Bobby Bobby's Mental Health Journeys of Bobby Bobby Bobby Bobby Bobby

Hi, my name is Bobby, and I ain't never been in jail. If you try to out-fail me, you know you're gonna fail.

Sometimes I wish they wouldn't look at me. Sometimes I think, Go ahead and look. I can be the endless space in which ALL of this takes place.

Anyway, the spiritual stuff. Always the spiritual stuff. All you are is your awareness. You have no identity. You're a pair of eyeballs floating in space. You can't use your mind to define awareness, you just be it. You can't see awareness. You can't use a scale to weigh its self. You almost can use a ruler to measure itself. Or something like that.

All of your troubles are imagined. There really isn't anything wrong. You decide on your level of involvement in all of this nonsense. If you want, you can just go sit down...lay down on a sidewalk. Somebody will come along and take care of you. Someone will come along and give you a blanket and some food and the help that they think that you need.

Okay: an actual thought of my own while they're still allowed: I think somebody who sits near me either got fired or quit. Or they just disappeared. Somebody should check. Because I had a guy the next desk over not show up... turned out he kill himself. And he didn't show up to work after that. And I ain't even kidding. His name was Chris Parsons. I have wondered whether I could have been nice to him and maybe swayed or delayed him from doing that. But he was sick. He was troubled. I cried when I found out he'd killed himself. Everybody in the room did. And he wasn't the only one from the company who killed they self. A young lady did too. She found out her boyfriend had been killed in a car accident, and she went home and killed herself.

I'm doing a mental health visit in a few days. Finally doing it. I'm tired of this anxiety. And I've read a stack'o self-help books yay high and another stack'o spiritual books purdy high and still -- the anxiety. Paralyzin. Burnin. Freezin. All that and goosebumps too. And sadness. Frustration. My own brain trying to eat itself. I can't power of now my ass out of it. I can't empty it out. It's clinging to the insides of my tanks.

Two hours in a psychiatrists office. Monday. There will probably be special paperwork. I'll bring my favorite pen. Maybe I'll stage a spazz out.  I'll just make it all up, my crazy. My dad used to say of my mom, "Goddammit. She's just doing this to be a pain in the ass. She ain't really crazy. It's an act." I don't think he believed that all the time or much at all. It's just a thing that occurred to him so he said it.

He told me something else that I didn't understand or believe. He said the Atomic Energy Commission made him submit to shock treatments. I said What? He said yeah, that back when he worked at company x on their new clee yer pro gram, and he had top see cure itty clear ants -back then they did that shit see. He was a walkin stressball flaking out on em left and right, and there was work to be done and commies all over the place and a cold war to outspend, and we needed the world's biggest can of bug spray ever invented by God. So that's what he did.

Truth is: everybody in our family been locked in a psych ward one time or another -or shoulda been. I haven't been. I've stayed out of most cages, literal and figural.

So I've been going to the meetings in churches at night. I'm trying to get my mind right and my word count low. But no one cares. Why should I?

I'm afraid of the benzos. That's what it looks like they might give me for all the anxiety. Man, it's paralyzing anxiety. I ain't shittin you. It's bad.  But I think the worst treatment option for horrible anxiety is to stack a horrible addiction right on top of it.

I don't want to be the one deciding when to take the drug. Just give me a drug and tell me take it daily and tell me it will kick in in a few weeks -- and this anxious person I am now will pass away and a new calm person will emerge and be successful and happy. I hope that happens.

My anxiety is so strong and persistent, I think it verges on paranoia. Verge nothing. I am paranoid. My mom was paranoid schizophrenic. So the documents said. Paranoid schizophrenia and a howdy-doo. And a side of grits. I'm pretty paranoid. I'm pretty anxious.

I will sit there and realize for example, Dammit, I just spent the last thirty minutes freaking out about _______, [Fill in the blank. Fill it in with something stupid]

It's a better idea to be in a better mood most of the time. Why sit there and suffer like that? I thought I could beat this with Mooji, Gangaji and Eckhart Troll. But it isn't working. Or maybe it could all work better.

Mental illness runs in my family. Hi, how do you do.

Mental illness runs in my family. Chemical imbalances. Even the gurus concede: if you got the chemical imbalance - the enlightningment might not happen for you. Your spirit is a mud puddle.

Friday. Work dread. I wish I was a tall blonde woman married to a tennis pro. But instead I am a short dude of Polish ancestry with a head that's too big for his body.

The true self is just the awareness, say the YouTube gurus. I believe them. Mostly. I have a drivers license, though, and it is infected.

The treatment: Plunge into it, roll around in it, get grains of it in your crack.

One common symptom is the persistent feeling that you are so different you'll never belong -so why bother? Really though, everybody is the same kind of miserable.

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I am trying harder things and my anxiety is keeping pace. It is a race. I need my YouTube gurus this weekend big time. Surrender, they'll say. Say yes to it, Bobby. It's already here. The reality of the situation is already here. What are you going to do? Say no? That dumb. There's a flow through here that I'm missing. Gotta go with the flow. In order to go with the flow, you gotta know the flow.

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Hey, here's a big DUH for you: Your ego is being egoistic even when it is feeling like it ain't worth a shit. DUH. I'm still making the problem all about me. All these bad things happening to me me me. I am being singled out for this persecution.

"I can't even have my own problems?" cried the Ego.

"No," said IT, "you have to just be and not 'have' anything - not even problems...especially not problems. And don't forget, don't go around thinkin you're so great either. Definitely don't do that."

I watch my YouTube gurus, and I read the stuff, and yet I still fall off the path. I fall down the hill. Ma had the chemical imbalance. She knew right and wrong. She knew dumb and strong. She still fell down the hill. I think I inherited some of that.

"You can only blame your parents for so long," some guru shouts upon hearing this.

"It ain't like that," I say, "It's not her 'fault.' There is no fault. There are just leaves that fall off the trees."

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Tomorrow will be busy indeed. I'm supposed to monitor the queues. I'm scheduled for my big mental health visit and the invitation to the first day of the rest of nobody's life starring everybody. And everybody will roll up into one. It could get messy.

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I carry dice around in my pocket. I don't mean it as a disrespect to God.

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I have to fill out my paperwork for my big visit to the mental health store. They only give you one page to describe your history of troubles. This is the most important creative writing task I will ever face. But who cares: EVERY day I face a new 'most important creative writing task I will ever face.' Every day I worry about my word count and my mentals.

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