This is all going to make sense now. I was born sick. I spent the first half of my life, almost 9 years straight with barely any days off, dealing with a migraine headache brought upon mainly by a severe water retention deficiency. (In other words, I was constantly dehydrated.) I grew up on intravenous units and fluid treatments, because I could not physically eat or drink anything. Thus, you have my weight disorder. I am currently 5'10" and barely scratching 120lbs, and that’s an improvement. Add to my skin disorder, as you can imagine isn’t the most pleasant thing to see. Truthfully (and I hate to have to bring this up but it’s important.) I missed so much school in my early years due to my health, that it was just difficult to make friends or acquaintances. I developed social anxiety. I struggle to speak to people. People didn’t bother to speak with me. I dealt with it. Add costrochondritis and some other consistent problems. That covers most of my minor disorders. I was actually diagnosed with insomnia. I have a switch in my brain that I do not control, and upon reaching the brink of REM sleep, the switch resets and I’m awake again. and that is the type of thing you call insomnia, a neurological dysfunction. A hyper-elevated sleeping requisite. Needless to say, with all this, it’s quite easy to develop self confidence issues, self loathing, self hatred. Depression. I have attempted suicides legally accounted for, suicidal behaviors medically documented. Honestly, when some of you say things about suicide or not wanting to live, I can very easily tell which of you are pining for attention and which of you are really going through it. I hate to sound cynical, but this is nothing. I’ve had a really close brush with death, against my own will this time. November 2013, Veterans Day. I “wake up” in a hospital bed. So many wires inside my body, in my throat, in my arm, on my chest, through my nose. The doctor says, “If you had got here 15 minutes later, you would’ve suffered permanent brain damage. Any more than that, and we may not have been able to bring you back.”
It’s been a difficult road to recovery. I developed schizophrenic and dementia-related behaviors to where I wouldn’t respond to “Rene,” I wouldn’t even know where I was half the time, and I would wake up from a trance in the middle of the day, wondering how I got here. My memory had decayed immensely, I would forget a lot. I had anxiety about death every single night, to the point of which my entire body twitches. The depression came back, and drove me into an almost psychotic state. Waking up, chanting prayers to God. Scraping away at my skin until I bled all over my body. Waking up each day to a depression that made me physically numb, to the point where I don’t feel the cut of a blade or the sting of a burn. I’d take showers at the hottest degree, to the point where my skin would get black burn marks all over, and I wouldn’t feel a damn thing. The only thing I had to treat my brain was the prescription Quetiapine, known also as Seroquel. (Treats schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression, etc.) I didn’t use it like I should of. I was a zombie. Seroquel does not treat schizophrenia, it numbs it. It makes you sleep 18 hours a day and leaves you so dead inside that you don’t have the energy to be schizophrenic. But it was all I had. So I used it. I abused it. Staying out of rehab was not a fight, it was a war. But I love who I am, and I’m content if nobody else will. I mean, I’m crazy. Literally. Legally. I’m on crazy-people medication. I try to be normal. I’m not good at it. I’ve tried to hide it. There’s no hiding who I am though, because I write about everything. In books, poetry, etc. Usually when people learn of what I am, they leave. They say they won’t, but they always do. I’ve adapted to that. I hurt the people in my life. I don’t know how to deal with people. I have a social impairment. I’ve hurt my family. I’ve hurt my friends. I left people before they left me. I pushed them before they pulled. I relapse. Sometimes I drop off the face of the Earth. Sometimes I need a moment. I’m not writing this as a sad story. I’m not here for your pity. I’m better now. I’m writing this because so many of you all try to pitch your lives as problematic. I know it would be rude and insensitive to tell you all to shut the fuck up, but really, shut the fuck up. Open your fucking eyes and count your blessings. If I can still stand here after all my obstacles, anyone can. You are all capable of moving mountains. Stay humble for the people you’ve lost and stay strong for those that you still have. Praise whatever God you believe in. I am not angry that I had to grow up with the health that I had, I’m glad that it’s made me what I am today. Alive. You have to appreciate the things in life for what they are, and not what you want them to be.