Incoherent Life

   

   I have always been a “why” person, for me to fully comprehend and be contented, I have to know the whys of why. As a child, I exasperated my parents substantially with asking, “Why?” and when they would answer, there would be another catechizing “Why?” so forth and so on. As an adult I still have this “why” mentality. For things to make sense in my head, it is necessitating for me to grasp and be able to cognize the why of all whys until I have reached the fundamentals. Asking the why question up to the point that there is no more explanation to be derived, so that I may understand exactly how all things function or come to be. With this said, it opens up a whole assortment of problems for me to understand how I could have Bipolar disorder and why it exists. There is no real genetic link for me to have Bipolar disorder from childhood, especially since childhood and adult Bipolar have two different “why” concepts. While deducting the concepts of my Bipolar orgin, I conclusively can only state the fact that yes I have gentic markers for mental illness, but not Bipolar and yes there was trauma in my childhood. Unfortunately that is not a good enough answer for me to conclude upon personally.
  As I have gotten older, more and more symptoms arise leading me closer to wanting to know the why’s of my missing memories from my childhood and adolescence and if it is all related to something specific. It is almost as if someone has stolen them out from under my nose. I have always had an excessive memory bank which is why if baffles me that I have somehow started to discard them. Particularly seeing as if it is being done unbeknownst and involuntary to me, not by me. If it is some kind of coping mechanism for my brain, then, why am I left with all the vile memories that should have been shredded to save me? Furthermore, if this is to be true then why am I numb to most of my past and the emotions related to them. It is as if I have truly forgiven and forgot for the most part, towards the persons who I feel wickedly oppressed me. The preponderance of the memories that are waning is predominantly those of individuals. I am losing my memories of people, not particularly of events or occasions, not the things that hurt me, but the comprehensiveness of the people throughout life. I can remember pictures that were taken of these people and occasions where they were present, but to actually remember them or reflect on my memories of them, I draw a blank. As if, my mind has an internal strobe light or seeing things through an edited and fragmented standpoint. I can remember their actions and words towards me, but not them being in my life and I know they were in my past so why are they no longer in my memories.

“I am finding out childhood is the core of who we are, and we must face it and deal with it. Once we do, it will no longer chain us in the past with hurt, fear, hate or guilt. All this does is keep us in bondage. It is time to see hope, love and peace! This will lead us to light, and the light will be the path to the other side: our freedom, our destiny!”
- Ruby
  One person specifically is my Dad, not my biological father, the one who adopted and raised me from the time I was just a toddler. My childhood was not a pleasurable one to ever reflect on, especially when it came to my Dad. As far back as I can remember my Dad had cheated and lied to my Mother and I and they always put me in the middle of it. Every time that he was caught, he made sure to get to me first to bring “Daddy’s Little Girl” to his corner for backup. He manipulated me anyway he saw possible, to use me against my own Mother. I was a child and was unable to comprehend anything going on, so every time he badmouthed my Mother, I believed him as any naive child would. With every separation that a mistress was revealed, I was put in the hot seat to decide if I wanted Daddy to come back. I was not told as a young child the specific truth to why this kept occurring to my family and I do not remember the excuses I had been told by my Mother, I only remember being the deciding factor in my family’s time of “mending“. Throughout my life my parents separated, divorced, and got back together more times than I can recollect. The first time I remember my parents separating and divorcing, I was probably six years old. This day will forever be embedded in my mind I think, since it has yet to fade even the tiniest bit. I remember coming come from playing and my Dad was loading up his truck with all his belongings as my Mom begged him not to go. When he finally drove away, I asked the enviable where and why’s and she turned to me as she walked through the shrub walkway and yelled “Daddy is leaving us because of you. You watched to much TV and he wasn’t happy” then she went inside slamming the door. That day a six year old ran as fast as she could to her babysitter’s house and a piece of her died for the first time as she sobbed with blamed sadness. That was the first day I ever felt alone in this world, the first day that I began to be a child in an adult world.
  When I was about twelve years old, I had finally become aware that this is not normal behavior and the way that the rudimental elements of my family were not normal, no matter how much my Mother tried to portray it to be. When I was placed in that discomfited position, once again to decide if my family was worth saving, this twelve year old made the only “mature” decision she could think of. I made my Dad promise to never hurt my Mother or I ever again and if he did he would not be abided or sanctioned back in my life and I would nevermore forgive his wrongdoings. A promise is the height of guaranteed indemnities for a twelve year old. To a child a promise is the glue that holds assurance and I truly believed he would never break that promise, for promises are never to be broken in childhood. To bet your family and life on a childhood gesture or the decision making of an unacquainted and infantile mind is the ultimate cataclysm in my opinion. Not counting the datum verity of how negligent you are for placing your child in the midst of all the chaos. I will never be able to assimilate what my parents were thinking, predominantly my Dad. I fought for him every single time and grew to be ashamed and embarrassed of my Mother for the entirety of what I was being told by him. To this day I still battle myself with these feelings regarding her at times, even though I can only recall one instance of the event word for word, “She‘s a crazy insane bitch and wants to break-up our family. I love you and you need to know what I tell you is the truth. Do not believe your Mother because she’s a liar and she is going to tell you all these bad things that I did not do.” I was thirteen years old that day and it was one of many days like it that my life fell apart. I apperceived to be called upon once again to play conciliator and the grown-up, for he broke that indestructible promise and was caught once again with his pathological lies. The difference this time, he smashed my childhood belief principles with that one broken promise and I trusted him no more. This came with the fact that my Mother thought it appropriate that I go with her to confront one of his numerous mistresses and a long talk to tell me the truth behind all the years of lies I was fed. To this day, she holds strong to her conviction that I wanted to go, but I was a child. It was not in my best interest and I should not have been looked at in the maturity department to be fit to be in the situations I was placed in or make the decisions I felt forced to make. I remember that night with precision, the evening leading up to it, and the long emotional conversation held at a family friend’s house, which lead to me wanting to go with my Mother. “You shouldn’t go. You are to stressed and emotional right now to drive and I do not feel safe with you going alone,” stated my best friend’s mother, which was her best friend. This is what led me to wanting to go with her. For I did not want her to be alone since it was apparently unsafe for her. I was no longer “Daddy’s Little Girl” that day; I was now a choleric and emotionally destructed teenager, lost in the adult world with all my child-like feelings and mentality. With that solitary event, I lost my puerile innocence forevermore. I even fell in the Devil’s playground hating him with ever breath I took for a long time. I completely cut ties with him for years for what he did from that point until he showed up post-surgery for my last tumor removal almost two years later. I never really forgave him, but I felt obligated to accept his wrongdoings, as he was my Father. I gradually began to accept him fallaciously and open up to him allowing him back in my life, but never letting myself close enough to fall victim again.
  I have held a lot of resentment toward my Dad, for most of my life and I still struggle with our relationship, but I will never stop loving him. I have come to accept the unchangeable man that he is as uncomfortable as he makes me at times. It was not until I was much older and after I had been confronted with the fact that he was not my biological Father when I was seventeen years old, that I sincerely started to forgive and appreciate him no matter the childhood he gave me. I then realized that he gave me the best of himself, the best childhood he could provide for the person he is, and I was truly grateful to call him Dad. Now that I am an actual adult I know I had been lied to, yet at times I still find myself looking at my Mother through those same hypocritically shattered goggles that were repeatedly placed upon my head and I am trying to work through the shambles of my upbringing. Unfortunately there is something that I still hold inscrutably deep inside that I have yet to recognize, as I still hold umbrage bitterness towards her. Our relationship has long been a cynicism I am finding irrefutably intolerable and demising. Until I can let go of whatever is repressed involving her, I will permanently be finding myself running headfirst into a brick wall that already has my desiccated blood covering it from previous happenstances. I certainly do not aspire to abhor my Mother; I need to piece things together for good. Regrettably this only a few things haunting from my past and I have many other issues at hand, that I have yet to file away for the better.

Chasity

Morning Magic

  As an avid coffee drinker since my early teenage years, I soon grew out of the coffee drinking business. I went from drinking plain coffee to adding shots of espresso, then moving to only drinking shots of espresso instead when the triple shot coffee no longer worked for me. I graduated from coffee a few years ago to the point of brewing espresso in the coffee pot as you would regular coffee grounds in hopes of finding that long lost jolt. I thought if the tiny shots of espresso were not giving me the energy I needed, I must have more. I have drank coffee for so long that I no longer got the effects I needed from it or maybe I am just immune to the energy level it gave me and left me needing more. I currently put six heaping scoops of espresso into a twelve cup coffee pot and although most days I do not feel the effects, when I do not have my morning Joe I am quite aware I haven‘t. I am already on my second cup already, anticipating my third and let me just say my “cup” is one of those massive two handholding kinds that I fill to the brim. I am speaking of coffee today to bring you my experience with the new Starbucks VIA, if you haven’t heard of it, no sweat I hadn’t either till I received a sample in the mail. Starbucks VIA is a line of instant coffee, they designed in a last ditch effort to save their failing company from the every dropping market they produce. Now, I am not one to go and spend $5 or more on a cup of coffee or whatever else you may drink, that I can brew better at my own house, but I did receive the sample so why waste it. First off, the sample I received was the Starbucks VIA Italian Roast. Secondly, I have never really fancied the taste of Italian Roast coffee or any other coffee I would call gourmet. I was more of the original Folgers and strongly brewed at that. Thirdly, I only drink coffee when there are not any other options and I refuse to drink instant coffee. There is nothing less appealing than a steaming cup of impostor coffee placed in front of you. I have had this sample sitting atop my microwave for approximately a week now. I had no intention of drinking it and forgoing my delicious homemade brew. I simply kept it thinking I can take it with me if I have to go somewhere in the morning and have no time to make my own brew, since it does come in one of those handy single serving to-go packages. Well my coffee pot although it has one of those self timers, I do not get to use it often seeing as I have such horrid sleep issues and never waking at a set time would leave me with stale or unready coffee. I normally leave a half a cup worth of “coffee” in the pot so that I may start my energy rush while a fresh pot is brewing in the morning, but I had none left after yesterday. This morning I awoke very impatient and could not wait for the drip to run dry so that I may enjoy my coffee and decided I would try the sample. I had no expectations for this coffee to be anything less than repulsive, but I quickly was I slapped in the face by my lankness of faith for Starbuck’s. Furthermore, I usually do not doubt their genius in the coffee making business, I am not denying the fact they know how to make coffee. I simply am not prudent enough to just waste money on it and especially not something as contemptible as instant coffee. I was abruptly in awe of this once loathsome and now demitasse of instant magic. I am not stating this instant coffee beats a brewed pot, but it sure does give it a run for its money. I was pleasantly surprised at my liking of it. The flavor was good, it did not taste like days old stale mud and there were no un-dissolvable grounds floating around the cup. It was full of flavor and bold. It comes in a variety of flavors as well; Starbucks VIA® Ready Brew Colombia which is the Medium blend, an iced medium blend, and extra bold blends such as Italian Roast and Decaf Italian Roast. I have not been compensated in any way for this review, merely thought I would share my experience.

 

Chasity

Skin DeepWithAdam and Eve

In a land far far away roams my real body and this one is that of someone else who incased me in theirs so that they may purloin my advantageous healthy one. Irrefutably I feel like I wake in someone else’s skin on occasion and that I am trapped in this unfamiliar wrapper called skin. As if a transformation took place while I slept long ago that, I was unaware of. I have endured nineteen years with psoriasis and some days I feel like it is pulling the rug out from under me.


“Psoriasis is a chronic, autoimmune disease that appears on the skin. It occurs when the immune system sends out faulty signals that speed up the growth cycle of skin cells. Psoriasis is not contagious. The immune system is somehow mistakenly triggered, which causes a series of events, including acceleration of skin cell growth. A normal skin cell matures and falls off the body in 28 to 30 days. A skin cell in a patient with psoriasis takes only 3 to 4 days to mature and instead of falling off (shedding), the cells pile up on the surface of the skin, forming psoriasis lesions.” -National Psoriasis Foundation/USA

  I am constantly clawing away at my veneer to satisfy the insensate itch. It feels as if you are living with a poison ivy or chicken pox rash everyday of your life with the relentless insatiable itching. When your skin does not itch, it hurts. Either you have scrubbed the dead skin off leaving the skin irritated and inflamed once again or your skin has become so dry it is cracking and bleeding. I have lived with moderate psoriasis for most of my life hiding it away under clothes and slathering lotions and ointments on in hopes of a miracle. When I conclusively fought for means to receive the newer medications, the excitement was overwhelming even through the steep cost of treatment. I was jumping head first into the Biologic and Systemic medications, unaware of the imminent harm they could impend upon my body.
  First, I tried Enbrel, which worked wonders, or so I thought because I had never felt or looked better in my life. Although the doctor decided, it did not give the results he wanted and with the side effects, you are allowed only a certain length of time on the medication. So then, he decided we would try going the infusion route with Remicade and Methotrexate. If you are unaware this consists of sitting in a cold medical office or infusion center for two to four hours a day, once or twice a week for months on end. While you are hooked to machines as if you have fallen ill in the hospital, until you are slowly winged off the medication showing adequate results or not. This is where my health started going down hill fast. The medication left me so fatigued and sickly with every appointment that I was unable to work and through it all, the psoriatic arthritis felt like as if it were getting worse. I missed so much work while on this medication it was embarrassing when I did show up. In the end, the good results from the Enbrel backfired with the Remicade/Methotrexate causing the moderate psoriasis I once had to go haywire and become so severe I thought I was looking death in the face. Not only did my body become completely covered in psoriasis, but now I also faced an even worrisome symptom… My legs and feet kept swelling massively; to the point, I could no longer walk or stand more than a few minutes at a time. I no longer fit into my socks and even buying bigger and wider shoes did not help. My feet were becoming gruesome looking and extremely painful. At that point, I was taken off the infusions and tested for everything the doctors could think of and everything came back normal so they started me on Humira. Needless to say after the Enbrel shots I was not looking forward to another one like it. They both burned worse than you ever thought a Tetanus shot could, I literally had to have someone else give them to me. Firstly, because I am petrified of needles secondly so I could brace myself for the pain. I would have to corner myself against the wall, hold anything I could find tightly in my fists, and clench my jaw so I did not accidentally bite my tongue. I would scream and curse the wind regularly because these injections were not given quickly so that you have nothing to get over; they were slowly released lasting ten seconds at times. It got to the point I dreaded injection days, the pain was so intense and this is from someone who was used to receiving steroid shots on a regular basis due to frequent sinus infections and having blood drawn for glucose testing every 3 months for years. I was on Humira for approximately three weeks with no results what so ever, neither improvement or worsening of the condition.
  By this time, the psoriasis that now covers 95% of my body is changing. I no longer had plaque psoriasis alone, characterized by raised, inflamed, red lesions covered by silvery white scales, which is actually a buildup of dead skin cells. I now have symptoms of all types Erythrodermic, Inverse, Guttate, Pustular, and Plaque Psoriasis. I had guttate psoriasis, which appears as small, red, individual spots on the skin covering my back, chest, and stomach. Pustular psoriasis which are painful white blisters of noninfectious pus (consisting of white blood cells) surrounded by irritated red skin on the palms of my hands and soles of my feet. Erythrodermic psoriasis, which gave me fiery redness of the skin and shedding of scales in sheets, rather than smaller flakes, camouflaged my legs and arms in large patches. The reddening and shedding of the skin were accompanied with severe itching and pain, and temperature sensitivity. The lesions would be extremely hot to the touch and my body would feel like I was in the midst of hypothermia, I was freezing to my core and nothing could get me warm. I had inverse psoriasis on my armpits and other unmentionable and tender places which looked more like a rash that anything else since there were no shedding or flaking, just bright red shiny skin that was warm to the touch and as painful as a heat rash. The plaque psoriasis that I had for so many years was now covering my entire scalp, has taken over my nails, appeared in my ears, my nose, my bellybutton, elbows, knees, etc. Needless to say, I was becoming rather worried as to what extent of harm had been done to my immune system.
  I remember sitting at my desk while at work one afternoon and feeling like water was dripping on my feet. When I looked down I was horrified, my feet were so swollen they were now leaking fluid. Scared to death I quickly got to the bathroom and had to examine the situation, I could not believe my eyes. I had never seen or heard of this happening in my life. Wobbling with my leviathan feet that were now literally squirting water with every step I took, I made it back to my cubicle and explained to my manager the situation. I immediately got on the phone calling my doctors and beseeching for help, but no one knew what to do. I saw three doctors which all were confounded and could not believe the turn I took after the medications. I went through two weeks of rehab and numerous tactics to remedy the situation at no avail. Hydrotherapy, ointment wraps, compression stockings, and strict bed rest later I was still contending with this anomaly. No professional knew how to treat me and I was becoming more frustrated to the point of helplessness everyday. I quickly ran out of options, money, and insurance since my job no longer saw me as a worthy employee during their layoff season. I remember wearing the uncomfortable compression stocking to the point I forgot what my legs and feet essentially looked like.
  Almost two years later, I still cope with the moderate to severe diversity of my psoriasis that I unwillingly traded for. Thankfully, it has slowly mellowed out and I have learned how to counteract the swelling, which is not fully avoidable, but it no longer progresses to the extremity it once had. Lesson learned Oil of Olay got it right with their advertising slogan, “Love the skin you’re in!” I am who I am, faults and all and so be it with my skin as well. Although, I still believe the body I was actually born with is lost somewhere, like say on the “Island of Misfit Toys” as this foreign tissue all too often does not feel like my own.

 

Chasity

Living In My Skin

Chasity

I Feel Like This Body Is Over

  First and foremost, I would like to apologize for my lack there of cordial posts on my Blog lately. This sleep situation is not working out in my favor what so ever. The never-ending insomnia is wearing me down fast these days, leaving me with no brainpower to think of what I want to write or express. In the past seventy-two hours I have gotten approximately eight hours of sleep altogether. My mind is fried at this point and the lack of deep sleep is taking its toll on my body by now of course. I actually thought the one night that I actually got sleep and rest, that the insomnia was coming to a cease-fire for a while. I guess that was all wishful hoping on my part. I so gratefully received a little over two hours last night finally falling asleep after five this morning and waking up just after seven, tossing and turning in anguish from body aches and a migraine from the lack of sleep throwing my blood sugar into a fritz. I am at a dead end as to what to do so that I may find peaceful and restful sleep. The prescribed medications have not worked in a long time and anything over the counter is a laughing stock. I have tried pressure points, total darkness, silence, milk, no caffeine, no liquids before bed, not taking naps when exhausted, heating pad, ice pack, eye mask, massage, ear plugs, breathing exercises, relaxing music, hot tea, hot shower, etc etc etc… I could go on for days as to things I have tried. Nothing is working for me! Reminiscing back to teenage years when I could sleep for twelve hours at time, oh how I envy that now.

Chasity

Beautiful Atrocity

   I recently read someone explain Bipolar disorder as such, "a more intense experience of reality.” After reading this, I was like damn why did I not think of it like that… Anytime I have been asked to explain or describe it for others to understand, I get tongue-tied and a loss for words clouds my mind with ambiguity. I have under no circumstances been able to elucidate to anyone the entirety of what it is like or how it feels to go through all the concomitant paraphernalia of Bipolar. When I saw this person rationalize this statement, I was flabbergasted at how uncomplicatedly humble the statement was, but how precise as well. The minute a person utters the question to me I become bemused. All of my experiences commence, launching recollection flash backs for reference and then the words to describe everything seem insufficient and unjust. “A more intense experience of reality” is exactly how I should or would have explained it, if I ever thought so simply. Now I do not speak for others and only for my own experiences with what I am told is Bipolar disorder, but that hits it on the nose for me. Everything in my life is personally experienced tenfold, and always has been. I subsist in a realm of an ingenious frenzy, a creative masterpiece both at times macabre and exquisite. When I am happy, I am an ecstatic bustle. If I am sad or upset, I am a tenuously dark depressed basket case. Once something or someone confuses me or I do not unconditionally understand, then I am mentally encumbered. An exaggerated theatrical circus of behavioral emotions, thoughts, and actions is my daily life. It is almost as if I live in my own soap opera, as silly as that may sound. Everything is excessively over-dramatized and not for anybody’s viewing pleasure either. Every single facet of life and interaction becomes so distorted that there is no stability. All too often, I take things to the extreme without notice or intention. Things that would not fluster or distress others can send me propelling over the edge. An unpretentious disagreement will almost certainly turn into full-blown animosity and culpable despondency. My life and the people in it are incessantly in a juggling act, walking on glass trying not to be cut or burnt by the flames being thrown overhead. As much as I hate hurting the people in my life, the machinery of my mind concerning others is constantly scorning me as well. Once I feel someone or something is invading me personally in any way, I automatically pull out the guns and start firing without preparation or direction unintentionally. No one anticipates for this to happen, but it becomes irrefutably impossible to eradicate to say the least. Apologizing continuously for something that is beyond anyone’s control seems inadequately unfair and becomes arduous with the guilt that carries on. I am in no regard, using this as a legitimate excuse to come to be exonerated. This is who I am and I cannot modify things that are out of my control. I do not have the capacity to accommodate nor do I wish to be an impassive recluse due to centrifugal convictions beyond my hegemony. Everything in me is at all times on high alert for the next assault, in preparation to keep calm. However, my mind is the terrorist in its illusionary suicide mission and the war it is ultimately fighting is my amity. When I am not straining to keep myself sane amongst others, I am struggling with another side of my mind that is an erratically incoherent delirium, staving off the invisible capricious fiends and monsters within my head in reticence. My mind unfortunately has the ability to irrationalize any and everything within its reach. It takes the tiniest apprehensions and transforms them into an ogre. What might make others slightly uncomfortable has the ability to prompt my fight or flight mechanism and set forth a degree of fear that is uninhabitable. The level of creativity my mind holds can be a gift and a burden. For lack of better words, I live in a more intense reality.

Chasity

Malevolence Antithesisa Fear Factory Production

   How do fears morph into phobias and when do phobias become paranoia? Through my lifetime, I have been known and mocked for my vast and perpetually fluctuating terrors. I even recall a time in High School when we had an open discussion on personal fears in one of my classes and my teacher facetiously told me I suffered from Panophobia. Although, I did not nor do I have Panophobia, which is a distinct fear of everything. My catalogs of lifelong interminably altering array of alarms are ludicrously long and incongruous in and of themselves. There is an outnumbered magnitude of things I do not fear, but my list is more extensive than the average person, which has landed me the target of countless shenanigans on more than one occasion. Mercifully, they have all been lightheartedly done and that I am a practical joker as well so no harm no foul. Where exactly my distress and fears stems from and the vacillation range baffles me. Things that may fear some, utterly petrifies me. Through my explorations, I have found some astonishing hypotheses. I even went on a mission to banish my fears in my late teens to early twenties to liberate myself, but at no avail. The inexplicable part of it all is the gradation of discrepancy and variation of my fears. The echelon of impact incessantly shifts and I could be terrified of something one day, not the next, and then the fear reemerges.




Here is my list (or what I can think of right now):

• Clowns, scary looking people, scary/creepy pictures
• Having an illness without my knowledge
• Decaying teeth
• Balloons popping
• Broken glass
• Feet
• Tornadoes, sink holes, tidal waves/tsunamis
• Being embarrassed, falling, tripping
• Admitting weakness, failure, being alone, not being loved
• Large bodies of water
• The ocean, Bora Bora, Antarctica
• Deep water and the things in it that can harm me like sharks, jellyfish, whales, stingrays, alligators etc
• Large dogs, spiders, insects/bugs, parasites, centipedes, furry caterpillars, rabid animals
• Needles, scissors, guns, knives- Pretty much anything that could potentially harm me in anyway
• Darkness
• Funeral homes, cemeteries
• Zombies
• Going to hell, the Devil, God, ghosts, aliens and anything else that can or does exist without my visible knowledge
• Death, being killed, dying in my sleep, drowning, being stabbed, suffocating, inhaling toxicants, choking
• Being abandoned, stranded, being lost
• Chipping my teeth, biting my tongue
• Government cover-ups
• Germs, bacteria, mold, mildew, people who are not sanitary, unclean/rotten food or drink, inhaling people's breath or flatulence
• Car breaking down while I am in it
• The end of the world
• Contracting a deadly illness or STD
• Heights, ladders, stairs
• Not being able to close my eyes and cover my ears when I am scared
• Injuring myself, breaking a bone
• Physically hurting others
• Q-tips
• Not knowing things
• Certain noises
• Being locked up
• Comforting people, showing affection or endearment
• Touching people especially ones I do not know
• Dirt, sweat, being dirty
• Paper cuts
• Being surprised, false/ill intentions, people invading my privacy, watching me, going through my things or garbage, spying/stalking me, being lied to, hidden cameras
• High heels
• Medication
• Losing my intelligence, ignorance, Alzheimer’s, Dementia
• Large crowds, being in public, malls
• Things that are supposed to taste like something they are not
• Dolls coming to life
• Things hiding in my closet or under my bed
• Gnomes, midgets, leprechauns
• Evil fairies or supernatural/mythical beings sucking my soul out while I sleep, bugs crawling in my orifices while I sleep

A number of my fears are childlike and humorous to some, but true to the fact.
     Of all these water has been my greatest terror. My entire life I have been traumatized by it, under no circumstance could I put my head under the water in the bathtub, swimming pool, at the beach, etc. I kept my eyes open in the shower and I would distance myself from others while swimming, so there was no chance they could push me under the water. I have always over-analyzed why I am so much more afraid of water than the other fears. Studies show that fears derive from life-threatening experiences we have had. Now I know when I was a very young child, once while in my Grandparents pool my Aunt thought it would be funny to play around submerging me under water repeatedly. I can recollect the entire incident, but it does not scare me to think back on it. When I was a toddler, apparently I had this infatuation with walking into the pool and scaring the daylights out of everyone as I floated to the bottom of the pool, seeing, as I could not swim. I would do this repeatedly therefore, obviously, it did not frighten me, but I do not remember any of that and I have no other horrifying experiences with water so I have no conclusion to draw from. Where exactly all my fears come from I have no idea, but I know they exist since merely looking at a picture of a large open body of water nearly causes me to literally faint.
    There are heterogeneous suppositions to why people have fears and all are inconclusive. Some denunciate genetics, culture factors, life experiences as previously mentioned, a symptom of mental illness, and others see phobias as a learnt behavior. One of the utmost peculiar research studies I have found based a theory on inner ear trauma and how it can incorporate sensory and emotional health there by engendering fears. Whatever the cause may be, I endure fear all to often.

By the way, this picture scared the bejesus outta me!

Chasity

By the Tides of Time

  The formidable reality had burst out from behind unlocked doors and shot out my knees, before I had time to run. I have loved, rapt, lost, retreated, and stood in the midst of love’s Switzerland far too long for an undeserving someone. The one person who I allowed into my world, who was the lighthouse through my storms and who made me a better person has shot me like a merciless heart assassin. The only person I have ever felt completely safe with had precast me like a soulless prize, until I was no longer recognizable. Susceptible me in his strong minded hands, he has relentlessly thrown me in his soiled trophy case of defeated hearts. I should have bulldozed the withstanding swamp harbor of hope I held for him. How could I have believed that standing at the sidelines would ever help me let go and move on, when it only made him believe I would always be there. I have never been one to maintain friendships with former beaus, yet I made a compromise with myself. Seeing as I formally absconded when things started exploiting my fundamental armor, I loved him and seriatim was the contradiction of what I desired. I did not bench myself in hopes of letting myself back in the game, but in waiting for the game to end. Regrettably, I was unaware that the game was not being played on the field, but in the courtyard in which I stood. Sacramental romanticism he seeped into my pores to cloud my judgment. That all changed when I wiped off the varnished glasses and I saw right through the fog of smut. It was not all fabrication, but exactly when the fictional book opened for me to read from I am not certain. Perhaps it really was not all lies toward the end, maybe equivocation lead us to the edge looking over. All I know is that I sojourned for him and bluntly, he faced me with the courage of inhumanness to take what would be his last shot at me by expressing he found “the one“. This demolished the memories for me, it broke-down all the feelings I ever cherished. The person I fought so austerely for, who no longer believed he could be loved nor that he was capable of loving anyone more than he already had. Where and when did the transformation occur? When did all the feelings regarding me dissipate? Where did we go wrong and how can he not have the courage to pronounce the love he had for me, but enunciate the love for someone else? Did I really just waste almost two years of my life in a relationship with a person I have been friends with for nearly four… From the beginning, we played each other like the London Symphony Orchestra until our fingers bleed. We were both virtuoso enchanters in the game of love, but in the end, no one would survive the composition our melodies were creating. We were both to vehemently dynamic for each other‘s well-being. Our crescendos intensified beyond our control and the prestidigitator symphony turned into a mosh pit venue of annihilation. I remained motionless at the bank of negation for the despondency and desolation to recede like the tranquil waves of the ocean; I had no more fight left in me. I feel subjugated and emotionally molested for what I sanctified. The administratering of reclamation has been set in motion; I have ultimately cut ties and severed lifelines.

Chasity