New nightmare

Last night I had another nightmare. It was basically the same as my usual ones but there was a twist this time in that I was the evil force doing harm. I was in a huge room, almost a hangar, with lots of glass in the high ceilings. It reminded me of the old Crystal Pool building in Victoria. There were a bunch of people there, they were classmates of mine (not actually, just in the dream) or something like that. I was grabbing them one by one, floating way up to the ceiling with them, puncturing one leg on each person with a thorn or something, and the thorn or whatever was poisoned or filthy so their legs immediately became very infected, hugely swollen and blotchy, and the people became very sick. I then convinced them that we needed to crudely cut off their infected legs. I did this knowing the infection was already systemic and the people were going to basically rot and die in a few minutes regardless, but I guess I just wanted to torture them further in their final moments. The hall was full of rotting bodies with missing legs, some floating in the air, some on the floor, all my doing. I was having a wonderful time, fooling all these people who thought I was helping them when I was actually some kind of sadistic demon doing nothing but bizarre harm.

The weird part is that even though I was the thing in the dream doing all the evil shit, my brain was still terrified of what it was seeing, and I woke up freaked out. Isn’t that silly? I think that was a first for me. Actually I think being the evil force is also a first for me. Kind of neato, really.

reasons vs excuses

Everything is a double-edged sword. I think it’s important that we as a society acknowledge and increase our awareness of mental health issues, and I think it’s completely fucked that we still lack adequate emergency treatment for people suffering from serious mental illnesses like schizophrenia or bipolar disorder.

That being said, I also think it’s totally fucked how many people lie through their teeth or at the very least, exaggerate wildly and claim to have PTSD and anxiety issues so they can get away with living on social assistance and acting like overgrown entitled brats.

I say this because last night, some 30-something year old redneck douchebag was 4x4ing in my neighbourhood when he cut his finger. He panicked and literally ran down my street like a chicken with its head cut off, screaming for someone to call 911. I and the rest of the block came out to help the guy but he was being a complete monster, refusing every helpful suggestion lobbed his way. What he actually seemed to want was to have a crowd of strangers dote over him and indulge his dramatic antics. He screamed and wailed and bawled his eyes out, claiming his severed finger was back at his vehicle, mangled in the universal joint. I finally convinced him to let me look at his injured finger and what do you know, it was still there and quite intact. It had a cut and needed stitches but that was it. He hadn’t lost the finger, nor was he going to die from blood loss.

Yet he justified his infantile behaviour by informing all of us that he had PTSD and “mental problems.” I asked if he’d been drinking and he glared at me and angrily said NO, as if I couldn’t smell it on him, as if I was a complete idiot. Yup, in his mind, the reason he was putting on such a performance was not because he was a drunk, lazy, entitled, self-absorbed twit of a man who gave himself permission to act this way — it’s because he can’t help it. He has “mental problems.”

Utter bullshit.

The worst part about this phenomenon of people claiming mental health as an excuse for their bullshit is that, in this day and age, you can’t call them on it because that’s now an act of heresy that will get you vilified on social media and fired from your job. Nope, we all just have to smile and hold the hands of these pathetic half-cooked adults who never learned how to stand on their own two feet.

I hate it. I wonder how far I can push it, how unsympathetic I can be to them without raising the ire of the touchy-feely police. It’s a dangerous experiment but I bet I could get away with a certain amount of it. And if anyone calls me on it, I could probably just turn the tables and whip out my phone, start filming them, and claim that I have PTSD and am not responsible for my actions. Yes, two can play this miserable game.

Fight feces with feces, I say.