Fukitol

Oh, if only there were a Fukitol.

I would be at the doctor's office demanding a prescription for Fukitol.

I would buy stock in Fukitol.

I would stockpile Fukitol.

I would give glowing testimonials about how Fukitol changed my life.

I really need Fukitol!

I think Fukitol is one of those Netherworld things.

Of course, in the Netherworld, no-one needs Fukitol, because it's okay to be your authentic, whackadoodie self. That goes a long way to reducing depression.

In the third dimension, AKA "real" life, there is no Fukitol.

There are only antidepressants and antipsychotics with nasty side effects, and I can't take them because they make me even more fucked than I was before. I did not sign up for Mor-Fukd.

Antidepressants and other such pills are touted as being magic wonder drugs that will take a person from depression to farting rainbows and singing with butterflies.

My experience with one such pill had me jumping up on a counter and preaching and scaring the hell out of my son. With another, I felt like my brain had grown little hands and was trying to pick it's way out of my skull. 

Prozac was different. With Prozac, I was completely flat. I mulled over the idea of cutting my arm, not in a self-injury kind of way, but to see if I could feel anything at all.

It is so dismissive to say to a depressed (or otherwise mentally ill, or grieving, or not fitting well into life in hell) person:

"Have you considered medication?"

Fuck right off with that shit.

Most medications and I do not get along. I react badly to them.

My cousin tried every medication combination humanly possible. She still ended up committing suicide.

Add this to your list of shit not to say to people who are suffering/struggling.

"Have you considered medication?"

Bitch, I am mentally ill. I know all too well about medication, about what it's touted as doing, about what it really does, and about the fact that, for me anyway, the cure is worse than the problem.

I also know that being under constant stress and feeling that no-one will ever understand or care about or believe in you will make anyone, whether or not they are diagnosed as "mentally ill," unhappy. Chronic stress is not a good thing. Being in a constant psychic "war zone" will make anyone "crazy."

Unfortunately, one of the first things to go under circumstances like mine (working an average of 48 hours a week and, not uncommonly 60, and sometimes 72) is creativity. 

I miss telling my little tales, even if only to myself.

I miss being able to think.

I don't like being an automaton.

I have to pay the bills.

If you think $20 an hour will do that in this day and age, think again.

Women on both sides of my family live to an average age of 85. I highly doubt that will be the case with me if things keep going at this rate. Not that I'd want to if they keep going at this rate.

The magazines all glibly tell you that "talking things out with a friend" will help reduce stress.

I have no friends because I am an overworked, socially inept asshole. 

Such magazines are inevitably classist anyway. They are directed at Thin, Pretty, Middle Class, Married White Ladies with 2.5 Reasonably Well Behaved Children, who may be having a bit of a Bad Hair Day. They are not directed at someone in the working class, who is mentally ill, has no support system, and is trying to stay afloat because her adult son, who is high functioning autistic and has agoraphobia and depression, still needs her help.

So yeah--sorry if my Stinkin' Thinkin' offends y'all.

On the other hand, maybe I'm too damn tired to give a fuck.

I really need to get me some Fukitol!

~Cie~

The Cheese Grates It: My So Called Life Getting in the Way of Creating

Believe it or not, all these damn self-awareness posts that I've been making lately really aren't what I enjoy doing with my time. Sometimes I need to do them to understand my own bullshit. I'm not paying anyone to be my friend for an hour a week at this point, nor am I likely to any time in the near future. So, I'm all the therapist I've got.

What I really like to do is create. But sometimes my life feels like it's been thrown into a blender on pulverize, and that's what it feels like right now. When that happens, I fear that all I'm creating is dreck. I have very little confidence in my abilities as it is, and circumstances like this tend to suck away what little confidence I do have.

I'm thinking about changing my name to Ghostbusters, by the way. Because I'm the one my employer's gonna call whenever other people on the case ain't showing up. They know they can depend on me.

I did something I'm not proud of today. I didn't answer the phone when they called. I knew they needed me to work. I'm sorry I let my patient's family down. However, I ended up working a shift I wasn't scheduled to work yesterday. I had to meet my mother for lunch today, after putting her off for the past couple weeks. I also had to go home (I was at my son's apartment) because I knew my cats were low on water.
I was tired and drained and I didn't want the added stress of saying "no." So I didn't answer the phone.

A couple of other things I've been thinking about lately.

Google Docs sucks. I hate that I can't categorize my stuff the way I like. This is one reason I have multiple blogs. It's easier for me to blog stuff and then go back and cut and paste it into the documents on my external hard drive later.

I don't have the external hard drive with me because I don't want to be hauling around my five pound hog of a laptop to my home care case. I already have my med bag, my tote bag with my lunch and other things I deem necessary, my hog of a purse, and my tech bag containing my tablet, my bluetooth keyboard, extra charger packs, and wiring. Besides, at this point, the laptop is my home computer until I can get my $700 paperweight fixed. It would be a pain in the ass to unhook all the peripherals every time.

I currently have one main story that I'm working on with Team Netherworld, but there are a few secondary stories and lots and lots and lots of proto-stories. I can't make my brain be what it isn't, and at this stage of my life, I'm not interested in trying. My brain is going to diversify.
If you read all of the stories we have out there, they have a common theme. I'm not going to pretend they don't. Most of them will never be for public consumption, but sometimes one of us shares a chapter here and there.

I put the Rattling Bones Undead Musician Magazine blog on private. I had the Encyclopedia Netherworld blog on private for a few weeks. I put Encyclopedia Netherworld back to public but I don't know if it will stay that way. Not much of anyone interacts with these blogs anyway. I was starting to feel that the creations being shared were a bit too personal.

When I write stuff like this, I'm sort of explaining things to other people. However, the main purpose is to give myself permission to be what I already am. I'm actually quite tired of apologizing to people for being what I am. I'm not holding a gun to your head and telling you to love me. However, there is no reason to be critical of me either. I don't come to your space and rip holes in everything you do. I would appreciate the same consideration.

Note: This is not directed at any one person. It's expression of frustration over repeated criticisms of my method over time by people who a) don't get it and b) don't care that they don't get it, they just want to make themselves feel important by criticizing someone who does things differently from the way they do.

Psychologically, I'm probably in a mixed state right now. I'm slightly irritable, which is making me snarky. I'm having trouble sleeping even though I'm constantly tired. I've got a pretty good "I don't give a fuck what you think of me or my writing" mood going, which tends to come with hypomania. The exhaustion and sore muscles, however, tend to be part and parcel of depression. Hence, mixed state.

Thing is, a lot of the time people come along and find me during a depressive state. They feel sorry for me and try to encourage me. Then I get into a euthymic or hypomanic state, which makes them think they succeeded. When I go into a depressive state again, they think I'm not appreciative of their help and that I'm just "not trying hard enough." 

Sometimes they leave on their own at this point, because they don't want to waste their efforts on someone who "just wants to sit around feeling sorry for themselves." Sometimes I end up getting snarky, which is something I'm not proud of, and I drive people away, including people who actually do want to help. Only recently have I been able to realize that I have a real mean streak that I've developed over the years as a defense mechanism. The problem with a mean streak is, it tends to flare up without any sort of regard for intent on the part of its target. I feel very badly that I've hurt people who were actually well-intentioned. There has to be a better way of handling things than I sometimes do.

Here's the thing: a person like me, who is badly broken but who can pass for normal, is like a broken vase that has been put back together with epoxy. The epoxy has been painted over, so the vase may not appear to be damaged. 

The person says to themselves, "well, Vase, now that I've put you back together, you're good as new. So, let's let you do what vases are supposed to do."

The person then puts water in the vase and gets pissed off when the vase springs a leak. Upon closer examination, the cracks are still there. The person throws out the vase and goes to buy a new vase.

With me, the cracks are always going to be there. I'm always going to be broken. Not everyone heals at the same rate. Some of us don't ever heal.

I'm hoping I can get back to creating soon. It's not that I'm exactly a dull subject, but I kind of like to think about things other than myself and the shitty state of the world.

The Cheese Ghostbusters Hath Grated It 

Words to Feed Your Soul

flowerbabytrevelyan:

In fanfiction there is a difference between being a good writer and a popular writer. 

Just because you can write a well-structured story with dynamic and consistent writing and characters doesn’t mean you will be popular. And sometimes stories that have disorganized plots, mediocre writing, and/or OOC characters will be held up as the greatest things to ever exist. 

Just because your writing isn’t popular doesn’t mean you are a bad writer. Don’t ever compromise who you are, who your characters are, your plot, your writing style, anything for the sake of readership.

There are popular writers everywhere. But there are only so many good writers.

I agree with the person who said that this should apply to all writing, not only fan fiction.

I needed to hear this so much. It actually brought tears to my eyes. I like the work I create, and I try to make sure it is well constructed and interesting to read. I use writing prompts and I share my work, but it is very rare that I receive any kind of comment.

I am not a young writer. I am 51 years old. I work an average of 48 hours a week, and I try to find time to write in spite of that because, for reasons I can’t entirely explain, writing is very important to me. 

I realize that my writing will never be popular or even published. But I put my heart into it, and sometimes it hurts that no one ever even gives me a “good job.” That isn’t why I write, but it would be nice to hear it sometimes.

Again, thank you for these thoughts. What you have said is critically important.

~Cie~

Originally posted to Netherworld Writers' Guild

 

My Brain Doesn't Work Normal

Over the years, I've had a lot of well-meaning normal people tell me how to make my writing "better." What it boils down to is I'm supposed to write more like normal people and less like, well, people whose brains aren't normal. 

I've tried to do this, but it just doesn't work for me. I will always have a myriad of sub-plots. New stories can leap into my brain at the drop of the hat (or be suggested to me by a spectral friend, but that's part and parcel of a different blog.) I will always have a number of projects going at the same time.

Let's look at the spider webs above. On the surface, I can pass for "normal." I don't really raise any red flags. I'm a fairly innocuous looking person who tends to keep to myself. In my current state, it is highly unlikely that I would be put on a psych hold, even when I'm presenting as extremely depressed. I know the laws of material reality. While I know I can be paranoid, I don't believe that there's a red under my bed or a little yellow man in my head. However, I would never ridicule anyone who does live with such beliefs.

In your average conversation, if my thoughts were a spider web, they might initially appear to form your "normal" spider web. On closer examination, however, certain deviations would be observed. On being told that I should stop these deviations, I am able to do so for a while. However, my mind will eventually rebel and will go back to thinking the way it thinks, and I will go back to writing the way I write.

I am not you, Well Meaning Normal People. I am not normal. 

I have accepted that my writing will probably never achieve popularity. However, it is therapeutic for me. Now, you write your way and let me write mine. I never told you to stop writing the way you write or stop being the way you are. Why do all of you think it's okay to tell me to comply with your rules on writing, thinking, or being? Who I am, how I write and what I think isn't harming you.

I'm mentally ill, not stupid. I'm not breaking any laws. I'm just not being "normal." And guess what? I never will be. So stop trying to stuff a square peg in a round hole. I'm never going to fit. 

Either accept me the way I am, or leave me be. 

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

Changes

I have gone underground with all of the Netherworld blogs and am considering doing so with most of the story blogs. Seeing the pageviews while never getting any comments just makes me paranoid-er.

The Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp blog is now open any time, not just for monthly posts. We're crazy and creative all the time!

That is all.

~Cie~

 

The Cheese Grates the Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp: Stranger Thoughts

Image by Chris Van Allsburg

Prompt Used:

A Writer's Nook

Isn’t it odd that sometimes a stranger’s words mean more than those around you?

Everyone goes through it to a degree, but for people living with certain kinds of mental illness, it can be even more pronounced. I will tell it from my perspective.
I create what I think is an inspired bit of writing or artistic piece, or a blog post with fantastically fascinating information--and it's utterly ignored. If I'm hypomanic, I say, meh, who gives a shit, people have sawdust for brains if they can't see the greatness in my work. I go on and create something else, happy as a hypomanic lark, and everyone else can go fuck themselves if they are unable to get on board with this thing of beauty.
If I'm euthymic (alas, how seldom that happens) I may find myself wondering why I'm not getting any responses, but I don't really let it bother me too much. I have something to say, so I'll say it, even if the only ones listening are a bunch of lonely ghosts. Lonely ghosts need something to listen to, after all.
If I'm depressed, I start thinking "I should stop writing. Nobody cares. I just suck."
If I'm experiencing suicide ideation, I add to that "I should probably kill myself. I'm worthless."
If I'm paranoid, there's a whole 'nother level of shit that starts happening.
What this all boils down to is, why the hell do we care so much what strangers think about what we do?
Practically everyone born human has a desire for approval. If you don't get appropriate levels of attention as a child, you start to seek approval outside the family. I come from a family which was very perfectionistic, and I was an absolutely imperfect specimen. I could never do anything well enough. I began seeking approval outside the family, often from very toxic people.
The problem is, most people don't actually care, they're simply curious. After they've sated their curiosity, they move on. They're looking for the next big thing.
Any popular thing can be compared to a big banquet. Once everyone has taken a piece, the feast is over. The populace moves on, looking for a fresh feast.

The words of wisdom that we unpopular folk need to try to keep close to mind and heart are these:

"Better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self." --Cyril Connolly

Being popular can be a double-edged sword. People tend to say cruel things about those celebrities who somehow disappoint them. It really never surprises me when I hear about a celebrity being addicted to a substance or ending up dead from suicide or an overdose. Such levels of public scrutiny may initially feel like one has found the acceptance they were craving but often prove to be a curse rather than a blessing. Once the public appetite has been sated, they will be off looking for a fresh feast. All that may be left following their feeding frenzy is a skeleton.

Craving approval from strangers never leads to anything positive. 

If one has something they wish to create, they should create it, and the public be damned.

Create for yourself. If anyone else gets on board, great. If not, do it anyway.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

Cross-posted to:

Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp

One Love

Compound Carrion: A Poem

Poem written by The Real Cie and Writing Sister Opal Zushaquon for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and NaPoWriMo. There is no official Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp post this month, as we are participating in NaPoWriMo. However, you are welcome to follow all the weird and depressive poetry along the way at poetryofthenetherworld.blogspot.com and starrydemons.tumblr.com

Image Source

Lady in search of peppermint

And sweetmeat

Instead found eyeballs

And rattlesnake hamburger

When she followed the fireflies

To the moonlight schoolhouse

Where the supergiant throwbacks skateboard

She was seeking homemade popcorn

A slice of shadyside honeydew

A sweet morsel of honeycomb

Instead she found an overabundance

Of undercut forefingers

In the underground household

Of the underage bootstrap babysitter

And the weekend watchmaker

With his supersensitive, supersonic pacemaker

And the lifeline, lifeblood keyhole on his forehead

Somehow the sunbathing superwoman found herself in the supernatural underbelly

Behind the bookshelf in the bookstore belonging to the bookmobile bookkeeper

While looking for the washroom in the firehouse

Where she sought a ballroom friendship with the supercool fireman

Her bellbottom daydreams now in upheaval

Her dishpan hands clasp the newspaper

Where she seeks the carefree undercurrent

Along the moonbeam superhighways

Once a moonstruck firecracker

With a crush on a sweetheart schoolboy

She instead found beneath the moonlight

One too many a hookworm playboy

The afterimage of the life that could have been

Reflects mockingly in her stoplight eyeglasses

Everything has been a comedown from her tailspin pinup dreams

So she orders shortbread takeout

And climbs warlike to the housetop

Her tailcoat flapping like a skylark in the wind

On the sunroof in the sundown

She watches the watchman in the watercolor watchtower

The downbeat wastewater waterlogs the waterfowl below

She walks down to the woodshop

To say goodnight to the waxwork scarecrow

She adjusts his sunray bowtie

Before stepping onto the centercut turntable

A blowgun to the forebrain

Nothing to forewarn the foregone horseman in the forecastle foreground

On the moonlit grassland

Her foredoom was foretold

Her washrag fallen in the rainwater

Flows downstream to the uptown washhouse

Where the cardstock newsman reports as an afterthought

The death of nobody and nothing

~Cie and Opal~

This went much further than we ever imagined it would!

Prompts used: