After having acquiesced to the notion that I will never be anything that I want to be, or do anything that I truly want to do, that I am a victim of my environment, my times, and my genetics, I found quite some peace in being able to just be free, be myself, and let go of all these silly feelings and thoughts that were holding me back. I have longed to be a writer. Dreamt of it, day and night, talked about it, wrote about it, and for some reason, it just doesn't seem to stick. It seems like a destiny or a journey a planet's length away, and my chances of launching some kind of rudimentary device to get there intact is slim-to-fucking-zero. But knowing it's out there, and I've had some successful launches to areas nearby, to complete the analogy, I realized, "Who really cares if I fail or succeed?" Honest. No one. If I fail, my friends and family and environment around me will encourage me to continue writing and sharing my warped thoughts. If I succeed, well, holy fuck, why are we reading this dreadful, sob-story? Let's get to that good sci-fi or fantasy writing that got you all hooked on my style in the first place...
So why am I writing? That's a fair question, and one I've asked myself a lot lately, or actually, why am I NOT writing? Because for the longest time, I didn't feel like I had anything to share. And anything that I could share would be dismissed as boring or pedantic (I don't think I've ever used that word in a natural sentence. See, maybe I am destined for this) so I've naturally kept every thought and inkling to myself out of some irrational fear that this one thing that I might be good at, I'm really not good at. I wasn't great at most of my other jobs: Jamba Juice, GameStop out of high school, gift wrapper at Shane Co., guy who trained disabled veterans to use computers, bouncer/bar-back, and my last job, the guy who recommended you which strain of weed to get. Technically, I have something published, although since the website it was published for was taken down, I doubt it exists anywhere on the internet anymore. Shame. So the work I did have published is unsearchable, and the website I interned for has moved on to another domain name, basically making it seem like I have no experience writing. But, the honest truth is I have been writing my whole life. I would get bored in physics class, and write a short story about some character I had in a Vampire the Masquerade role-playing game, which I will explain later, if given the chance. Even before that, I was writing stories in my head every day. Stories about how I was dying, or drowning, or suffocating because of anthrax (during a more pronounced panic attack, I was almost certain I had been exposed to anthrax, all thanks to a university class I was taking on toxicology and poisons. Sigh.), and they were all fiction, because none of that happened as evidenced by my still being here. As I'm writing this, I realize how gullible I must be: to believe the same fictitious detailing of my imminent demise over, and over, and over, every day, by the same narrator, in the same panicked tone, and to believe it with certainty. To know that I am dying, and this is the thing that is going to be the thing to kill me, whatever it happens to be that day, yesterday it was probably a combination of not eating, being out and about in waiting rooms all day or on the road waiting in traffic, and then coming home and smoking a copious amount of weed (my medicine) before slamming an entire Chipotle burrito, the only thing I had and did eat all day. When my body is introduced to that foreign energy, it always reacts in a precarious manner, like if you fueled your car and when you tapped the gas, it reacted as if you slammed it down to the floor and goes flying forward; it feels like, over the course of the seventeen years that I've been dealing with this, that whenever I introduce food, or caffeine, or a super racy Sativa like Trainwreck, my body is overloaded with energy and my nervous system acts out by overreacting: sweaty palms, accelerated breathing, increased heart rate, I feel nervous, my thoughts begin to turn inwards and I begin to analyze every part of my being and consciousness until I find something wrong and lock onto it. Could be a dry mouth, a sore throat, an aching arm or back, or worst, my chest. Maybe I haven't drank enough water and I'm dehydrated, so I begin to have a headache. My mind immediately associates the headache with something awful: brain an heurism, stroke, migraine, but really it's just a mild headache more often than not and it passes with time or some Advil/Ibuprofen. I've had to train myself, every day, to recognize these feelings of doom, process that they're actually incorrect interpretations of what's going on with my body and what I'm feeling, and finally convince myself, I'm not dying, I'm just having my 10,578th panic attack. Part of me likes to believe there are others out there just like me, with similar problems and similar feelings that they are struggling with every day, just like me. Part of me wants to be that beacon of light, that guide to help those that are lost to the surface, so they can enjoy this beautiful thing called life and not be so reliant on where or how a panic attack is going to hit them, because that's all I used to worry about. I would panic about getting a panic attack. I still do, who am I kidding, because for me, that is the worst outcome, and I would rather die. It would be less painful, and it would be over, no more panic attacks, no more anticipating the unanticipateable (I know it's not a word. Deal with it.), just peace, or nothing, which is the opposite of what I have now, which is chaos. There is a war raging within and every day is a control to make sure it doesn't break through to the surface and make me lock up or freeze up. And the only reason I am writing this is to give a sense to others who may have friends or family who have panic attacks, but have no idea what the hell to do or how to act around them while that's occurring. I am writing this in the hopes it sheds some light to the plight of our people, and that just because there isn't an open, visible wound that you can see, touch, smell, taste (please don't taste wounds), does NOT mean that the person isn't hurting and needing help (I know, the double negative makes it confusing). On the outside, I am a perfectly healthy twenty-nine year old male; on the inside, I am a scared child who has been running from the shadow of a monster so long he's forgotten what he's actually running from and now starting to ask questions and size this beast up. And it hurts when that pain isn't recognized. Before I got laid off from my last job due to budgetary concerns, we had an open meeting where team members are allowed to suggest things. At this dispensary, they have all these wonderful programs: cancer compassion, AIDS/Chron's compassion, food closet for the hungry, and I just saw today free cannabis oil for children who suffer from seizures. Lots of good stuff. But I wanted to ask what we were doing as a facility for people with mental health disorders, so I raised my hand, waited my turn, and did, and it offended me so badly that we were willing to discuss the pros and cons of truly trivial protocol procedures, but the topic of mental health wasn't worthy of more than a "That would be too complicated to verify". So there you have it. You can't see it, you can't touch it or sense it with your worldly perceptions, the person must be faking it or have such a terrible problem, you're not even sure you're equipped to deal with it yourself. And that's where we are in America. We know we have this problem, we know veterans killing themselves back here at home and on the battlefield is a problem, we know "crazy" young people armed with firearms who are going into public places and killing innocent people is a problem, we know those who are so indoctrinated into religious zealotry that they would wish harm and death upon others simply because of their lifestyle is a problem, but more than anything, we want to associate the cause with the symptoms: yeah, he was acting out in class, he wasn't showing up, he stayed up all night playing video games and not focusing on school, but yeah, if it weren't for those goddamned easily accessible guns, maybe we would have avoided this problem. Do I have the answer? Fuck no. I have no idea how to treat or deal with every single psychological or mental disorder in the DSM, but I do know exclusion is not the way to go. "Oh, I don't know anything about this topic and it makes me uncomfortable, so I will just ignore it and discuss something I do know, like guns." Well, welcome to my world, where I am uncomfortable every day, and in my own skin. Just because I am uncomfortable, should I not be allowed to live? Is my existence of discomfort not worthy? And when I am dealing with this discomfort, is it wrong that I should choose to go about in my own way, given that no one has ever experienced it like I have or ever will? Would it not make sense that I would be ultimate gate keeper to who or what happens in my body since ultimately I am the only one that feels it? People with other mental disorders act out; they hear voices, they see things, they process the world in a different way than you or I, and some instances, they can be dangerous, to themselves or others. I have an incredibly brave friend who was courageous enough to come forward to me and my friends during a nightly role-playing session and tell us he had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, had been committed to a psych ward, and at one point, had tried to kill himself.
It still shocks me to this day because of the type of person I have always perceived him to be. But him telling me that changed everything, because before that, his outlandish behavior and his quirks were just some funny thing for me and the boys to laugh about because of how uncomfortable they made us feel. Needless to say we don't laugh or mock him anymore, and never would have since he was just our goofy DnD friend who happened to like to hum to himself on occasion, or when he had one soda, he had to have six. What fascinates me even more is last week he ran his first story where he was the story teller and we were the characters in his story/world, and I thought he did a fantastic job, let alone for a first time. Before this revelation, these were just little games we played, a way to pass some time with some friends and have some mutual, non-destructive fun doing it. But now, it is so much more. It's a chance for this friend to come out of his shell, for me to come out of my shell, and to experience things together that we would never have a chance to experience otherwise. It's beautiful and I wouldn't trade our role-playing sessions for anything, as I know how powerful they are in self-discovery for me and my friend. Love you, Drew.
-SJD