11/26/25: Identity

I am starting a new format inspired by my friend, David. I thought it would help me write better and parse my thoughts more clearly if I stuck to one topic as compared to convincing myself that I was just wordvomiting my thoughts out in a journal. Even if I was, it'd probably do my mind some good to pretend to stick to a particular topic! 

Today, I made a 4 hour long drive with my wife and brother to see my dad's side of the family. My wife got a cup of apples on the way and a bee tried to mug her for them; that's how juicy and sweet they were. Everyone was happy to see me, and I hope they don't cry when I leave. I never understood why that happened as a child; they know I'm going to come back, so, why are they so upset? But growing up, I realize that they really didn't know if they would see me again because of my dad's schizophrenia interfering with our family life. Next year I will be 20 years old, and if schizophrenia is going to start rearing its ugly head my way, it will be soon. I already see pets and unidentified (running?) objects scuttle in my peripheral view, hear people talking when I am alone, and hold strange convictions. I try not to be scared because I don't think that makes me who I am. There are some actions that cater toward the end product of a Michael, however: screaming when I'm alone because I loved to hear the sound of my voice; my first impression of mortality, a kitten named Marshmallow; I cradled his little body in my arms and my grandma told me his brother had crawled in my grandpa's shoe and met the same fate, so I giggled, but I didn't know what being uncomfortable was at the time. I wish that school had a subject for naming emotions outside of happiness, anger, and sadness so I could wash off all of these bad memories with a half decent analysis. Sometimes I wonder if childhood is like a fingertip; at work, I always scrub it off, listening to music, in my own head, laughing with new people, ogling at families and their fancy homes, dusting the dirt off smily photos, but it always comes back. That's why analyzing my childhood makes me weary; imagine if psychological or neurological evidence supports the fact that you can never escape your noggin of origin, the cage you crafted for yourself with care and the love of friends and family? I'd hate to think of it. 

So, the last time that I tried mushrooms, I had an absolutely horrible experience. I felt like I was dead and the world was laughing at me for spending my entire life consumed with anxiety. Even my cavemen ancestors were in awe of my suffering, wondering why I didn't appreciate the littler things. And when I looked at myself I was quite small, like an elf. I was overcome with this feeling to change my mind toward the way that I wanted to think, and it seemed so easy at the time. 
Scare me straight, then you will see that I am capable of whatever desiderata. I actually felt great when all was said and done, but the human mind is as complex and selfish as mycelium latches onto its detritus.

The human mind sometimes wishes it had no voice to present its notched key to the door. Or just mine... either way, I have spent the last few years appeasing the child in me with a spacious birdcage, tulle canopy, and swirly strokes all around the nuances of a rotten little girl. I hope that she is happy.