered proper for my age and height. Though not particularly active, I’ve always had good muscle.

So, how in the world is my body breaking down?

With each passing year “little things” have begun developing. In time I have found myself limited greatly in what I am able to do. Again… in just a handful of years…

I have gone from being able to handle all my chores for the house (Kitchen counters, dishes, laundry, vacuuming, dusting) including ones for my own room to mainly just being able to keep up with the dishes and the laundry, forget about my own room.

In my free time I would read books of decent length, write stories and thoughts, research things of interest, listen to all kinds of music, watch shows and so forth with no problems. I can no longer handle books from 400-500 pages, much less around 100. I am too tired in one way or another write much or even go through to read and edit things I’ve already written. Heaven forbid I try HTML crunching or researching. Music is too much for me now and I only listen to a song on my computer once in a strawberry moon. I still watch TV shows with my mother, but they can be more taxing on my mind and body than even before.

All of these things fall in the realms of fatigue and the inability to concentrate due to fatigue. I have always been low energy. My primary physician sees no problems with me and says some people just have less energy than others. Though my father has always blamed it on not being active, I know that is bull. I’ve had plenty of instances in my life where I was incredibly active, but no matter how many miles I walked, how many hills I climbed, how much sweat I produced… my metabolism seemed unchanged. I’d take a shower, eat and often go to bed soon after. My mother has witnessed this and agrees with me. Activity isn’t the problem.

Again, over time, this weakness seems to become worse and worse. The first major occurrence was back when I had become so weak I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to leave my bed or even have the power to call out to my parents for help. Since that episode, we’ve learned I cannot let my weight drop below a certain level. To try to boost my energy my mom has me take a B vitamin every day and I have a protein shake every morning. Despite I cannot handle eating meat well, I too have made effort to add more protein to my diet by eating bean burgers or peanut butter sandwiches on bread that has added protein in it. In spite of this, the battle is still difficult and our attempts seem flimsy at best.

The recent appearance of monthly headaches has made getting things done from chores to even pastimes all the more difficult. Though I take magnesium to minimize them to a dull ache, I am still left rather helpless brain-wise because should I try to concentrate for too long, I quickly develop headaches.

Because of this combination of growing weakness, lack of energy and the inability to concentrate… I am left rather helpless. I have simple responsibilities I can no longer keep up with. I have many pastimes I would like to attend to but either find my body too tired or my mind unable to concentrate.

In this I am left quite helpless. I cannot do things. At times I have thought of trying to force myself, but I know how detrimental to my health that can be. Even when consulting my mother on this, she agrees it would do me more harm than good.

In this, I often can only sleep. I sleep due to the weakness. I sleep due to the headaches. I sleep due to the inability to concentrate. In turn, I find myself sleeping an troublesome amount. I will not take it for granted. I will never take sleep for granted.

Nevertheless, as I told my mother, it is troubling. It is worrisome to find myself in such a helpless state. It is annoying that I cannot get things done be they responsibilities to mere pastimes. It makes the possible future come off as very bleak and pathetic… because this tiredness keeps getting worse with each passing year. This trouble with concentrating gets worse every year. I am losing so much.

Often times before, when I’d find myself sleeping copious amounts, I’d worry that perhaps it wasn’t a physical condition and I was just becoming lazy. Logic and discussions with my mother help assure me this is physical and not due to becoming a sloth. Nevertheless, though I know this… I have but one person in the world who understands and knows enough that she believes me.

I cannot see anyone else in my family believing this. My father, though he would be my greatest protector and advocate at heart, he lives in a world full of denial when it comes to me. My eldest brother, and very likely his wife, see me as being too sheltered and babied by our parents. I know he is wrong on this though, because he never witnessed all the trials that ultimately determined that I cannot follow the majority standard. The same goes with my sister, but she’s always viewed me in such a way and always will. I’m not so sure about my other brother, but even if he were to think I’m just being lazy and not putting in enough effort… I believe he keeps his mouth shut due to knowing his own faults.

Then… there is just the world. I cannot follow the majority rule. The standard set by how most people function is one that I cannot fulfill. Looking at the standard, I also notice… I seem to be breaking down at an accelerated rate. People cannot see this, however. I look well. These troubles do not show upon merely looking at me. If my outward health could reflect my inward, though… I’m sure I’d look worn, fragile and just… helpless.

Alas, the outward appearance rarely ever shows the content within. Other than my mother… I’m pretty sure no one would believe my plight. The well-meaning would say things like my dad, my psychiatrist… even my best friend. They see potential, they believe if I just try more… I’ve tried all my life. I’ve pushed myself beyond my limits trying and in turn have almost always found no results or hurt and breakdowns. The rest of the world… they would just view me like my eldest brother and my sister.

Sigh.

Well, my head is cloudy and as it goes… just composing this has tired me. Again, I must sigh.

In some sense I slept all day today. Why I say some sense is because the morning hours are a tad bit questionable, but I likely slept through them with various moments of waking. After that I got up, got groceries, did some chores, ate lunch and somewhere around two or so fell asleep. Usually I can be quite troubled when I find myself sleeping copious amounts. This time, however, I feel it was likely needed for therapeutic reasons.

When it comes to dealing with stress, most people seem to seek relief in exercise, meditation, food or getting lost in some sort of media. For me, it is sleep. It has been this way ever since I’ve been given the freedom to sleep when my body needs it rather than by trying to sleep by the standards of the real world.

This isn’t to say I never tried to sleep like other people. I’ve tried so by my own will and by sleep aids. Nevertheless, like with many things, trying to keep up with the beat of the common tune only seems to harm, because in truth… even if I force myself to function like the majority, it never does become normal for me. Not many people believe this, when I tell them. Even those I have been or am close to, not even my psychologist believes this. They seem to think it is a case of not trying hard enough.

I know, though. I have had to experience all of it. They were never there 24/7 and even if they were, they would never know the mental, emotional and physical toll forcing myself to function like others can be. They have never been there when the stress has finally settled long enough to override the medication that usually does help manage many of my “problems”. They don’t see me begin to cycle. They don’t see me become desperate to cut or begin to develop suicidal thoughts.

Sure, they may be informed second hand when I am in a rather bland state, or have read these occasional writings I’ll compose. Admittedly, I know of but one person who does believe me and doesn’t think it is lack of effort, being paralyzed by fear or negativity or whatever other excuse one might come up with. She isn’t there 24/7, she cannot experience exactly what I go through… but she has been there during breaking points, she has seen my efforts and she listens enough to understand and believe my decisions.

Anyway, I have gotten quite off track. I slept from around two to ten this afternoon and evening. There was little to possibly no case of actual waking up briefly. No, it was a deep sleep full of dreams and over time, knowing I’ve dreamed ensures I did get a good rest.

While in the beginning the dreams were what I’d consider normal ones for me, in time they took a darker turn. It is funny. The darker turn happened in a segment where I was in a setting full of polished wood tables, seats with leather cushions and people that dealt with the government. From what I could tell it had to do with the recent election and a possibility that Trump might not actually serve as President of the US depending on certain information they were investigating. Sitting at one of these tables, I saw my father and a few other men… I think one was a lawyer or some sort of representative for those hoping that the investigation would not go in Trump’s favor.

In any case, people at a separate table who were to decide the outcome came to their conclusion. What the conclusion was, I have no idea and I really didn’t care. What I noticed, however, was that my dad was no longer in the room. In turn, there slowly was a feeling of unease. Looking to the exit doors, Kyle of all people appeared. Relieved to see him, I met him and we left through the doors.

We went down some stairs, but upon reaching the first floor, I began to feel unease again. I saw what looked like open paint cans and for some reason they hinted to me that something was wrong. As Kyle and I continued on, I noticed how empty the halls were, how white, yet somewhat dingy the walls were… it was reminiscent to something you’d see in a horror movie. Then I caught sight of a girl. Pale and a sort of dinginess similar to the walls, I knew we were indeed in danger. Learning this as well, Kyle tried to duck us into the men’s room due to the strange thought that she wouldn’t follow us there. I doubted this, because the girl didn’t strike me as human anymore. Then, looking to where a sink could be seen, I noticed someone was in there. This person looked to be of similar state as the previously mentioned girl.

I tried to pull Kyle out of there with me, but we got separated. He was still in the men’s room, I was just outside of it. Though the door shut, it was like a stall door, though. There was a foot of empty space at the bottom. We had both been tackled to the floor, almost mirrors of each other, as the humanoid monsters were ripping at our lower bodies… quite likely feeding.

I believe things shifted then. There were other dreams… one where I was in my grandma’s living room watching a show with others… people I didn’t recognize. A young girl sat to my left and there was something very strange about her. I don’t remember this dream very well, but it might have had cannibalism in it as well… I think I somehow defeated her, but even stranger, at some point I entered my grandma’s dining room. There were two characters show my mother and I watch – a father and his son. I had tons of bacon on hand, but I knew it really wasn’t bacon. I cut it up and divided the meat among them. They could tell there was something strange about the bacon, but ate it anyway.

Another point in my dreaming, I was in the bedroom I slept in with my sister as a child. It was dark and I was watching a VHS tape. I don’t remember much about the tape, but at some point the entire room went black. I had a distinct feeling I wasn’t alone and fumbled to silence the video player by hitting the stop button, but unfortunately hit the rewind button instead. In the black room, all one could hear was the whirling of the tape being rewound. I did my best to keep my breathing as silent as possible. Again, I had no idea if I was alone in the room or not…

In another dream, I recall being in what seemed to be my eldest brother’s room as we were kids. Something odd and horror-like happened there, too. It is too foggy now… I think there was something that appeared on his television screen that had mainly been showing snow due to not receiving anything. After said image appeared, some shadowy spook and some guy also appeared and I think it somehow shifted to either the guy, or maybe it was me, being in front of an oncoming 4×4…

The last one I really remember, which I think was the final dream I had before waking, dealt with being in the shower. I was in the stall, still dressed to some degree, but getting clean as best I could despite the clothing. I got out and again, there was just a feeling… a bad, uneasy feeling. Behind me was a frosted glass wall and door and beyond that was the other half of the bathroom as well as the door that led out. I didn’t bother to leave the space I was in. Instead I did my best to lock the frosted glass door since it did have a latch for locking. I could never tell if it truly stuck or not. I then worked on getting dressed in dry clothes, but the dread that something bad would enter remained…

I think I woke up after that.

Anyway, with those horror story dreams, most would think that it must have been like a terrifying, endless nightmare for me. Strangely, I only categorize those as “bad dreams” at best. It likely has to do with my very literal take on words. Yeah, there was unease through out and maybe some vague feelings of fear… but I don’t consider that enough to be a nightmare. For me a nightmare will actually make my heart beat loudly and quite possibly cause me to wake due to fear.

As it goes, though… looking back at the “process”, I can only conclude those eight hours resulted in some good therapy for my mind, emotions and in turn physical well-being. Dreaming is the only way I know how to let my subconscious come to the front, run free and be expressed… and once that is achieved, it usually no longer lingers in the back of my mind.

Unless one goes off the grid electronically, I see it is hard to avoid the insanity. Just simple ads that show up on some places I go to have shown me enough.

I admit, just yesterday night as I was going to bed, having heard something my mom recounted about a friends son being threatened while he was walking home from school, accidentally seeing a thing about a KKK parade in honor of Trump and various other situations of racism… my paranoia spoke up for a moment.

Today we were to have our Internet provider come over to upgrade ours to high-speed. There was a chance I would have to answer the door at some point should my mother be away for a class she was teaching.

Yes… admittedly, for a brief moment, I thought, “What if I have to answer the door and it is a white guy who has always been racist, but only now feels vindicated to show it?”

Having dealt with my paranoia for… pretty much all my life, I quickly reasoned that down. Still, there has been unease resting around my stomach the past few days. The only way I know to combat it is to try to fall asleep so that my body will relax and keep the unease from possibly developing into anxiety, which in turn could lead to an annoying panic attack if not kept in check.

Tonight, I do not feel that unease, thankfully. Instead, I think of the people I have friended on Facebook. With some of them it was quite clear who they were supporting during the election. In turn… the one who obviously supported Trump…

Does ANY of this occur to that person?

Posted most of this elsewhere, but I still had more to write… probably still have more to write… but there are other things to attend to.

Cracked.com: 6 Reasons Trump’s Rise That No One Talks About

Interesting article. I’ve only lived in small towns, doubted I’d ever make it in the city… but the small town I lived in during my toddler to high school graduation years… *Shrugs*

I may have grown up faster, learning to do chores, boil water and get my own food before I was eight… but I was a nail that when hammered got bent instead of going in straight. If you are a nail that can’t go in straight, you either are hammered at until you do go in straight or are pulled out and thrown in the trash.

Even my mom, a girl of the state we are living in, but not of the town I grew up in, was a poor farmer’s daughter growing up who never saw a dentist until she was in her twenties… not even she ever really belonged in that town despite being a teacher there for over a decade…

Unless your family had been in that town for three generations or longer… you were an outsider to the end. Didn’t matter if she was a great teacher, went to the football games to support her students and school, followed the rules and all… She didn’t have the “roots”, so if anyone with seniority butt heads with her… no one was going to be on her side.

Logically, I understand the article… I can get it logically… but the dying poor folk… *Shakes head* Those dying poor folk were a good percentage of what near killed me. It is funny. I live in another small town, now… It is better in this one, though… but then again, I don’t have to interact with anyone here beyond a hello, please and thank you.

In essence, I am sure all of the dying poor folk are good and well-meaning. Hell, made my best friend in that small town that is a nightmare to me… but… I just don’t feel it. Small town person that I am… I just don’t freakin’ feel it.

Normally in this case, if I can see the logic, I can find at least the sympathy. Not here. The things I wrote above… simplified it is that those dying poor folk are no bleeding different from the horrible, rich city people they feel are oppressing and killing their way of life. No freaking, bleeding different. Human is still freakin’ human.

Give me a real underdog. They may feel like victims because their way of life is dying, but it is their own freaking fault. Yes, I blame those poor, small towns. Why? Because they were too afraid of change, too stubborn to change and so as the world changed about them, they got left behind because they couldn’t even bend just a little to help themselves.

Change doesn’t mean having to give up everything. Yeah, it is scary, but it is inevitable. They didn’t have to change right away. They didn’t even have to change everything about their way of life. All they had to do was find a bit of courage, a bit of humility and bend just a little. Pride cometh before the fall. That is what their dying way of life is now. That is why their fall is so incredibly hard on them now.

It is just like the town my mom did grow up it. Unlike the town I grew up in and the town I am living in now, her hometown is still just as small as ever. The buildings are still incredibly old, but with a quaint, historical charm to them. It is hard for restaurants to really keep afloat for long and there is so little there… at best they have a gas station or so, a Wal-mart and some typical fast food restaurants… Pretty much there is nothing there to promote growth.

The town doesn’t even have a practicing physician anymore. There was one, but he was so set to not be undermined by someone up and coming, no new doctor was going to move in to compete with his practice and you know what resulted? Anyone aiming to be a doctor went elsewhere and when the guy finally finished his practice the town no longer had a doctor. There is still no freaking doctor in that town to this day. All its citizens have to outsource for medical care.

Poor dying folk my foot. Country Folk to City People? All the same.

Give me the people who have really been screwed and have done nothing wrong to deserve their lot in life. Give me the elderly who worked all their lives until they had to retire to so humble amount of pay they could starve to death if it weren’t for meals-on-wheels. Such a thing should not exist and yet it does.

Give me the veterans who have fought for this country and have ended up so broken they cannot even function in society anymore. There are even “people” out there who actually demand loads of money from vets due to a miscalculation on their own cursed fault. These “people” are the ones who overly paid them and the vets did what any person would do. They trusted those people and they spent the earnings on paying off bills, putting their kids through school and such. Then these “people” realize they overpaid them and now demand they pay that money back? Bull!

Give me others like me who were born or even raised in such a way that they cannot function by the majority standards. People who are so differently made we function differently in a world that doesn’t cater to our differences. I cannot even hold a freaking volunteer job in a low-stress environment because while said environment may be considered low stress for the majority norm, it can override medication and drive someone like me back to cutting and having thoughts of killing myself because I cannot handle the stress caused by stimuli that is absolutely tame for the norm.

All through the election of the main two candidates, I couldn’t see all that great of a future from either of them. Unlike those who strongly opposed Trump being President of the US, I’m not going to live in denial and say “He’s not MY President” or such nonsense. Wake up and small the coffee. If you are a citizen of this country, yes, he is your freaking president. Deal with it.

Nevertheless, unease certainly is inside me. Perhaps I AM fearful – anxious even. Nevertheless, one cannot dwell hard on the future. It cannot be predicted. Anything can happen. All I can try to do is follow the way of life I’ve been living for a while now: try to focus on getting through one day at a time. It is difficult. I keep thinking, “Keep calm and carry on.” I keep looking to the cats to help focus my mind on something I truly find beautiful. And when that uneasiness has been settling for too long, I admittedly have to rest, relax my body, focus my mind of other things and fall asleep to make it simmer down again.

Sigh…

I began pulling my hair out again around the very beginning of November. Now, an area of about my entire hand is gone. Back when I saw Mrs. Wynne sometime during the month, it was pretty much determined by my mother and I that my hair pulling is not so much stress-related as it is an addiction.

Now, this isn’t to say it was never stress-related. I am quite certain it all began as Trichotillomania. Over time, however, I became addicted to the calming properties of the action… I suppose it is somewhat similar to those who first use pain pills to sooth the pain caused by injury and in time become dependent on them even after the wound has healed. Anyway, the reason I am bringing it up now, is that there is something my mother isn’t aware of and is something I have only consciously realized recently.

I have had another form of “stress relief” that pretty much falls into the self-mutilation category as well: Cutting. I never cut deep, but I did cut… just enough to open the skin. I have always had a tendency to pick at “wounds”. Scratches, skid marks… stuff like that. These could often lead to scarring, but I never minded. I believe I actually kind of liked the scars left. That habit comes to mind when I pull my hair out.

The really tender areas of skin left behind… I like to pick at them. I don’t mind if this brings blood… I actually kind of hope it does. If there is blood, then it will scab and if it scabs I can continue to pick. Tonight… as I took a shower… I thought it was likely a good thing I tend to pull the hair out from the back of my head. Admittedly, if I could see the are better, I’d probably do more damage to the skin… even resorting to using sharp objects.

A somewhat “blessing in disguise” comes in the fact that I clipped my nails just a week or so ago. I didn’t think anything of it then, but I find I cannot do great damage picking with my nails this way. I probably should keep them very short… but some of me wonders if the gross amount of hair loss this time is due to not picking. Sigh… I likely should talk to Mom about this discovery. I just hate to think of it distressing her terribly…

Anyway, as my thoughts continued to wander, I thought of how my mom has often said those who have a a family history of addiction are prone to inherit and thus possess a higher likelihood of becoming addicts as well. This causes me to wonder if either of my biological parents had an addiction or perhaps their parents before them. I then also questioned my birth playing into these strange habits.

Born premature, I had seizures and pneumonia not long after. My parents were warned that I could have grown up with many respiratory problems and they could always change their minds about adopting me. Those never really happened, but I still wonder if there had been some damage to my brain.

I never realized this when younger, but I have always had a hard time retaining information. At the same time, I believe I have to concentrate harder than the average person. Might some of this be due to actual damage to my prefrontal cortex? I have no idea, but it seems possible.

There is then also nurture of course. With all the stress I endured almost 24/7 during my adolescent years (maybe it really was 24/7…) I am sure that can mess with the brain as well.
I just don’t know.