Johnny’s Mental Health

My first psychiatrist typed all of my symptoms into a Macintosh, then handed me a scantron sheet that said “You’re Crazy”, and wrote out a prescription for some type of medication that I’d already taken recreationally for years

I don’t remember much about my second psychiatrist, because I was sloshed every time I saw her, and high as fuck from triple dosing the pills my previous psyche prescribed me, but I do remember her cancelling my prescription, refusing to prescribe me new meds until I detox, and that she had big, luscious tits that I chose to stare at instead of listening to her babble about personality disorders.

My third psyche was the twelfth or thirteenth Shutterstock image you see when you type “White Doctor” into Google. He was nice, but I’m pretty sure he was an android. I spent our first appointment imagining which section of the curriculum for Clinical Psychiatry taught how to sympathetically smile and properly space out understanding nods while patients tell them how they can’t be in intimate relationships because they were molested as a kid, or how they can’t take the train anymore because it’s just a matter of time until they jump in front of one, or how cocaine and ecstasy calms them down and alcohol makes them hyper, or how they can’t sleep without having horrible nightmares so they stay up longer than they should but always crash after a week, or how some days they’re so anxious that they shake and have to blame it on too much coffee so their coworkers don’t think they’re drug addicts, which they probably are. I lasted for a few months with the white doctor. He gave me sleeping pills that actually worked, though they made me gain forty pounds in three months, without me noticing, because I never look in mirrors, and the sliver of Native American in me thinks cameras steal your soul. The other pills he prescribed for my “psychological issues” properly fucked me up and introduced me to the worst withdrawals since the Vicodin days of my late teens.

I quit doctors for a few years after Mr. White. If I was going to go through withdrawals, they might as well be the result of being under the influence of good drugs.

 



I’m afraid this will wind up buried in my drafts so I’ll just post it and get to work on pt. 2

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R.EYE.P

It has been a shit week.

At home.

At work.

In my head.

All of it sucks.

It’s that time again.

It’s time to lose my shit.

For no reason.

There is never a reason. It just happens.

And I’m tired of it.

I can’t sleep more than two hours at a time.

Triple dosing my pills doesn’t work.

Downing them with Johnny Walker doesn’t help.

Smoking 37% THC joints with my brother doesn’t help.

I’m fucked.

I’m tired.

Physically and mentally…but aren’t we all. How fucking boring.

“If you’re going to drive me crazy take the scenic route,” just came out of  a speaker from a new song. It’s a pretty lovely line.

I’m having a hard time typing. I don’t want to, but I have to.

Sometimes I imagine finishing one of these ugly ramblings and using it as a suicide note.

Might as well; no one wants to hear, “This isn’t your fault. It’s me, not you. I can’t take the pain anymore,” all that boring shit.

I want to just leave a flash card that says, “FUCK YOU”, but there are too many people in my life that would think I was saying that to them. I’m not. I’m such a lucky person people wise. Yes, there has been a Cuban boatload of bad mangoes, but the people in my life currently are amazing.

Fuck.

It’s so stupid. Me rambling about being loved; about having the ability to kick toxic people out of my life; the ability to function and live semi comfortably. God, I hate myself. Why the fuck does this always happen

I’m fucking crying. I never cry.

Hold up, my friends are leaving, and my niece is going to sleep.

Goddamn. How can I have so much love around me but be so miserable.

I’m broken.

I have all that I need to make me happy, but I’m still miserable.

Time to be put down.

I have a feeling I’m going to live a long fucking life.

I can’t kill myself.

Fuck, these lines start with “I” too much.

I am nothing.

I will never be anything.

My lover tells me I’m special.

She tells me I could write a novel if I tried.

I said no.

I asked her if she ever read Sartre.

She said no.

I think I could write a shitty version of Nausea.

Or an even shittier version of Notes from Underground.

Or something similar to H. L. Menken or Louis Ferdinand Celine.

Much shittier but just as grumpy.

The latter two writers aren’t known enough. People know all of the writers that came

I’m a curmudgeon. Grumpy and perpetually annoyed.

Fuck.

I’m bored.

Listen to this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUD_eIEawk4

Fuck you If you don’t like it. Unfollow.

Bye, time to do the hard stuff

 

 

Sendai

Is the name of my favorite sushi restaurant in my city.

And it kind of sounds like Sunday, so I’m going with it.

Hello beautiful people. I am not totally smashed off brandy and sangria.

I had a great day. I woke up early—despite drinking too much last night—drank a few gallons of coffee less than normally and got some reading in. I’m already behind this year on my reading—I think I’m about two years behind in total—but I’m going to make up for it. I have a dozen new books that I haven’t gotten to yet. I chose to start IQ84 by Murakami. I have a few books from him, but I decided to start this one first because it’s dystopian, my favorite genre. He’s an amazing writer. I’m ashamed I haven’t read one of his novels yet. BUT, I did read one of his short stories.  A super short story. And one of my all time favorites called: On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful Morning. It’s sappy and cute, and kind of sad at the same time. I’ve read it a few dozen times, and it still makes me smile.

After reading for a few hours, I took my two huskies, Luna and Aeris, on a walk. The former is white, the latter is black, and when they lay together on their doggie bean bag, they look like the Yin and Yang symbol…at least to me. I’ve been spoiling them too much lately: left over steak and chicken, one fiji apple every night, along with all the standard dog treats and rawhides.

My pretty walk with my pups inspired me to come home and write. I added more to a couple of my drafts, did some character building, but then got bored and uninspired.

What happened next was shocking: I went back and started to revise my previously published stories. Shock and awed? Me too. And it was fucking fun. I’m working on one of my favorite stories, Luna C. Soledad, and I’m hoping to republish it within the next week, along with the part two I’ve been struggling with. I’ve quadrupled the amount of words for just the first iteration of Luna, and I’m not finished. I always considered that story just an outline that needed a fuck load more detail to properly display my girls.

I’m surprisingly optimistic regarding my writing recently. I feel like I’ve almost broken through my need to write the way I’m supposed to…and find my own voice.

My writing got cut short because a friend popped into my garage out of nowhere. I love him, but I really wanted to write for four or five more hours.

“I miss you, B,” he said, breaking my heart. My friends put up with my antisocial shit, and I love them even more for it.

“That’s just how you are,” they say, pulverizing the pieces of my heart.

Shortly after he came over, my other friend came over with his baby, then another friend and their baby, then my housemates came home with their baby. It was beautiful. Three innocent souls, who can’t even talk, pulling on my beard and giggling at me making funny faces. I’m a piece of shit, chain-smoking alcoholic and recreational drug users, but I fucking love kids, and they love me, because they know I’m just a six foot two child.

I wish I was able to have children. I know I wouldn’t be a good dad, and I wouldn’t dare risk them inheriting my mental issues, but the primary reason behind my antinatalism is my appraisal of our fucked up world. I can’t bare bring kids into a world this fucked up, but maybe one day I’ll afford enough to build a pretty ranch in Colorado, or somewhere else away from the toxicity I engulf on the daily living in a coastal city. Ehh probably not going to happen.

I had to cut out from the baby shenanigans to go get my haircut.

I fucking hate getting my haircut.

I don’t like being touched, or worse, confined to a place where I can’t runaway from social interaction.

I go to the same Viet lady every time. I swear, I’ve watched her quietly cut dozens of people’s hair, but she doesn’t shut up the entire time she cuts mine. It’s insane. Today, I spoke to her more than all of my sisters combined in the last month—it was horrifying. She’s nice though, but her heavy accent makes it impossible for me to respond with anything besides: oh, really? Yea, that’s weird. Damn. Wow. Yea, I think so too.

And she cut my hair too short this time. I went from six inches of aubrown loveliness, to an inch or so. Ehh fuck it. Hair grows back. Short hair is easy too.

Now, I’m back home, chilling with some booze and music, trying to decide if I want to cook Bourbon chicken with a tarragon and mushroom  cream sauce, or pork tacos with my Spanish rice, or  a steak, baked potato and asparagus—I’m leaning towards the latter.

Tomorrow night, or the next, I still have to check, I’m going up to the city to see my lover. She’s a lovely broken soul, and she’s falling for me.

Fuck.

I’m not a good person to fall for. I’m a good person to fall with. Does that make sense? I don’t know.

We’re better off as friends who debase each other, in the prettiest of ways, on an hourly basis when we’re together.

We don’t only fuck, we listen to Tool and Deftones and Portishead and Incubus and Smashing Pumpkins and a bunch of other music. She doesn’t like hip hop, which is kind of a downer since I’m a hip hop kid through and through, though she does love classics like Passin Me By, but she loves pretty much everything else. I introduced her to a dude name Puma Blue, a cool ass low fi blues musician, who we’re seeing in a few weeks on her dime. I hate that she bought tickets. Luckily, I’m a cheap whore, so the 34 bucks they cost gets her before the show sex, during the sex clit flicking and fingering, after the show ravaging, after shower slow fucking to Puma Blue, a night cap fucking, and  the best type of  in the morning fucking.

Fuck.

There’s nothing like first in the morning sex. I’ve woken up to my dick already inside of her mouth, or her downstairs place………just kidding, her pussy.

Morning sex is the bees knees.

“The best part of waking up, is a hard as dick to fuck.”

Folgers

The best part of waking up, is big ass dick in your butt.”

Which one is better? Poll

Anyways, she’s an amazing fucktoy. She knows exactly what she wants, and she wants me to fulfill every fantasy of her’s.

Being a hasbian, she has quite a few things she needs from a man; I’m lucky to be that man.

The one thing I can’t do is rape fantasies. She loves them, though. I can’t even understand how I can fulfill it, since I’m a person she wants to fuck, and always wants to fuck, right? I don’t know. I understand it’s a fantasy, I just don’t understand the dynamics. I don’t think I can do it regardless. I don’t like it. I have my own experience with sexual abuse, and I’ve known many others, mostly women, of course, who’re scared from some type of sexual assault. Not to kill the sexy talk.

Instead, I told my lover I would write her a short story about a guy raping a girl, and her falling In love with her assailant. I feel creepy writing it, and I probably should, but I love taboo subjects, and I love making my lover happy, so I’ll fulfill her fantasy.

Wow, this is far too long.

Here’s the beginning of my lover’s story. It could actually go a lot of ways.

I think I’m going to call her story: I Never Said I Love You

I learned her name a few days ago. I knew it would be something pretty.

Liliana.

It’s a good name. Very fitting.

I guessed Rose, so I was kind of close—they’re both flowers, but her name doesn’t really matter anymore. She’ll never see me again.

 

Wow, This Sucks

I got stoned last night for the first time in a while off shit far too strong for little bitch me. I get blasted off pinners of mersh, so anything out of a dispensary puts me in Debo’s pigeon coup.

Usually, when I get too high, I eat four chimichangas and a mixing bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, take a sleeping pill and watch illuminati videos until I fall asleep, but it was too early to check out, so I fought through the uncomfortable overhigh, with the help of gabapentin and Kratom, and hypothesized reasons behind my neuroticism and general mental imbalance.

I have malocclusion. It’s the one physical part of me I’ve always been self conscious about despite it not being too severe. Nobody really ever brings it up, and I’ve been told I have a nice smile, but I hate it. It’s the reason I only rock a tiny smile, and probably part of the reason why I’m soft spoken.

My parents managed to scrape up the money for me to get braces when I was around thirteen. I was excited to get them—braces were actually en vogue at the time—and finally not be ashamed to smile.

I don’t remember much about my braceface days, but I remember the day I had the last piece of hardware taken out. All I had left was a built in retainer. I was supposed to wear headgear at night but never did. I was already an insomniac, and the headgear just made it worse. I didn’t tell my mom or dentist that I wasn’t wearing the headgear—I figured the built in retainer would be fine.

Shit, none of this matters.

I wound up getting jumped by gangbangers one day after school. They beat the shit out of me, stole my shit, left me blackeyed and bruised. The worst punch or kick, I can’t remember, broke the retainer, causing part of it to puncture my cheek, but not break through. At the time, I was heavy into BMX; my friends and I created huge ramps in a secluded spot by a freeway by my house. We brought couches over, set up our own little chill spot where we drank, smoked, then jumped shit we lit on fire.

Again, none of this matters.

I broke bones and got fucked up all the time because of my BMXing, so I told my mom that I got fucked up from jumping with my bike, not jumped by gangbangers.

My parents couldn’t afford to put in a new retainer, and over the years my teeth got worse and worse.

I’m rambling.

My left lateral incisor is crooked, and the tooth below, which I can’t remember the name of, is equally crooked.

So I got high and imagined my crooked teeth lined up perfectly with a part in the left hemisphere of my brain that plays a role in neuroticism and other mental health shit, and came up with the idea that my malocclusion is linked to my mental illness.

That sounds retarded now that I wrote it out.

And I’m bored. I’ll stick to creative writing tonight because this rambling sucks.

Sorry.

Eevee McHale pt. 2

This is continued character building for Eevee McHale. I think the narrator is going to be the character in the story I’m working on about a failed liberal painter who jumps on the alt right train because it’s profitable, and how he gradually becomes ashamed about selling his soul for fame and money. Eevee might be a character he created, and this might be part of the novel he’s writing. He’ll probably have a redemption arc.

Ehh fuck that.

Redemption arcs are boring.



Eevee’s childhood was perfect, and she hated it. Her parents were rich, even by SF standards. They were happily married, an anomaly in our society of skyrocketing divorce rates and marital dissatisfaction, not even giving her the common whining point her fellow well-off peers told everyone to appear oppressed. She was an only child and spoiled the fuck out of. The only nonprivate school she went to was UC Berkeley, where she graduated with an Associates in Liberal Arts.

On her sixteenth birthday, her parents bought her a new Lexus. On her eighteenth birthday, her parents rented SF City Hall for a sixties themed party. And on her twenty-first birthday, her parents paid for her to “backpack” across Europe via first class trains and trendy hotels, ironically called hostels despite costing more than the average SF hotel.

It was in Paris, of course, where she got her first taste of radical politics via the salty cum of an “anarchist”. When he wasn’t sodomizing her in the loft his parents paid for, he regurgitated all the things her professors taught her in college: the evils of the rich and bourgeoisie and anybody who profited from anything; the damage colonialization inflicts to-this-day on former colonies who now have infrastructure and two story buildings; how forcing Muslim women to wear burqas and hijabs isn’t anti-feminist; how killing animals for food is bad and abortion is good; and a slew of other things that aren’t retarded.

Unbeknownst to Eevee’s parents, her backpacking stopped in Paris. She opted to skip Rome, because it was a symbol of imperialism, and spent her remaining three thousand Euros on anarchist leaflets and made in China balaclavas for her boyfriend’s Antifa chapter.  

She decided that she didn’t want to return home to the Great Satan her Iranian anarchist friends told her about. Paris would be her new home, and from there, she, her boyfriend and his three dozen followers would start the next socialist revolution.

They took advantage of every legitimate protest by destroying stores—even mom and pop shops because they’re the petty bourgeoisie and backbone of the corrupt capitalist system—flipping cars, and beating the fuck out of evil centrists.

She finally felt like she belonged; like she was a part of something bigger than her. She felt alive and important and a bunch of other platitudes. But then her boyfriend got arrested for tossing a Molotov cocktail into a Starbucks that didn’t allow homeless people, who didn’t smell like fermented belly button juice, to take up the seats paying customers didn’t deserve.

France’s terrorism laws guaranteed that her boyfriend wouldn’t get out in years. His parents stopped paying for the loft. She was thrown out on the streets with no money, and soon learned that none of her boyfriends anarchist friends actually liked her. They tolerated her because she was their leader’s girlfriend, but behind her back, they referred to her as The American Bitch—an allusion to Marie Antoinette’s epithet: The Austrian Bitch.

Eevee lasted two nights in the Parisian streets before calling her parents to apologize for being a dumb cunt, and ask them to buy her a first class plain ticket home.


 

Oh, and feel free to critique and/or continue the story in your voice. Tara did a lovely job last time.