hiddenmarlin14 said:I see two likely reasons here:
1. He’s unsure if he’ll actually like the flavor, so he just wants a taste first. 2. He doesn't want to mess up the plates.😛 Is that because he's trying to save himself the dishwashing, or is he thinking about whoever else in the house has to deal with the cleanup?🥳
Does this necessarily have anything to do with psychology?🤔 Maybe.🍿 I mean, you don't exactly eat straight out of the serving bowl when you're at a restaurant, right?🤔
3. He's just a pig. 4. He simply doesn't know how to enjoy food.
So, I was talking to my psychiatrist about how much I've been hitting rock bottom lately—I mean, I’ve always struggled with depression—and her take was basically, "Oh, that’s just standard procedure for everyone right now. Things are getting worse for almost everyone, except maybe those currently in psychosis."
Since you all have firsthand experience dealing with psychosis, I wanted to get your take on that statement.
Is she actually onto something here, is she totally off base, or is it somewhere in the middle?
Back when I was doing similar survey work, I’d spend my time flipping through Cosmo or Story—with a headset perched on my shoulder, of course—and honestly, thank God there was a pile of those magazines nearby; it made the shift much more bearable. I actually walked away from that one session thinking the guy was a total porn addict—he kept going out of his way to insist he had absolutely zero vices 🤣, yet somehow ended up with a theology degree and a job as an executive at a big marketing agency in Chicago... I won't even go there. If you don't have any magazines at your workstation, just browse some mindless gossip sites; it makes the clock move faster and keeps you from getting too worked up 😵 If you happen to be working in "customer support," just know that nobody—and I mean absolutely nobody—actually believes anyone is going to "help" them unless they figure it out themselves, so you can pretty much just ignore the whole thing
Patrick Reyes5 said:I’m 31. Or at least, I will be in a few months. Currently, I’m unemployed. I have some experience—temp work through the court system—which is my only official employment history. I’ve passed my professional certification exam, too. It’s not the work itself I dread; I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life scrubbing floors or cleaning hotel rooms (though I do currently clean under the table to get by).
And honestly? I’m terrified. I’m scared my mother is right when she says my career ceiling is a janitorial position. I’m scared it’s too late to ditch this dead-end path everyone keeps preaching about and actually enroll in a program I care about, like studying English Literature. I’m scared it’s too late to master the languages that actually interest me: French, Russian, and Turkish. I’m scared I’ll never get to spend a weekend in New York City, which is a massive dream of mine. I’m scared I won't master English well enough to pass an Oxford proficiency exam. I’m scared I’ll lose the few real friends I have left. I’m scared I won't be able to pick up video editing, even though I love the idea. I’m scared I’ll be the only one in my social circle with just a vocational degree, and people will assume I’m not as bright as them. I’m scared I’ll never land a job because I don’t have the right connections. I’m scared I’ll never find a partner or have children, especially since people keep telling me I'm "running out of time." I’m scared to cut my hair short; I’m tired of managing long hair just because I can tie it in a ponytail. I’m scared I won't have enough money and will always rely on my father, when I should be the one helping him. I’m scared to call the registrar at St. Louis to ask about transferring. I’m scared to call the gym and ask if they charge for demonstrating proper form like a private trainer would. I’m scared I’ll never learn to dance the tango. I’m scared I’ll never learn to sew my own clothes, since shopping isn't really my thing. I’m scared I’ll never find a chemical peel that helps with a small scar I have. I’m scared the marks from my skin-picking disorder will never fade. I’m scared I’ll never find the right skincare for my face. I’m even scared that I’ll never learn how to express myself better.
I am afraid that I will stay stuck exactly where I am forever, with nothing ever changing.
Most of all, I fear waking up one day to realize my life has passed me by while I was still sitting in this same spot—never having moved away, never having found a job (even on Mars), never having had kids, and never having accomplished a single thing I actually planned.
I’m scared there isn't enough time left to fix anything. I’m scared of how people will react if I try. I’m scared of everything.
How do I stop being afraid?
Exposure therapy. Yeah, it’s brutal—but it’s really the only way. Go slow. Just little bits at a time. Whatever works for you. Start with one thing, then move to the second, third, fourth... maybe tenth.
Fear is essentially just a liar.
For instance, I used to be terrified of making eye contact with people. So, I started writing in a notebook over and over: look people in the eye, look people in the eye, look people in the eye... Eventually, it actually became kind of funny. Now? I basically stare everyone down. It's actually pretty amusing.
bluemason3 said:"Common sense" is just a phrase with a universally understood meaning. It isn't a clinical term for mental health, so trying to dissect it like this usually feels like trolling.
Basically, just accept your genetic hand 😛
Well, how about you accept your own trolling tendencies instead of projecting them onto me? 🙂
Anyway, peace out everyone, heading off to grab some food.
Since I work in neuroscience and my nerves are basically fried, I feel obligated to demolish a mountain of junk food—think bacon, cookies, gummy bears, and all that good stuff.
bluemason3 said:Because they actually have common sense.
Unless being determined by your genes means you can suddenly breathe underwater like a fish, fly through the air like a bird, or scale walls with a few extra sticky legs, I don't see the issue.
So, what you're implying is that there’s such a thing as "uncommon" sense? Or maybe just a very logical kind of madness?
I mean, look—you can either accept that you're a fish and just enjoy life under the water, or you can spend your entire existence pining to be a bird and suffering for it.
Freedom of choice. I have the option to decide whether I want to be "crazy" or "normal." If I want to play it safe and stay within the lines of normalcy, I’ll take my meds—but if I feel like indulging in a little madness, I just stop taking them for a while. You can't choose to be "crazy" if you’re just fundamentally ordinary. You, being normal, will never experience, perceive, create, or conclude anything that I am able to, or currently am, or might become. For you to experience something truly peak, you'd probably have to go out and pick up some illegal substance and break the law. Me? I just have to skip my prescription for a few days because my brain produces its own compounds that you actually have to go out and buy. I can wake up feeling like I'm on a cocktail of speed, ecstasy, and coke all at once—feeling absolutely head-over-heels in love and seeing the sheer beauty of everything—while you're busy whining about how the weather is terrible, or how cold it is, or how hot it is, or how much it's raining. Meanwhile, I'll be breathing in the crispness of the ice, soaking up every bit of the sun's heat, and actually feeling every single drop of rain.
You spent your vacation on some exotic island. I was in hell.
I haven't heard anyone say, "This shawl is beautiful, but it's made of silk." It's not good; it's too sensitive. I'd probably prefer something in latex. "Why are you so sensitive?" — Please. What's your excuse for being so insensitive? Because, honestly, questioning someone's "sensitivity" right now isn't even an issue, nor is it particularly relevant. Not that you'd be decent enough to realize that.
"My god, you're so thin, you look like you're wasting away, are you sick?" — Sorry, but just because you're a total cow doesn't mean I'm underweight. It means I'm at a normal weight for my build and fitness level—actually stronger and more resilient than you. The fact that you can barely move, sweat like a pig, can't fit into a single piece of clothing, and are likely headed for a heart attack doesn't make me "too thin." And yes, I am concerned about your health. But I’m not going to tell you that you're fat, because I don't need to, and I didn't even notice how big you were until you blurted out your weight. When I talk to you, I look you in the eye and listen to what you have to say.
No, the fact that I don't enjoy sitting motionless in a pub for two hours doesn't mean I'm antisocial; it just means I prefer a meaningful conversation while walking.
Jack Smith4 said:I'm not sure if there's already a thread for this, but let's just say this one exists now.
I can still vividly picture the exact moment during my first appointment with my psychiatrist. I can see her face, and I know precisely what the last thing out of my mouth was right before I popped that pill.
"...After this, there's no turning back." — and just like that, I swallowed 50mg of Seroquel like it was nothing. 😬
And honestly? I was right. There really is no turning back. I regret starting on meds more than anything. It was like a slow fade... bit by bit, I felt my mind and my emotions slipping away. I became so... weird. I can't even laugh or cry anymore—just absolutely NOTHING. Just a hollow shell. It’s like these drugs slowly stripped away every single emotion I ever had. Every dream, every shred of hope... they just turned it all into plain, empty WATER! 😢
Anyone else gone through something similar? ^^
A total void, just like you said. My best friend told me I was much more myself before I started the meds; she knows me better than anyone, so I trust her. Every psychiatrist tells me—as if that’s supposed to be comforting—"once you stop taking them...", but it's never that simple because the medications just keep being swapped out and piling up.
They lift me up a little, then pull me down a little, and when they finally "stabilize" me (which is supposedly the whole point)—I'm just a walking bore, a flat line, a total void... I'd love to just toss the whole lot in the trash, but I'm terrified because I know I don't have the strength left to fight whatever it was I was battling before I started messing with my chemistry; the drugs have essentially drained all my willpower and energy. And then comes the "try a different medication" advice—great advice, really, except it's obvious I'll just be cycling through them for the rest of my life. If someone could just tell me, or show me, or explain—how am I even supposed to feel?
Henry Peterson10 said:I mean, totally. Have you ever seen *Stanio and Olio*? It’s a good vibe, though building a friend zone is definitely a bit tougher in those scenarios. It’s always way easier when you actually have things in common 😁😁 . At the end of the day, everyone shares something. Like, we’re all living under the same big American sky.
Exactly. I mean, obviously we’re going to gravitate toward people who share our specific hobbies or interests first—that’s just how it works—but at the end of the day, everyone has these fundamental needs that are pretty much universal, like being accepted, loved, or just respected. The problem is that people tend to give up way too quickly on anyone they don't immediately click with, whether it's because they feel like they're "wasting time" or they just claim there's nothing in common. I honestly don't think there are two people on this planet who couldn't find at least a couple of things to bond over, assuming they actually took the time to get to know one another properly.
I can kind of relate to that—growing up, I had my fair share of broken bones, though looking back, it was mostly just pure clumsiness. I’m also the type of person who breaks things, forgets stuff, or loses my keys constantly... but it all stems from being scattered or feeling like I'm living in a completely different movie than everyone else. My hands shake quite badly, too—to the point where I’ve actually developed social anxiety about it. I stopped going out for coffee because if my hands start trembling, I start worrying that everyone is staring at me, which then makes my entire body start shaking. It’s honestly awful... I don't know if it's a side effect of medication, a reaction to stopping certain meds, or just part of who I am.
One thing I have noticed, though, is that when I’m working on a hobby I truly love, my hands are perfectly steady. I can focus on incredibly fine, delicate movements for hours without any issue. Because of that, I've started to suspect that this might be psychological—maybe something triggered by stress.
Do you have (or have you ever tried) a hobby you really enjoy that requires steady hands? Maybe that could be a way to test whether this is stress-related or something more neurological.
jadelynx2 said:In short, I will stay single forever. 🕺
Honestly? Same here. I think I've reached that exact same conclusion. It seems like "stable" guys don't want to deal with messy women, while I—well, I have zero interest in dating those "unhinged" types anymore. Every single one of them drives me straight to a therapist's office. At this point, I'd much rather be alone and peaceful than in a relationship that lands me in a psychiatric ward. He doesn't need to be some perfect specimen; he just needs to not drive me insane. Which, I guess, means finding someone emotionally stable—at least enough to function. I'm not looking for some "knight in shining armor" to fix my life; I've actually gotten pretty good at managing my own head over the years. But I'd settle for someone who isn't going to shred my nerves on a daily basis. And, ideally, someone who isn't incredibly boring... :clapping:
Long story short... I'll probably be flying solo for the rest of my life. 👎
it doesn't even make sense to pick out just one specific part of the lyrics... because honestly, every single line perfectly captures exactly how I'm feeling right now...
okay, once somebody finally shows me the "path" (order / cleanliness / discipline) then this is what happens
...but that's totally fine by me. that's exactly what I want. the race. once again.
If you’re actually looking for a race... first off, - you have to decide which discipline you're actually competing in - you need to figure out who your actual opponents are - and you have to be damn well pissed off about it.
(Or, if some other emotion is what drives you—which, I guess, is possible—you'll have to dig deep to find it... because indifference? That's just the biggest lie there is.)
Look, if you’re really that desperate for a schedule, just make one up. Honestly—creating a routine isn't the hard part; the actual struggle is actually sticking to it once it's on paper.
Basically, just try this: wake up at the same time every single day—shower—eat—work/exercise/read/write/chop wood/whatever you feel like doing—eat—more work/exercise/reading/writing/chopping wood/who knows—eat—shower—sleep. Wake up, and then start the whole loop all over again...