
A haven for creative people living with mental illness. This is the place where you can tell it like it is, not yet another place where you have to pretend to be someone you've been told you should be.
I wanna be sedated, but for me, the cure is worse than the problem. The kinds of drugs that most people take for anxiety and depression fuck me up even worse than I already am.
Benzodiazepines have a severe rebound effect. Valium works a little differently than the others. Most of them take the edge off, and then about 20 minutes later, I get blasted with a panic attack from hell.
Valium makes me thick as a brick, except if I’m going to the dentist when adrenaline overrides it, so it doesn’t work at all. I’m already prone to nightmares, and while Valium helps me fall asleep nicely, it also intensifies my nightmares.
SSRIs make me manic and psychotic.
So, yeah. For me, the magic pills are bad magic.
Don’t get defensive if you take these medications and they work for you. I’m not passing judgment on you. I’m not you. You’re not me. That’s something you can be thanking whatever deity you worship or fate or the Universe or whatever for.
This post went over 100 words. So what? It’s my party, and I’ll go over 100 words if I want to.
Yeah, I agree; it’s a lame party.
~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~
I created my first blog in 2005. I was run off by a cyberstalker. This creep knew I had a history of abuse including being sexually assaulted and he would make crude comments like “you’re sexy” because he knew it made my uncomfortable. It got a lot worse than that. He’s the main reason I won’t turn off comment moderation.
I have a Facebook page, but I hardly ever use it.
http://www.facebook.com/OrneryOwlsRoost
I also have Twatter—er—Twitter. No, I will not call it X.
https://twitter.com/ReadersRoost
I hate Twitter but it’s kind of a necessary evil.
I don’t do Instagram and I’d sooner shave my butt with a dull butter knife than do Tik Tok.
I’ve never been very successful with blogging. I’m not nearly as active with it as I used to be.
~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~
They say it’s best to believe in yourself, and I suppose that’s true.
But what if you haven’t had experiences that make believing easy to do?
Everyone has let me down, and I’ve let me down the most.
I wish I could still drink and smoke weed so I could turn my circuits to toast.
Was I born with a bad brain?
Rotten synapses, just insane?
Or was I driven mad by the pain
Of living in a world
Where people think an oddball like me
Makes a real nice punching bag, both verbally and physically?
Does it matter anyway?
Not the best poem I ever wrote, but I didn't intend it to be a poem in the first place. It just came out that way.
In fairness, nothing I write is the best.