The familiar feeling of, "Wow, I'm beginning to be very aware of much more things than I used to be," crept up on me as I took what I told myself would be my last dose of Adderall.
Bus pass. Location change. Sleep cycle disruption. Food. Self-control. Adverse feelings. Wider scope of consciousness. Lack of interest in mundane things. A drastic drop in the feeling of reward. I remember my parent's asking me, "Don't you feel so much better now that you've *insert whatever mediocre activity had been accomplished here*?"
"No," I'd say, "not really." I never did feel better or relieved or accomplished or gratified before and it did nothing but frustrate me to no end whenever I was asked that question. To me, it was simple. If what I'd done had been done before me by thousands if not millions of people, I would have no reason to feel as if I should be worthy of any recognition for it, even if that recognition was a simple, "Congratulations!" In fact, the congratulatory remarks made my blood boil.
Winter never failed to put me in the worst of moods. Holidays reminded me of nothing but bickering between relatives, judgmental remarks, criticism, and sitting at someone's house waiting to leave so I could do whatever-it-was that I really wished to do. Thankfully, this year, one of my new jobs had already mentioned plenty of hours available on Christmas day. "Sign me up," I said.
The first job I acquired had found that they'd overshot how much business they'd be getting and wound up sending everyone home. Being an hourly-paid adult is amusing. It's not so much a day-off as it is a let-down because you aren't going to be getting any of the money you were expecting to. Great. If everything wasn't already a drag than now it really was. Not only did I want to work because I desperately needed the income, but I also wanted somewhere to just be. Free-time as an adult meant absolutely nothing if you had no money. The only ways to kill time were free. While that made plenty of room for self-improvement, it left the idle mind to wander between desperation and inspiration in a seemingly endless teeter-totter of morale.
As, is, was, were, be, being, been. Past tense words, taught to me for their dead-ness courtesy of my friend from highschool who'd received a full-ride to college (compliments of his hard work and charisma) while I'd struggled with pharmaceutical drugs and my rebellious nature. I'd known for a while that I began to struggle with depression when I resorted to using those words. I remember also hearing a bit about any word ending with -ing also derailed a reader into the bottomless pits of despair.
"Guess what scandalous thing I just did," a friend asked me earlier that day.
I won't tell you where my mind went but I will tell you how I responded.
"I'm not going to guess because I have too wild of an imagination to make anywhere near an accurate guess."
"What?!" They said, giggling. It never ceased to disturb me when people never seemed to pick-up whatever I was throwing-down. I heard another wise voice in the back of my memory tell me how bad it was to use cliches when you wrote your own pieces. My bad.
Imagine an imagination so wild that it often played with your memory, your perception of reality, and your expectations. The common expression, "Guess what?" would turn into an open invitation to make up a ridiculous random idea if not given with an explicit degree of context.
I received an offer for a line cook position because my ability to make small-talk didn't exist. I stopped making attempts back in grade school when everyone responded to me with a laugh and, "Wow, that's so random!"
No, it wasn't, I thought, because I knew exactly how I connected those two thoughts together. Unfortunately, even though I could explain my rationale it failed to ring any bells with my peers. So I became quiet. The quiet felt much less annoying than the retorts and insinuations of drug use by the kids my age and teachers alike. When people begin to accuse you of drug abuse at such a young age you begin to wonder if something failed inside your head. I never thought about such a thing until I found the insensitive words of others.
Imagination didn't remotely equate to intelligence or wisdom, however. Imagination served primarily like a tool, a notepad, or calculator to nurture intelligence. Wisdom came when intelligence regularly became a part of your decision-making process. In the past two years I metaphorically shit on my own intelligence and made the worst decisions I'd ever made, leaving me exactly where I am now. Can you guess what finally sparked enough of a fire under my ass to make me change? Inspiration? No. Desperation? No. God? No. Hatred? Bingo. I finally grew so sick of the other people I'd mistakenly let back into my life and the consequences of doing so that I festered with a malice that would become my retribution or rising.
The hatred grew like a monstrous blaze in my spirit. Like a great fire, I had to quiet it lest it consume all of me, but not douse it; I had to keep it burning enough to not cause any harm while still keeping me warm. That's where God came in. His Word would guide me along so I wouldn't turn that fire into a weapon of sin.
Of course hate lurked in the hearts of all men. Hate had to be kept quiet lest it incite a riot. While everyone knew hate and indulged in it whether they'd like to admit to or not, not everyone could accept hate.
It is a sin to be passive. I've got to be grateful for what I have, and while I'd like to hate my life, I cannot hate it because I'd be forgetting Amelia. Stefany had finally unblocked me and I couldn't get enough of the videos and pictures of her.
Bus pass. Location change. Sleep cycle disruption. Food. Self-control. Adverse feelings. Wider scope of consciousness. Lack of interest in mundane things. A drastic drop in the feeling of reward. I remember my parent's asking me, "Don't you feel so much better now that you've *insert whatever mediocre activity had been accomplished here*?"
"No," I'd say, "not really." I never did feel better or relieved or accomplished or gratified before and it did nothing but frustrate me to no end whenever I was asked that question. To me, it was simple. If what I'd done had been done before me by thousands if not millions of people, I would have no reason to feel as if I should be worthy of any recognition for it, even if that recognition was a simple, "Congratulations!" In fact, the congratulatory remarks made my blood boil.
Winter never failed to put me in the worst of moods. Holidays reminded me of nothing but bickering between relatives, judgmental remarks, criticism, and sitting at someone's house waiting to leave so I could do whatever-it-was that I really wished to do. Thankfully, this year, one of my new jobs had already mentioned plenty of hours available on Christmas day. "Sign me up," I said.
The first job I acquired had found that they'd overshot how much business they'd be getting and wound up sending everyone home. Being an hourly-paid adult is amusing. It's not so much a day-off as it is a let-down because you aren't going to be getting any of the money you were expecting to. Great. If everything wasn't already a drag than now it really was. Not only did I want to work because I desperately needed the income, but I also wanted somewhere to just be. Free-time as an adult meant absolutely nothing if you had no money. The only ways to kill time were free. While that made plenty of room for self-improvement, it left the idle mind to wander between desperation and inspiration in a seemingly endless teeter-totter of morale.
As, is, was, were, be, being, been. Past tense words, taught to me for their dead-ness courtesy of my friend from highschool who'd received a full-ride to college (compliments of his hard work and charisma) while I'd struggled with pharmaceutical drugs and my rebellious nature. I'd known for a while that I began to struggle with depression when I resorted to using those words. I remember also hearing a bit about any word ending with -ing also derailed a reader into the bottomless pits of despair.
"Guess what scandalous thing I just did," a friend asked me earlier that day.
I won't tell you where my mind went but I will tell you how I responded.
"I'm not going to guess because I have too wild of an imagination to make anywhere near an accurate guess."
"What?!" They said, giggling. It never ceased to disturb me when people never seemed to pick-up whatever I was throwing-down. I heard another wise voice in the back of my memory tell me how bad it was to use cliches when you wrote your own pieces. My bad.
Imagine an imagination so wild that it often played with your memory, your perception of reality, and your expectations. The common expression, "Guess what?" would turn into an open invitation to make up a ridiculous random idea if not given with an explicit degree of context.
I received an offer for a line cook position because my ability to make small-talk didn't exist. I stopped making attempts back in grade school when everyone responded to me with a laugh and, "Wow, that's so random!"
No, it wasn't, I thought, because I knew exactly how I connected those two thoughts together. Unfortunately, even though I could explain my rationale it failed to ring any bells with my peers. So I became quiet. The quiet felt much less annoying than the retorts and insinuations of drug use by the kids my age and teachers alike. When people begin to accuse you of drug abuse at such a young age you begin to wonder if something failed inside your head. I never thought about such a thing until I found the insensitive words of others.
Imagination didn't remotely equate to intelligence or wisdom, however. Imagination served primarily like a tool, a notepad, or calculator to nurture intelligence. Wisdom came when intelligence regularly became a part of your decision-making process. In the past two years I metaphorically shit on my own intelligence and made the worst decisions I'd ever made, leaving me exactly where I am now. Can you guess what finally sparked enough of a fire under my ass to make me change? Inspiration? No. Desperation? No. God? No. Hatred? Bingo. I finally grew so sick of the other people I'd mistakenly let back into my life and the consequences of doing so that I festered with a malice that would become my retribution or rising.
The hatred grew like a monstrous blaze in my spirit. Like a great fire, I had to quiet it lest it consume all of me, but not douse it; I had to keep it burning enough to not cause any harm while still keeping me warm. That's where God came in. His Word would guide me along so I wouldn't turn that fire into a weapon of sin.
Of course hate lurked in the hearts of all men. Hate had to be kept quiet lest it incite a riot. While everyone knew hate and indulged in it whether they'd like to admit to or not, not everyone could accept hate.
It is a sin to be passive. I've got to be grateful for what I have, and while I'd like to hate my life, I cannot hate it because I'd be forgetting Amelia. Stefany had finally unblocked me and I couldn't get enough of the videos and pictures of her.
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