To Breathe You In

I look out at the water crushing its own dreams. It’s dark. The lights along the pier are not bright enough to illuminate its pollution-ridden surface and the full moon is hiding somewhere behind the smog. I’m squatting because everything I’m wearing is new, including my shoes.

“Dangggg baby, back at it again with the maroon Vans,” he says.

I laugh. He makes me laugh a lot, and it’s not one of those laughs you push out in your day job to humor someone, while plotting to kill them. You only hear this brand of sound after 5 PM and on weekends.

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1: Paranoia

When she tells me to do something, I feel like she is talking down to me. I don’t know if she really is, but it probably doesn’t matter, because she’s spoken to me in this manner so many times that I can’t erase how she’s treated me from my mind to discern what is past and what is present. Even if she’s not talking down to me now, I know she’s spoken down to me before, and she never apologized, so it’s kind of a moot point, this bullshit side effect of paranoid schizophrenia where I tell myself I’m perceiving things incorrectly because I’m fucking crazy.

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I Don’t Hate You; I’m Schizophrenic

I am finding it difficult to connect with people with age. It could be a personal problem. It is never my intention to blame a behavior flaw on my mental illness in an effort to make excuses. I hate when people do that. When they ask people to be empathetic towards them because they have a mental illness. I don’t believe in special treatment; I believe in special abilities.

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Are You Disabled?

I once had a boss – well, I have a boss – who believes that embracing diversity is the key to any great team’s success. He works for a company whose main mission is to honor its own humanity, so even though this is Corporate America, I am inclined to believe that he is not full of shit. He is likely the best boss I’ve ever had, and the best boss many would ever have, but his integrity as a leader is an entirely different, detailed matter.

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I’m Worried About You

//As seen on Psychology Today

I don’t know how to deal with my loved ones being worried about me. Well, I do, but it’s probably not the right way: to just assure the people that love you that you are okay even if you’re not. I’m not saying that I’m not okay, in this case, but that is the standard response.

I’ve talked a lot about the controversial “how are you” question and how it’s only socially acceptable to provide “good and yourself?” as a response. My friend and I have joked about answering “you know what, I’m having a really hard time…” and going into your life story when some random person on the street or in the elevator asks you how you’re doing. It makes people uncomfortable, you know. The truth. People, specifically in corporate America, don’t want to know if you feel like shit. If you’re having a difficult time with life. They ask to be courteous but they really aren’t being courteous at all, because they don’t actually care how you’re doing. Most, anyway. Some do. I have to give credit to good friends and good people, in general, who do actually want to know the real answer. But for the others, who expect the illustrious “I’m great how are you doing?!” and want nothing less, I really don’t know why they even bother asking. It’s a completely useless exchange.

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