The next 50 years

Okay, so it'll be awhile before the text gets too long.  I am probably killing the buffer or something, I dunno. So my parents piled me into the car and drove me out to Whitby, a regional psychiatric hospital in Ontario, one town over from my home town.  We drove a long gravel avenue past the grounds, typically pastoral with trees, and trees lining the road, but no hedges or bushes to screen the view.  I looked out and saw autistic people rocking themselves on the lawn among other figures, most of them looking hunched and bloated and grey.  I think it must have been evening, it was twilight.  The rest of it, the boring cement rooms with furniture, the desk and the test and the friendly guy in the coat passing evil judgement on me were unimpressive.  Well, I didn't appreciate the guy saying there was nothing wrong except I wasn't trying hard enough.  But I believed him!  he was the expert!  He said I was just lazy and if I tried harder, I'd d...

I've got these scandihoovian kitchen witches in the form of salt and pepper shakers.  I believe they help me cook.  They figure out how much time on the nuker, or let me know it's time to do something with the pot on the stove.  They tell me how much is enough of seasoning and other ingredients.  They even think up recipes some times. I was imagining someone criticising me over that.  Telling me it does me no good to take what few skills I have and ascribe them to some imaginary supernatural power.  So I had that conversation.  What good does confidence do me when it makes people hate me all the more?  What difference if I am confident in skills I do have or don't have, when they won't be letting me show it anyway.  Nobody will say to me "oh, you think you can cook?  here, show us your stuff!"  So who cares if I think I'm a good cook?  I may as well think I'm a good singer, good writer, good dancer, pretty, sexy, friendly, hec...

I'm sitting here thinking, when one feels this awful it's easy to see it lasting forever.   Then the thought, how in the hell can I go about my basic independant needs if I can't turn off my emotions?  I can't go shopping like this, tear stained and weepy.  It's embarassing at the least and an unwanted conversation starter at the worst.  If I can't shake it, it could make my life even worse. Then I realized if worst came to worst, most of the things I do could be done in a burqa!  They don't know it's not a muslim woman inside and I don't have to converse with anyone to let on.  They'd react to me slightly better than if I went around crying in public!  I could go shopping over on the east side where the women who wear Niqabs go about.  I'd have to do my stuff early, like they do. That's when I realized one possible reason these women cling to this tradition.  Maybe they need cover for tear stained eyes too?  I expect a great deal of t...

I'm depressed because people think I'm crazy.   They think I'm crazy because I cry all the time.  I cry all the time because I'm lonely.  I'm lonely because too many people think I'm crazy.  That makes me depressed.  That makes me cry.  Loop. When I'm not depressed, it's because I'm feeling well enough to shove it from my mind and focus on day to day minutiae.  But give me the flu, or sleep deprivation, or poor nutrition, and I'll spend the whole day spinning that loop.  I didn't include the anger part, but we could call that the depression.  After all, depression and anger are married, in case you don't know.  Depression is what happens when the anger breaks on the rocks of reality.  Depressed people are angry people with no recourse to action and it turns inside and they try to destroy themselves.  I'm angry at being a pariah.  I ought to get a name change, Pariah Sims.  that'd be a very good name for me. ...

Damn mental health commercial is making me crazy!  I've seen two so far and both times it upset me. They have a scenario at work where two people are talking about someone else.  One, it's "so and so has anxiety" and the other is depression.  Three or four times they glitch repeat a scene where one tells the other the gossip, and the other says something flippant in the normal way.  Then in the final scene, they say something touching and caring.   "that can be tough, I'll give him a call/look in on her" is the answer and I burst into tears and fury. They never will.  They don't want to care, it's too much work.  They might have to actually lift a finger to help someone who's crazy! Here's what I think people think about crazy.  I think they consider us lost causes.  I include myself here because the stuff they're addressing in the commercials is me.  Depression, anxiety, and I'm sure they'll address adhd, and so on.  Yeah,...

I need to lean harder on this blog.  Every time I think I have a pithy thing to say or a thought to share or whatever, I should come here.  Not twitter, not vine, not google plus, nor any other effort that tries to get a response.  I don't get them and it depresses me.  I won't expect it from here so I won't get as depressed once I've killed the habit of spitting out material on social networks. I'll use vine to share Timmy I suppose, but I suspect if I just quit nobody'll notice so I'll see. After six months other people have soared into vine popularity on the strength of something as lame as "Hello folk, I'm ___ name, and I'm getting a haircut!"  Seriously, there's a guy who's popular simply for his cheery hello.  I can't understand why but I am still sitting with about 400 followers, mostly spam or idle people who aren't actually active, and I am still lucky to count 10 likes on the good vines.  Who could help but notic...

I'm so fucking depressed lately.  I don't think about it or tell anyone because I don't want to give it added traction but tonight I have to admit it, I'm feeling utterly worthless lately.  Utterly, completely.  I can't seem to accept it as okay.  I want so much for it to not be so.  I don't want to feel guilty for using resources up, you know?  I'm nobody.  I'm nothing.  I have zero value to the wide world.  Even my cute dog vines are getting fewer and fewer likes on vine.  I wonder if I'm actually crazy.  I wonder if when the world looks at me it sees an old crazed drug addict with nothing to offer anyone, ugly and worn out and pitiable.  I wonder if the words flowing out of my fingers are actually unstrung profundities apropos of nothing that relate to no reality and draw illogical conclusions between disparate entitities, like a schizophrenic transvestite bouncing from the paranoia of infrared cameras on his tv to the idea ...