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


I’m Stupid

I never write posts on my phone. I have the app so I can reply to comments as fast as possible because I feel bad and get anxious thinking about other people thinking I don’t care enough to respond back.

There will be a lot of grammatical errors; I have big fingers and I’m not a very good phone typed, or whatever it’s called.

I’m fucked. Though I’m not drunk yet. I got a bottle for the train ride.

I’m such an idiot. I can’t stand myself. I can never be happy.

I met a new friend who’s amazing. She’s a prettier weirdo than me. I don’t want to get into details about her because I think it’s rude, even if this is anonymous.

She lives in SF, the tenderloin, in one of the roughest places in the city. She says that she can’t wear sandals outside her apartment because there are needles everywhere. She says there are more homeless people camped around her tenement than inside it. She says it’s sad. I think so to. The trains here. I’m going to drink, then ride home, then finish this post, I’m stupid.

Ta-da!!!!!!!!!!!1 I’m home and drunk. In my heavenly hell.

Why can’t someone, something, some god just put me down. Please, just do it. Fuck god. Fuck Jesus. Fuck Allah. Fuck Yahweh. Fuck Krishna, Fuck the universe. Please strike me down, I’m ready.

No, no you won’t, because I’m asking for it. I love god. I love Jesus. I love Allah. I love Yahweh. I love Krishna. I love the universe. How about now? You fucking punk piece of shit. Whoever, whatever you are. I don’t want you to kill me. What now? You seem to like to do the shit that I hate, the shit that drives me crazy, so do I have to love my misery to finally be put out of it? No, you know that I want that. What type of meta fuckery do I need to do to have myself control alt deleted? I can’t do shit. Every meta has a meta. There is no end. There is no escape. That doesn’t make sense.

Fuck, I can’t stand myself.

Why the fuck do I post on here? I hate talking about myself in general, so why would I talk about my demons. Stupid fucking demons. I can’t get rid of them. I bike ride hundreds of miles trying to exercise my demons, but they only get stronger. How stupid.

I met a girl. I said this earlier, I think–fuck scrolling up to see what I said. This is for all you unfortunate souls that’ll come across yet another rambling, piece of shit post by me. I’m stupid.

The girl I met is amazing. Soul mate amazing. I will never be her boyfriend or husband, but I will be her best friend. She’s my friend with benefits, but aren’t all connections friends with benefits? FWB…I fucking hate that acronym–it’s fucking stupid. Why does sex hijack the term benefits? How stupid. I have nine or so friends with benefits. Sometimes we sit in my garage and have orgies together, telling pretty things to each other, sometimes ugly. We fuck each other’s minds. We caress each other minds. We cuddle each others minds. We wake up next to each other and say pretty things to each other. We never shamefully walk out. I usually make breakfast for all of us. Omelette du fromage with jalapenos and mushrooms and bacon and onions, topped with avocados, and a fuck-load more fromage.

Rambling, rambling, rambling…the girl I met made me incredibly happy recently. We connect on those scary levels–like finish each other’s sentences scary. It terrifies me. My paranoid mind starts thinking that a worried family member somehow fixed our friendship to get me out of my current hole. I’m stupid.

I’m not going to talk about her too much because I wouldn’t someone to bring up my shit on some shitty blog, despite this being anonymous, but I will say that she’s perfectly imperfect. God, I hate that: Perfectly imperfect. I was a wee teenager when I thought I’d be unique if I had that tattooed on me. I quit tattoos, except for circular scars up and down the parts of my body only people I fuck see. I’m stupid.

I had a panic attack today at work. You’d think after spending most of my life steadily having panic attacks, and the type of free floating anxiety I wouldn’t wish upon even the people I despise, I’d know how to properly handle them. There’s no way. I sat at my desk, breathing in and out, holding back tears, putting on layers of clothing to keep me from shaking. God, I’m stupid. Allah, I hate myself. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I really don’t know why I do this shit. It’s so stupid. I hate it, but I still do it. I still post these dumb fucking words that nobody wants to hear. I’m stupid.

I’ve been wearing bandanas a lot. I tie them too tight, to the point my forehead is red for forty-seven minutes or so after taking them off. I love the pressure. My forehead, my temples, the back of my head, all throb incessantly. I’ve had a half dozen PET scans, maybe closer to a dozen, throughout my life. Fucking migraines for more than half my life. Nothing works long term. I start taking a med, and they stop for a few months, than pow, back again. I dream about my future tumor, but I’m not that lucky. I’ll live just long enough for our scientists/doctors to discover synaptic tumors. I’ll die the day the cure is found.

None of this makes sense. I’m stupid.

The prettiest thing I’ll ever write will come from the ugliest thing I’ve ever thought. That’s just how I am. How ugly. How stupid.

My roommate caught me tonight drawing emojis on my prescription pill bottles. My bipolar med bottle has a pretty cool cry now, laugh later design on it. One has an indifferent face that’s too plain for my liking. I have to learn a way to make indifference look interesting. One has four designs on it depicting various suicide methods I dream about with exes over them. It’s pretty clever too. How stupid.

I decided that I’d stop drinking expensive whiskey. I don’t give a fuck about taste right now. I’m taking it back to my roots: SOUTHSIDE JUICE, erk and jerk with root beer(E & J + Root beer). I didn’t grow up in the ghetto, but I lived on the outskirts. I spent a good portion of my childhood hanging out with homeboys, playing bones and watching street fights over hood beezys. Drinking this horrible drink provides me a little comfort because it reminds me that I could’ve been so much worse. Going through the list of my old “friends” I find plenty of convicts; most for drugs, dealing usually, a few for doing them, a couple for banging in general, one or two for murder raps. This one kid I grew up with was a gangster at nine. Fuck he was crazy. He fought everyone. I’m a big dude, 6’2″ now, but this kid didn’t give a fuck–he’d go at everyone. He was tough, but I’m a Marine’s son, so I didn’t take shit. I was one of the only white boys that was respected…mainly because I love to fight. I was crazy. Am crazy. Anyways, that kid is up at Quentin now because he did a B and E on meth for the family and wound up stabbing the owner of the house to death. There’s a bunch of other dudes I grew up with similar stories, but I’ll leave them for another day. Why am I talking about this? I’m stupid.

Today wasn’t a very pretty day. I nearly lost my shit. I nearly took myself in the emergency room to be doped up and locked away for a bit. You can only dream so much about shoving a sharp thing into your neck before you do it, or seek help. The booze, again, kept me from doing it. I think half of suicides are done under the influence, I could be wrong though, but being liquored up usually provides the opposite for me. Yes, I’m liable to do something crazy that might end up with me dying, but in general, I’m more likely to go out, dance, try to fall in love for the night, and wake up the next day, sober, wanting to kill myself. Fuck, I’m stupid.

I know I have some more things to say, but I’m bored and tired of writing.

Sorry for doing this shit again.

I’m stupid.

If You Don’t Have Anything Nice to Say

A few years ago I decided to become a deaf person.

It was during the height of Tumbler, when people freely self identified as wolves and fairies and other erroneous things, sometimes inanimate, which made otherwise uninteresting people feel special. If someone could identify as a non-binary, cis-gender whale shark, why couldn’t I identify as a deaf person? I’m naturally oblivious, emotionally aloof and disconnected from the world in general–not saying those are the traits of a deaf person, they just make it easier for me to adjust to a hearing impaired life.

I’d always been a quiet, soft spoken person which was often interrupted as off. “She seems off,” people would tell my parents. So much so, they mistook my disinterest in conscious life for autism. I’m definitely not autistic. I’m the opposite of autistic. I’m hypersensitive and hyperemotional, I just keep it hidden behind a stoic smirk. Maybe I am autistic. But I thought autism was present at birth? Not the response to a shitty life, filled with shitty people, doing shitty things, for shitty reasons. Maybe I had the gene for autism, if there is one, and years of malicious sensory overload suddenly expressed the gene? I’m not sure if that’s possible. Though, I still am hyperemotional, but only when I’m by myself. So, I guess it’s not autism—at least in the traditional sense. Selective autism is more appropriate.

Despite my naturally, stolid demeanor, I needed a lot of practice before going full blown deaf. I practiced first at work, to the annoyance of my coworkers and bosses, by ignoring people on elevator rides up to my office spewing mundane Monday morning platitudes. “Mondays, am I right?” they’d ask, or say, or whatever the fuck that phrase is supposed to express, and I’d respond with a fake smile and nod. Yea, that’s kind of rude, I know, so once I got to my desk I’d ping the person I ignored and tell them I had bronchitis, or a migraine, or I lost my voice at a concert the previous night. Luckily, I was a graphic designer, so most of my conversations took place via email or instant messenger. The only “real” social interaction I had at work was on those elevator rides, at the espresso machine, and the occasional meeting I checked out of anyways.

I mastered not answering to my name when I was younger, so that was no problem. My father would scream at me, What are you, deaf!?, all the time, and I’d mostly ignore him, until he flicked the back of my head, or yelled long enough. I was somewhat worried that, in his senility, he would scream that at me again, despite my sister or brother telling him I’m deaf, and I’d gleefully respond with a smile, nod, and Yes Dad, I am deaf, exposing my ruse for the lolz.

The primary threat to my future life of deafness was exclamatory scenarios. Somebody screaming, fire! Someone letting loose a blood curdling scream. A family member surprising me in person with the news that a loved one had died, or was in a serious accident. This was a toughie. Buddha forbid, a loved one dies, and I’m surprised with the news. I wouldn’t be able shed a tear, though my tear ducts dried up years ago, or make the slightest facial cue, though my face was naturally fixed in a single semi-grimace for the majority of my waking hours.

I played out these types of scenarios for weeks, months, until my brain was permanently hardwired to not give a fuck, and look like I don’t give a fuck.

In hindsight, I probably spent too much time imagining scenes that would never manifest, but I didn’t want to be one of those dolts who adopt factitious disorders before fleshing out every goddamn scenario.

After nearly a year of preparation, I was finally ready to become a deaf person. A serious ear infection would be the cause. I had multiple ear infections in my youth which left me temporarily deaf in one ear, one time both, so it was in the protest-free realm of possibility, and easily digestible for family members who’d previously witnessed it. All I needed to do was get sick. I decided riding the train was the best place to acquire the cold or flu. It was Winter, and the train was filled with coughs and sneezes—a moving petri dish.

Unfortunately, in the months preceding my path to deafness, I’d been fired from my job. You can only ignore your bosses, and exude disinterest, so long before they become fed up. This made funds tight, and the train was expensive. I quickly ran through my meagre savings, spending the majority of my money on train rides that didn’t end in sickness, and the rest on rent and Costco boxes of cup-of-noodle.

One night, I came home from one of my nightly train rides to nowhere, and found my mother, two step-sisters and twin brother, Johnny, in my house crying. It was an intervention. Not the hard drug or alcohol type of intervention though, it was a collective plea for me to get back on drugs. My bipolar drugs. The drugs that kept me relatively level. The drugs I decided to stop taking shortly before I decided to become deaf.

For the past year, I’d been in a state of mixed-mania. I’d constructed an elaborate plan to become a deaf person because I thought it would relieve the anxiety social interactions produced. I wouldn’t have to talk. I would never mispronounce a word again, and fixate on it for weeks on end while maniacally cleaning my apartment. I’d never have to lie and say “I’m alright,” when someone asked me, “How I was doing.” I’d never have to feign interest, or have forced conversations when I really had nothing to say. I would be free from embarrassing social interactions and free from the guilt that acting like I cared created. I’d feel free in general. Or so I thought. Instead, my path to deafness left me locked away from friends and family for months on end. It made the people I love think I hated them.

I cried with my mother and step-sisters while Johnny convinced me to get back on my meds. He was the only person that truly understood how I felt, because he’d also gone through these self-destructive phases. Phases where I saved him from near madness. We were always there for each-other, but during this period of destructive mixed-mania, Johnny was in a deep depression. I knew this, but I selfishly isolated myself from him because I felt like I’d make it worse. Johnny felt the same. He thought his depression would make my issues worse. He decided to move in with me that night to help me out with my issues, while I helped his.

My mother and sisters left that night, and Johnny made some tea for us. From the kitchen I heard him say with a giggle, “You really took mom serious this time, yea?”

“Huh?” I responded.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all.”


I’m not sure why I created a twin sister for Johnny. She’s kind of mean :).



Realm of Hungry Ghosts

To keep myself from drinking, or calling Hunter Thompson’s drug dealer, I started cleaning my garage. Unfortunately–and only I can find a way to make this an unfortunately–my garage was already spotless.

I cleaned it earlier today.

And yesterday.

And the day before.

Now, I’m drunk–just like that.

My idle hands found a pretty bottle of aged whiskey to drink and throw some chaos into my boring, balanced life.

I’ll be alright, I think.

I’m a few hours away from going to bed. I just have to keep busy until ten or so, take my sleeping pills, wake up tomorrow…then repeat.

I turned off my phone to avoid getting into trouble via the women in my life/lack of willpower that like me when I’m drunk and crazy and ready to play. Though, a beautiful woman to fix all my attention on sounds scintillating. Maybe I’ll turn on my phone and try to woo a woman to bed. No sex. I just want someone to cuddle with… and be cuddled by.

I’m rambling again.

Ohhhh my random mind.


Anyways, during my short, erroneous and neurotic cleaning session, I found the attached ‘featured image’.

Like most of my art, I did it while shit faced and alone and depressed.

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with my art. Being a neurotic person allows me to spend hours and days fixating on a piece, often times a 2″ x 2″ square piece of canvas, just to paint over it, or destroy it entirely.

I always enjoy the act of painting, but I despise the rotten fruits of my creative labor.

The piece attached escaped my self-loathing wrath.

I’m not sure how.

I’m not sure why.

The narcissist in me comes out on nights like this.

I think to myself: I found this art for a reason. I’m supposed to learn something from this. Why would I find a piece that perfectly describes, or fits somehow, the way I’m feeling at this very moment. There must be some higher power fixating on me the same way I fixate on other things. 

I hate this side of me so I spend hours repudiating myself: I’m not special. I’m not unique. Nothing is done for you. It’s all chance and chaos. Nothing more, nothing less.

I know I need to find a balance between everything is done with me in mind and I’m just the ugly product of chance and chaos.

I know that I fuck up every time I get close to achieving equilibrium.

I can’t help it.

I don’t know how to be happy.

I really just want things to be anything but the way they are now. It always comes down to that.

I really am chaos incarnate.

Anyways, I’m rambling again.


I painted the attached piece while reading a book called: In The Realm of Hungry Ghosts, by Gabor Mate.

And I wanted to share it with you all.

There’s a dozen or so hungry ghosts in my painting.

Can you see them?

Or am I crazy?



Oddly Content

I feel oddly content today, and I’m not completely sure why–at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I know it’s the pills. They’re finally doing what they’re supposed to do.

And I hate it.

I hate myself.

I hate how boring I am.

Is this what normality feels like?

It fucking sucks.

It makes me want to get drunk.

Or pop X.

Or rail coke.

Or all of the above.

It makes me want to skip my medication tonight, take tomorrow off and go get lost.

Go crazy.

Go to SF.

Go to Tijuana.

Go to the moon.

It makes me want to do the same thing I always do.



Kill myself.

I hate myself low.

I hate myself high.

But I hate myself most when I’m balanced.

What’s a teetertotter that doesn’t go up and down? An uncomfortable, fucking seat that forces me to look at another uncomfortable, fucking seat that will always be empty, because no one wants to look at me–boring, stupid me.

That doesn’t even make sense. How fucking stupid. But I’ll leave it to show how horribly uninspired I am right now.

Only I can turn an oddly, content day into a familiar, nasty night.


Capsules of Concentrated Sacrifices

I sacrificed my dreams to not have nightmares.

I sacrificed my body to not hate the way I look.

I sacrificed my favorite feature, my changeling eyes, to pills that permanently dilate them, making them appear brown and drab, to not have them half-covered by sleepless eyelids.

I sacrificed my limitless highs to not have crushing lows.

Maybe I should build a pyre of prescription pill bottles and sacrifice my sanity, again, to elevate my psyche back to my pantheon of personality extremes.

Maybe I could find happiness in being Zeus for a few weeks or months, Hades for a few years, Apollo and Athena for a few moments, here and there, all rolled into my primary personality, Dionysus, who drinks wine, takes ecstasy and eats lotus flowers, and live a perpetual life of ritual madness.

Maybe I should just sacrifice myself, and ask to be buried somewhere pretty, with a rose bush growing on top of my grave, not bouquets laying on it to wilt and decay and be blown away.

Maybe sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe I’m stupid for thinking sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe life is a series of protracted sacrifices.

Maybe sacrifices are natural and necessary to advance our lives.

Maybe I don’t like that sacrifices are natural.

Maybe I should burden myself with the sins and sacrifices of others–then sacrifice myself like the scapegoat in the bible.

Yea, maybe I’ll sacrifice myself, my soul, my entire being.

One last sacrifice.