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Hateful Excuses… TW

Personal responsibility and psychiatric calamities shall be the title of my first fucking memoir.

If anyone cares to know, I am righteously angry at the moment. So if you want to read some angst and rage… PROCEED. If not, go away. DSC_0223

Why can’t you tell a psychiatrist to go fuck themselves? Well, it’s socially not reccommended since they can institutionalize you. These elements of social etiquette infuriate me; just another subtle means of establishing control on people. All the subtles you shouldn’t do this add up and wear at me over time. Hell, even crying in public is so fucking frowned upon because it seems the majority of the populace is so disengaged with their emotions. Plus, all the “spiritual” folk are neurotically avoiding “negative” emotions because they don’t want to “take others energy on”.

Is there a place in society for rage and sadness? Is there a place in the world for these big feelings? IS there a place in the world for me?

Yet, those deemed with expertise and a side of arrogance can steamroll all over vulnerable persons with technicalities, ridiculously overpriced drugs and a general lack of empathy that makes me think Lizard People might actually exist.

Part of me cautions to be compassionate, after all doctors and other health practitioners are people too! They aren’t supported in their jobs… they have problems too… are what I say to mayself as I slowly back myself off the precipice of a mental breakdown. I resent myself in part for keeping myself from tipping over the edge… maybe I should just fall of the cliff… maybe it would feel liberating to not exist… maybe it would be more okay if I just numbed out to this existence.

All of this is coming up inside of me in reaction to a series of inconsiderate events regarding my forms for my Ontario Disability application (admitting that I am making one makes my throat constrict) starring at least 4 doctors, 2 social workers and a few handfuls of office staff.

There are so many problems with the system…  The most highlighte for me today is the systemic victimhood and disempowering policies that are entrenched in the Ontario medical system-especially in regards to mental health. I am rocked and whipped into a a storm of rage that pours out hot tears.

Everytime I try to rationalize, to calm myself down; my mind tries so many excuses…

“Hey! Blame the Wynne government for all the cuts to health providers!” or

“Hey! Blame doctors because they have no humanity!” or

“HEY! Blame the scary and shitty Big Pharma because that’s who all New Agers blame! or

“Hey! Blame your family for fucking everything up in the first place!” or

“Hey! Blame your brain because it’s all structurally and chemically fucked up!” or

“Hey! Blame your wounded slimy soul that’s tainted by all the shitty and immoral things you’ve done throughout time and space!” or

“HEY! Last resort- we can at least blame the fucking WIFI!”

All of these feel like fake lies you would tell to a child to calm them down.

Yet taking on the full responsibility for these events… crushes me.

I fucked up. I failed. So, maybe I am a failure.

I can write a stupid blog post in 10 minutes. Can I write 2 academic papers in a year? HA!

I can remain calm when someone is yelling at me. Yet, I practically choke on my own tongue trying not to rage at this stupid psychiatrist.

I can apply for 3 jobs a day. Yet, my unemployed life is filled with charity work and burrito blankets.

Today was the first in a long time where I felt I could understand why people kill themselves…

That’s a scary thought, sure, but I had it.

This will probably pass. But in case anyone was wondering, I don’t ALWAYS have my shit together. I’m not always happy. I don’t really buy the love and light bullshit. I am still lovable even at my worst. So there.

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Poetic Musings from the Spiritual WtFAQ

I have a ongoing document on my computer called my Spiritual WtFAQ. It is basically a journal where I wordbarf all my thoughts when I am feeling discombobulated. I started it when I was trying to make a manual on how to deal with /be me. A lot of it consists of questions I constantly ask myself when I am an imbalanced state- so I can read what I wrote when I was feeling good. That said, I rarely remember I’ve created this document when I am feeling *shitty.

Most of it is fun and there’s some poetry in there- maybe a book one day? Anyway, without further ado- here is an excerpt of my inner machinations. 


Written December 18th 2016

It can feel like I am the ghost writer of my own mind. The internal judgments cloud my eternal desire to communicate my own vision of a grand design.

If someone asked a simple question, without looking into my eyes; I wonder what would I be able to say in front of another person.

Sublimely peaceful in my own small circle of perceived madness. I don’t really want to play well with others.

A glorious disaster or a communicative natural wonder.

A crystal gem or a patch of dirt thinking it is calcified sand.

Universal languages of music, art and nature.

Fuel a divine inspired expression that is loftily met with imagined judgments that I permit to feel like rejection.

I allow myself to get lost in the cause of peace and self-righteous quests for glory.

A perfect storm of a vortex undisclosed questioning stillness and challenging resistance.

A die-hard, try-hard perpetually seeking running full tilt towards accomplishments pushed to a standstill by internal neurotic tabloids.

No real questions come because I speak to fragility and all the songs left unsung.

I am here.

I promise.

I will stay as long as I am needed.

I will always need my self because I know I am the first to love.

A love note to myself when imagined madness can tempt my Highest Good to become undone.

The constant questions I ask myself and others…

Do you understand?

Are you listening with a heartbeat of your own vulnerability?

Can you appreciate the wisdom of a childlike wonder?

Do you really believe the world needs more rewilding?

Are you taking this all personally?

Can I hurt you?

What is a boundary?

Can my creative expression and healing process be met with contempt if I wilfully disallow all attempts at disrespecting me?

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Brain Fire and Moving Onward

“Brain Fire” is what I call being syptomatic of my various mental health diagnosi.

I resent that I have any diagnosis.
I resent that I am compelled to label myself.
I resent that I am encouraged to conform the magnitude of my feelings into a socially acceptable and easily digestible expressions.

When I am syptomatic, my brain is on fire. The world feels louder, smells stronger and I feel deeper. I know and trust that I am not the first to go through these motions.

However, the simple tasks of maintaining a life… seem overwhelming at times.

I was triggered today when a relative said “if you were living in the real world- it wouldn’t be pretty. If I wasn’t shielding you, you wouldn’t make it”.

I wanted to scream fuck you and cry hot tears at the same time.

Am I not in the real world? How am I the villain for someone elses actions? How do they know my experience isn’t hellish?

Anyways, I shared that I didn’t like how that comment made me feel and the conversation resolved to an okay result. There had been a miscommunication, hurt feelings and chronic pain that exarcerbated the issue.

Still though, I felt persecuted. (which I realize is much to strong of a word in relation for the actions that happened- but it’s the most accurate descriptor for me).

I want more energy.
I want more lightness.
I want more money.

There are paintings that sell for millions… MILLIONS of dollars.
I want that level of affluence.

Yet, I am feeling frayed and dismayed… Tomorrow is another day to shift my state. To clean, to renew, to refresh and reset.



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Affluent Artistry

I am most joyful when I am making.

I feel most in my flow, most feminine, raw, vulnerable yet powerful.

I’ve noticed there are a lot of stories around being an artist and at times I allow myself to get caught up in the drama that is not written by me.

I had a trigger moment the other day when my cousin snidely remarked “Oh, so you’re doing art now? Like for a “Li-ving””

In the moment, I was throw aback. My eyes flashed off and I tasted a sour “Fuck you” in my mouth.

Then,  I took a breath and thanked whomever for inventing yoga. I do have some regrets regarding how I responded- I decided to talk about the good money I’ve been making rather than highlighting the purposeful passion I get from creating. However, I imagine I assumed that I would garner more respect from him if I highlighted the big dollar signs. I notice myself frowning as I write that last part- I don’t make because of money. The money just sort of comes because I make beautiful things.

I have yet to meet a person who feels spiteful about beautiful things.

Although, now I am remembering that Plato was not a fan of the arts. He thought they were pitiful imitations of his “perfect world” where there was a complete and perfect example of all concepts. Part of me thinks there is a ring of truth to Platos words…
There is a certain futility that comes with creating… However, that is also one of my favourite parts! I love the mess, the struggle, the challenge of skill. I love how art forces me to engage with the world with kinder, more colourful and curious eyes. I love how perfection always remains on the horizon driving me to explore further.

Endless expansion on a creativity.
Art really does fuel my soul.