Making your mind go quiet can be maddeningly loud.
At least, the process of trying to get it to do so.
I try to silence it. These thoughts. The thoughts mostly consist of fear.
Anyway, I’m sitting here. At my computer.
I tried to watch motivational talks on YouTube. And some Eckhart Tolle talks. Those are calming.
I’m supposed to be leaving in a little under an hour. Historically, I have a hard time with leaving. The house. At all.
So I’m sitting here, drinking a fruity cocktail pumped up with alcohol and too much sugar so I don’t have to taste the alcohol.
I hate drinking.
The only thing that I like about the effects of alcohol is it makes me less afraid of the world.
Or perhaps it just injects obliviousness in my bloodstream, and it helps me cope.
But only if I wash it down with some benzo’s.
So, I’m sitting here.
Thinking about meditation.
(“Drunken Master” comes to mind out of nowhere)
Trying to meditate off and on.
Feeling uninspired, but inspired at the same time.
I suppose I made it far enough to put words to a page.
I miss typewriters.
I have over twelve of them.
But they’re bulky, and they lost the convenience they used to hold for me when it comes to writing.
I still love them.
I have been going out successfully. For the first time in six months. I feel as though I should be more proud of myself.
I should feel like I’m making progress.
Mostly, I just feel like nothing I do is good enough.
But it’s a hell of a lot better than I was doing six months ago.
I’m still convinced and utterly fear-ridden with the feeling that those feelings will resurface. Waking up already in the throes of a panic attack, before my brain has even had time to process that I’m conscious of the waking world.
I saw a shaman the other day. She’s pretty famous. She called up a famous psychic. Together they determined that I’m suffering from a group of entities that have attached themselves to me. According to the shaman, and the psychic, they are fear-based entities that want revenge, have nothing to do with me, and are attaching themselves to me because they have something they want done. That’s kind of creepy.
Before the shaman and psychic came to this conclusion, I was told that the spirit of a woman who had died in my room had attached to me (who also happened to be agoraphobic), and had transferred some of her negative emotions to me. I’m still not sure I quite understand that. According to the shaman and the psychic, the negative group of entities that have attached themselves to me have been blocking her. She’s been trying to get through and wants to help, but it’s like she’s behind glass.
And then there’s my therapist who sees all of my problems as self-created due to one bad fucking thing after another happening to me in my life, culminating in keeping me in the clutches of complete and utter terror.
I’m not sure what to believe, or what to think. It would be nice to be able to not take responsibility for my fears, problems, and debilitating neurosis.
So what’s right?
Do I even believe in negative spirits, ghosts, and entities attaching themselves to living beings and keeping them in a fear-addled state of consciousness?
Apparently the entities that have attached themselves (according to shaman and psychic), wanted to keep me from doing something that I had started in June. That was the month I started writing my book.
Apparently, my book has the potential to be a huge hit, and possibly even make me famous. As cool as that sounds, the thought of being famous absolutely terrified me – unlike most people in our society it seems.
Sure, I would like to be successful. But being famous? Meh.
Anyway, there’s a good chance of all of it being complete and utter bullshit.
But those are some things that happened to me in the past week or two.
At least five psychics have contacted me to tell me they believe there is an entity, or multiple entities, that have attached themselves to me.
Honestly, that feels like too much of a coincidence for me to wrap my brain around.
I’m just trying to figure out how to live, and how to stay in my body.
Feeling like you’re not in your body is kind of fucking terrifying.
Feeling like your consciousness is floating somewhere way outside of yourself, while you desperately try to get grounded back to Earth.
The safest I’ve felt in a long time was falling asleep handcuffed to my boyfriend. It made me feel like I wasn’t going to float away. Is that twisted? I’m not sure.
Sometimes I get this feeling like I’m just going to drift off into space somewhere. Like I’m a balloon, with no real anchor on the Earth. Like I’m just a wisp of air, a fleeting feather of consciousness that could be swept away into the void, into the nothingness, at any time.
Usually that feeling intensifies when the fear hits at full force.
Thank mother fucking god that hasn’t happened in recent days.
I honestly would rather die than feel the dread, the terror, the harrowing experience of dying for fourteen hours straight, only to do it again the next day, with no relief in sight.
The corset generally helps me feel like I’m more in my body. Although sometimes it feels confining when I’m not in my house, or if I’m in the car. Other times it feels like it’s anchoring me. Like it’s keeping me from floating away.
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to float away. I just don’t want to be terrorized anymore by fear, dread and panic. It’s so tiring. So exhausting. Words can’t do it justice, but putting them to the page helps in its own way.
It’s odd how I can’t seem to write any of my true feelings down in a notebook, or on a physical page of paper. Only when it’s being typed to screen. It feels less personal that way.
When I journal, I only write good things. I write what I’m grateful for, no matter how shitty I feel. I write about the things I love. I write about what makes me happy. I have to keep giving myself reasons to stay alive. I feel like I’m actively trying to stay alive. Not that I’m going to kill myself. It’s just that I feel like I could die at any time, that I would die if I stopped trying to be alive.
I know that sensation is purely in my head. Even if I wanted to drop dead here and now, it just doesn’t work that way. I assure you though, I don’t want to die. In fact, there are a lot of really cool things I need to do before that happens. I don’t have a death wish – quite the opposite. I love life. I just feel like I’ve been deprived of it.
When you stay inside for too long, you begin to feel as though you aren’t truly alive. It feels like you are already dead when you aren’t out there living a life. Then again, I don’t know what it’s like to be dead. Although, I am a reincarnationist, so I’m sure I’ve experienced death before. I just can’t recall what that’s like.
And I’m in no hurry to know what it’s like.
What I would like is to know what it’s like to be fully alive again. To be free. To be carefree. To drive down the freeway, wind blowing through my hair, blasting punk rock at full volume, winding through highways and deserts and mountains.
Getting on a plane. Spontaneously. Going to a distant country.
The fucked thing is that I could do that if I didn’t have this fear.
I have the resources.
Shit. I’ve been saving to go to Japan for over a year. And I’ve saved more than enough. But there’s no god damn way I could make it to the airport. Let alone make it through the plane ride. And who knows. Maybe you can die of a panic attack.
No, I know you can’t. My old psychiatrist loved to tell me this over and over.
“No one has ever died of a panic attack.”
My biggest confusion around my own panic attacks, is that people say they pass within 10-15 minutes.
They really, really don’t always. Sometimes they can last between 12-16 hours for me. No shit. And this is why I’ve developed a severe fear of drugs. Because I couldn’t think of anything else that could make me feel so fucked up and terrorized for 16 fucking hours. But no. It was a panic attack. They all were. Panic. Pure panic. Once the panic, once the apprehension sets in, it’s all over. Toast. Done for. Forget about it. A downward spiral.
In the past year or two I’ve had so many amazing opportunities. The kind of opportunities I used to dream about when I was panic-free. Talk about fucking irony, right?
In the past year I’ve turned down a trip to France, a trip to Italy, a trip to Japan, a trip to Mexico, a trip to Hawaii, and a trip to “anywhere you want to go in the world.” Oh, and Australia. Work opportunity.
I wanted to go to all of them. Before I started experiencing the panic, all I dreamt of was being a world traveler. Thankfully I made it to a few other countries and continents before the panic completely overtook my life. And 35 or so states.
It just doesn’t seem fair. I know, I know. Life isn’t fair.
But what really really pisses me off, is when people tell me they are envious of me. I get that more often than I’d ever like. I hate it when people envy me. It’s like… you have no idea what I have to go through just to exist. You have no idea. You have no idea how much pain I feel every day. And not just physical pain. Physical pain is fine. I can deal with that. It’s crippling mental pain that I can’t deal with.
Existential crises are the fucking worst. I used to think they sounded really cool when I was fifteen years old and discovered Sartre.
I really wish I didn’t understand Nausea.
I would be happy to not know what it feels like to go through an existential crisis. It’s a hard thing to come back from, and I’m still working on it.
Anyway, I have to go soon. I’m on my second drink. I made it strong. I feel as though my sentences are deteriorating by the moment, my brain becoming sluggish, and my rational mind going numb.
I feel this has been a sufficient rant to get me through the night.
Here’s to hoping.