It felt like I'd floated off of the planet for a few days.
I was listening to Demi Lovato's newest album for no reason in particular.
Whatever emotional connotations I'd been assigning to things seemed to have disappeared. After learning to 'let go and let God' on all of the emotional (bullshit) things I'd been concerning myself with, I started to helplessly look at everything objectively.
Seriously. The only reason the word helpless made it into that last sentence is because I viewed writing that lacked emotional turmoil as being devoid of interest.
I didn't like writing boring things. However, it could be for the best.
My stomach had been hurting every day again just like it always had. Public bathrooms had originally became my sanctuary for that reason. I couldn't go anywhere or do anything without getting a stomachache. That had also been a reason I'd hated eating so much in the past and even now, especially now; while my stomach burned with hunger when I didn't eat, at least it wasn't the gurgling, gross, flatulent sensation that I'd soon need to relieve myself.
As an adult, it was even more so of a reason to hold off on food. Employers looked down on employees that frequented their restrooms, even more so upon employees that were helplessly flatulent. You couldn't blame them, really, because the latter of the two was explicitly disgusting, and the prior's idea was gross and even suspicious. Suspicious because most people utilized restrooms as a place to check their cellphones. While that wasn't me, I was young and so it seemed hard-pressed to believe I was the only young adult not using the restrooms to stay frequent on social media.
I'd reset my phone's vibrate rhythm to the factory setting notification buzz. For a while I'd created a small tune with semblance of an EDM song but returned it to normal after getting annoyed. Of course, the factory rhythm wasn't enough to get my attention for more than a fraction of a second. I found myself ignoring text messages, Facebook messenger, Snapchat, and whatever else came through on my phone save for emails which notified me twice per email from the two email apps I used. It felt like life was slipping past my finger tips, but I was nauseatingly okay with it. Nauseating, because I was unused to the change of pace in my regard for things.
Stefany's lawyer had filed their counterclaim using this blog against me to obtain sole and permanent legal custody of my daughter shortly after I'd filed the petition for dismissal of my original petition.
My original instinct was to be sad. Become depressed. Feel defeated. Seek justice. Point a finger of blame.
Instead, what did I do?
...God? I went to God. Dear God, in heaven, please help me to deal with this latest load of whatever-you'd-call-it (I'd slowly been getting better at not swearing in my prayers) because I don't know how. Thanks.
Things were a lot easier that way. At least I didn't have to rely on my own moral compass for the matter. If you'd seen the Pirates of the Caribbean movies starring Johnny Depp, you'd surely have seen Sparrow's compass that spun around indefinitely, never pointing to any solid direction. Aside from the movie's meaning for that, I'd found identification in the likeness of that compass to my own moral compass. Like the movie's actual meaning for the compass' spinning, I also found myself in Sparrow's shoes.
I knew vaguely what I wanted, but not what I sought, or rather I knew what I sought, but not what I wanted. Late Friday night, after nearly spending my entire paycheck on winter-gear to spare me of the bitter cold I did some soul-searching on the way back home.
Dear God, who is in heaven, please help me sort out this ordeal of what I want, whether its me versus this, this versus that, or that versus me, because I can't make heads or tails of what I am supposed to do in regards to this or that.
I couldn't discern which of this or that truly had the pull on my divided flesh and which I was supposed to lean towards for God or even if God actually had an opinion in the matter.
People are in your life for a reason, a season, or forever.
I'd fallen off for a bit in my Bible reading, unfortunately. While I seemed unable to find time to crack the book open, I'd at least clung to the whole desires of the Flesh shindig and that seemed to help with most things.
People at work bickered under their breath and behind one another's backs. A higher up thought he'd be giving me another less-liked employee their hours, an employee with seniority thought a new-hire should be fired for giving trouble to said less-liked employee, people failed to communicate and sarcasm was unveiled where it was once thought to be embarrassing truth.
The fourteen-year old girl had a crush on me, apparently. While at first she'd told me I was her favorite person to work with, and I said she was mine simply because I had more in common with her than I did the entire rest of the staff, I felt disconcertingly comfortable with the discovery paired with a sense of vague yet important responsibility.
"You attract a lot of whores," she said. "I'm your best friend, I'm a whore."
Spot on, I thought to myself. It didn't take much more than a couple weeks to realize what kind of people I attracted.
"Going backwards isn't good for anybody," a quote from Lucifer on TV.
Amongst claims of having given her first blowjob in fifth grade, having participated in almost every kind of threesome, foursome, and orgy all while under the influence of MDMA, and having an affinity for codeine, she painted a beautiful disaster type of persona. A persona, so dramatic in itself that it was taken for the employee with seniority and I to question and critique.
She was, and scold me all you want for saying so and being honest, quite attractive. With said attractiveness came a blessing and a curse; people would consider in their thoughts you even after you were gone when someone with your same persona, history and tales would be forgotten moments after without even an afterthought.
Luckily my coworker had a fairly solid theory. He hypothesized that half of what the girl said was her own thoughts, true stories and feelings, and the other half was simply her saying what she thought we wanted to hear her say.
The coworker was a few years younger than me, and when I was his age and when I was her age I would've thought the same thing, finding her entire story too hard to believe. After growing up, though, and seeing what people actually went through I could see everything being true just as much as I could see my coworker's hypothesis being so.
I shuddered at the thought of my own daughter growing up that way. Nothing was impossible. I knew just as many twenty-two year old girls that hadn't yet lost their virginity and loved Christ waiting for their suitor as I knew girls who at the age of sixteen had been with more partners than I had today and experienced the illegal highs from almost every drug and loved Codeine. Growing up with friends in both places was very interesting. It was difficult, too. I remembered hearing cold, judgmental words from the mouths of the church-goers and nothing but words of kindness from the sinners. It made choosing a girlfriend a rigorous task back in the day. I ended up turning with favor towards the sinners because I felt the church-goers were in denial. At least the sinners were honest, I thought.
Thou shall not judge.
I'd somehow wound up with friends on Facebook with a girl with ostentatious bipolar disorder.
Honestly, before I wrote that sentence, I knew I wanted to call her ostentatious, but I had no idea what the word's definition. Yes, she was definitely ostentatious. That particular trait screamed I have bipolar disorder! in loud capital letters on a flashing billboard on a deserted road.
Something-something about mockers being a part of the scoffers. One of the first nights I had gone to Walnut Creek Church.
I did my best not to unfriend her or block her, thinking it would help me with the whole-accepting-of-people thing. I also tried not to mock her, which I failed at as I messaged my friend David ostentatiously about how I'd just discovered the meaning of the word ostentatious by surprise.
Really, her mental illness made me cringe at times. I knew for a fact she had bipolar disorder from one of her statuses she'd posted quite some time ago, but I hadn't really taken notice of the symptoms in her postings. Now it was on high-volume. I struggled not judging and imagined how bad my depression probably came out in my Facebook postings at times, if not all the time. I felt disgusted by myself for a moment as long as I'd linger on the idea.
I was friends with schizophrenics, manic depressives, major depressives, bipolar disorders and the like. I thought about the origins of the word dementia.
I'll leave the definition searching to those of you who seek it.
Really, anyone who had a mental illness of the sort of the aforementioned was demented.
"driven to behave irrationally out of anger, distress, or excitement"
All of those people who suffered from dementia were demented, and if we took this back to the definition of mad we could see all the invisible, nonexistent underlying connections that were possible pointing to... nothing.
I paused, uncertain of where I'd been leading myself to. What had I been meaning to think about? Maybe I'd stopped the thought for good reason. I wasn't sure.
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I was listening to Demi Lovato's newest album for no reason in particular.
Whatever emotional connotations I'd been assigning to things seemed to have disappeared. After learning to 'let go and let God' on all of the emotional (bullshit) things I'd been concerning myself with, I started to helplessly look at everything objectively.
Seriously. The only reason the word helpless made it into that last sentence is because I viewed writing that lacked emotional turmoil as being devoid of interest.
I didn't like writing boring things. However, it could be for the best.
My stomach had been hurting every day again just like it always had. Public bathrooms had originally became my sanctuary for that reason. I couldn't go anywhere or do anything without getting a stomachache. That had also been a reason I'd hated eating so much in the past and even now, especially now; while my stomach burned with hunger when I didn't eat, at least it wasn't the gurgling, gross, flatulent sensation that I'd soon need to relieve myself.
As an adult, it was even more so of a reason to hold off on food. Employers looked down on employees that frequented their restrooms, even more so upon employees that were helplessly flatulent. You couldn't blame them, really, because the latter of the two was explicitly disgusting, and the prior's idea was gross and even suspicious. Suspicious because most people utilized restrooms as a place to check their cellphones. While that wasn't me, I was young and so it seemed hard-pressed to believe I was the only young adult not using the restrooms to stay frequent on social media.
I'd reset my phone's vibrate rhythm to the factory setting notification buzz. For a while I'd created a small tune with semblance of an EDM song but returned it to normal after getting annoyed. Of course, the factory rhythm wasn't enough to get my attention for more than a fraction of a second. I found myself ignoring text messages, Facebook messenger, Snapchat, and whatever else came through on my phone save for emails which notified me twice per email from the two email apps I used. It felt like life was slipping past my finger tips, but I was nauseatingly okay with it. Nauseating, because I was unused to the change of pace in my regard for things.
Stefany's lawyer had filed their counterclaim using this blog against me to obtain sole and permanent legal custody of my daughter shortly after I'd filed the petition for dismissal of my original petition.
My original instinct was to be sad. Become depressed. Feel defeated. Seek justice. Point a finger of blame.
Instead, what did I do?
...God? I went to God. Dear God, in heaven, please help me to deal with this latest load of whatever-you'd-call-it (I'd slowly been getting better at not swearing in my prayers) because I don't know how. Thanks.
Things were a lot easier that way. At least I didn't have to rely on my own moral compass for the matter. If you'd seen the Pirates of the Caribbean movies starring Johnny Depp, you'd surely have seen Sparrow's compass that spun around indefinitely, never pointing to any solid direction. Aside from the movie's meaning for that, I'd found identification in the likeness of that compass to my own moral compass. Like the movie's actual meaning for the compass' spinning, I also found myself in Sparrow's shoes.
I knew vaguely what I wanted, but not what I sought, or rather I knew what I sought, but not what I wanted. Late Friday night, after nearly spending my entire paycheck on winter-gear to spare me of the bitter cold I did some soul-searching on the way back home.
Dear God, who is in heaven, please help me sort out this ordeal of what I want, whether its me versus this, this versus that, or that versus me, because I can't make heads or tails of what I am supposed to do in regards to this or that.
I couldn't discern which of this or that truly had the pull on my divided flesh and which I was supposed to lean towards for God or even if God actually had an opinion in the matter.
People are in your life for a reason, a season, or forever.
I'd fallen off for a bit in my Bible reading, unfortunately. While I seemed unable to find time to crack the book open, I'd at least clung to the whole desires of the Flesh shindig and that seemed to help with most things.
People at work bickered under their breath and behind one another's backs. A higher up thought he'd be giving me another less-liked employee their hours, an employee with seniority thought a new-hire should be fired for giving trouble to said less-liked employee, people failed to communicate and sarcasm was unveiled where it was once thought to be embarrassing truth.
The fourteen-year old girl had a crush on me, apparently. While at first she'd told me I was her favorite person to work with, and I said she was mine simply because I had more in common with her than I did the entire rest of the staff, I felt disconcertingly comfortable with the discovery paired with a sense of vague yet important responsibility.
"You attract a lot of whores," she said. "I'm your best friend, I'm a whore."
Spot on, I thought to myself. It didn't take much more than a couple weeks to realize what kind of people I attracted.
"Going backwards isn't good for anybody," a quote from Lucifer on TV.
Amongst claims of having given her first blowjob in fifth grade, having participated in almost every kind of threesome, foursome, and orgy all while under the influence of MDMA, and having an affinity for codeine, she painted a beautiful disaster type of persona. A persona, so dramatic in itself that it was taken for the employee with seniority and I to question and critique.
She was, and scold me all you want for saying so and being honest, quite attractive. With said attractiveness came a blessing and a curse; people would consider in their thoughts you even after you were gone when someone with your same persona, history and tales would be forgotten moments after without even an afterthought.
Luckily my coworker had a fairly solid theory. He hypothesized that half of what the girl said was her own thoughts, true stories and feelings, and the other half was simply her saying what she thought we wanted to hear her say.
The coworker was a few years younger than me, and when I was his age and when I was her age I would've thought the same thing, finding her entire story too hard to believe. After growing up, though, and seeing what people actually went through I could see everything being true just as much as I could see my coworker's hypothesis being so.
I shuddered at the thought of my own daughter growing up that way. Nothing was impossible. I knew just as many twenty-two year old girls that hadn't yet lost their virginity and loved Christ waiting for their suitor as I knew girls who at the age of sixteen had been with more partners than I had today and experienced the illegal highs from almost every drug and loved Codeine. Growing up with friends in both places was very interesting. It was difficult, too. I remembered hearing cold, judgmental words from the mouths of the church-goers and nothing but words of kindness from the sinners. It made choosing a girlfriend a rigorous task back in the day. I ended up turning with favor towards the sinners because I felt the church-goers were in denial. At least the sinners were honest, I thought.
Thou shall not judge.
I'd somehow wound up with friends on Facebook with a girl with ostentatious bipolar disorder.
Honestly, before I wrote that sentence, I knew I wanted to call her ostentatious, but I had no idea what the word's definition. Yes, she was definitely ostentatious. That particular trait screamed I have bipolar disorder! in loud capital letters on a flashing billboard on a deserted road.
Something-something about mockers being a part of the scoffers. One of the first nights I had gone to Walnut Creek Church.
I did my best not to unfriend her or block her, thinking it would help me with the whole-accepting-of-people thing. I also tried not to mock her, which I failed at as I messaged my friend David ostentatiously about how I'd just discovered the meaning of the word ostentatious by surprise.
Really, her mental illness made me cringe at times. I knew for a fact she had bipolar disorder from one of her statuses she'd posted quite some time ago, but I hadn't really taken notice of the symptoms in her postings. Now it was on high-volume. I struggled not judging and imagined how bad my depression probably came out in my Facebook postings at times, if not all the time. I felt disgusted by myself for a moment as long as I'd linger on the idea.
I was friends with schizophrenics, manic depressives, major depressives, bipolar disorders and the like. I thought about the origins of the word dementia.
I'll leave the definition searching to those of you who seek it.
Really, anyone who had a mental illness of the sort of the aforementioned was demented.
"driven to behave irrationally out of anger, distress, or excitement"
All of those people who suffered from dementia were demented, and if we took this back to the definition of mad we could see all the invisible, nonexistent underlying connections that were possible pointing to... nothing.
I paused, uncertain of where I'd been leading myself to. What had I been meaning to think about? Maybe I'd stopped the thought for good reason. I wasn't sure.
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