The first of July in 2025 has just begun, yet I have gotten worse in terms of mental and physical health. Behavior also counts, but that's another half of this entry. What I'll focus on first is, well, the health of course.
Regarding my talents, I've somehow gotten a little better. Oh yes, I've artistically improved somehow. For instance, a short animation I created through self teaching that is composed entirely of hand drawn keyframes. I'm really proud of it, and it might-could be how I animate things.
But my real-life state is worrying, and if anything...Oh who cares nobody even reads this damned blog anyway because I don't cover jackshit. Either way, let's get this over with.
The source fortells the death of all the whim that remains
It was another day where I've gotten into a session in online class. I was really pissed off that none of the teachers were treating me right, giving me so many unfair exams and responses that leave me more angry by the minute. Not to mention, it was all highly difficult.
As my anger escalates into "spoiled little bastard" levels, my mom constantly reccomended group therapy, and after many exclamations of "NO!" and "SHUT UP I DON'T WANNA BE TAKEN TO A MENTAL HOSPITAL," I accepted it and stayed there for 2 days.
And I was right when I mentioned to her that it'll be depressing. The food they serve to each patient is just as bad as what they'd serve you in jail, if not worse, due to being badly produced and stale, even being served cold every time you get it (At least the orange juice was better than all they served in a silver platter). The patients are all fucked in the head, but mostly not concerning enough. There's no peace, no comfort for anybody to put them into enjoyment. No good blankets or pillows for each bed in their sad, bland rooms. No vast variety of movies you could watch on their built in televisions and instead a limited selection in a built-in streaming service of children's movies that 10 year olds would like.
I was glad that it took only 2-3 days during the first time I went there, and I was lucky I wasn't given any punishments I was warned of. Yet it got worse the week after I left.
The towering, intimidating stranger left wounds on his face through the blasphemous oaths of temptation
The last RBT client I had, someone I rejected due to his criminal appearance and unnaturally deep voice, was put into my new house by my ABA therapist to "help me out." But I said I didn't wanted him. He wasn't human enough like my first RBT, but all everyone around me did was push him to be my "Best Fwiend!." Yeah right, you heard his fuckin' voice?
My mom and my therapist was shoving into my face constantly that he has to be with me through every single day and if I wouldn't accept it I would be taken to the same horrible insanity ward. I kept on trying to disobey that flat ordeal, but that tall, weirdly tanned pile of crap would follow me EVERYWHERE I would go in my house no matter how far I'd escape from his xenon infected throat. I swear, that creepy bastard would force himself through every door, bursting it open strongly as he reaches his stupid arms around with a blank face like he's a fucking Cuban strangler (He even looked like Michael Myers), while I tried my damndest to backfire his attempt at creeping into every room I was in. He even had his foot locked onto my bedroom door, and I literally broke it (Or helped him I mean I dunno he's the guy who primarily caused it) when I was trying to lay him off it. And that massive seam is still there! Fuckin' home intruder cockwrench.
I was still pissed off if not moreso because it wasn't just my mother, but some other asshole I didn't wanna have. And after all that torture, I had to accept group therapy the second time, yet things got worse.
And the tolls of dread ring, killing each and every weed and beast
It was a total of 7 goddamned days I had to stay for the second time, and this is where my current state of life develops. I still didn't wanna eat the shit-molded grub, I didn't get the enjoyment I was used to, and the FUCKING air conditioning in the hospital made things more terrible. Maybe it wasn't the air conditioning but holy shit this is what killed my enjoyment.
The air conditioning was polluted, and it gave me symptoms I recognized but never knew exactly as to how they came: Throat-aches, losing senses of taste and smell, dehydration, mucus buildup, and unexplained weight loss. That means whenever I ate or drink something I could taste my own mucus, preventing me from eating anything.
And out of the occasional escorts from the group activity, I've gotten two punishments during my stay that left me moderately traumatized (not that I'm easily offended).
The first one wasn't as horrible as the second one but I had to be forcefully taken out of a room because some pearl-clutching dumbass thought my word-by-word remark of "He got dem hairy legs!" was extremely discriminatory and hateful (it fucking wasn't you dick). They sent me to my own bed and later came back with two painkilling vaccines, and I tremendously freaked out because I didn't want to have any of them. I was painfully injected and left with the aftermath of being sedated and numb beyond any thought process while I had psychadelic visionary hallucinations projected onto my sight. It was like I was both drunk and high at the same time, and by god these guys hate me.
The second one was where I had to be taken to the "seclusion room" (a white room torture device) because I kept arguing with a middle aged man over discussing my favorite bands with the patients in a not-so-loud level. There were two middle aged men, one was the aformentioned argument opponent, shackling me while my screams echoed in the chamber. I was body-slammed onto the floor and hoisted by the two men so another could inject me with another one of their syrums. I was left in the room for more than 2 minutes and I was forever cursed with my first exposure to a white room. Goddamned barbarian research facility officers beating me up because I wasn't staying put.
Still, most of those days I tried my best to keep myself calm and civil, although the physical weakness crept in overtime. But this was fucking horrible. Pure psychiatric separation from peace to which I ruin due to my poor mentality. Mom would've not let an RBT into my house every day, but I got the bad reputation in my family that I shouldn't have had since 3 years of age. Those doctors didn't help me positively, that's for sure. What could've been worse is if they put me in a stray jacket and kept me there until I rot from hunger.
Thankfully, I was given good news that I wouldn't have an RBT client nor would I have to take online classes anymore, and I was much happier. Yet I was left with a cold (along with the weight loss) that spun for more than a week.
He becomes a vitcim of a plague, being torn of his flesh as the leeches consume his heart
After I left, I still didn't taste anything, explaining how little I ate at the time. Some changes have been made to my lifestyle, like opening the curtains in my bedroom during daytime. I struggled nonetheless, becoming more sad than I was before as I slowly rid myself of this disease, yet I still had to take the pills I got when I was in group therapy (Oh yeah forgot to mention that).
When my cold finally erased itself, I was much better and my tastes have finally returned, yet I still suffered weight loss and one of the pills I was taking gave all carbonated drinks a weird, bitter taste. Either way it was good I wasn't suffering from much.
That was until I found out how fast my heart was beating, unnecessarily fast even. It took weeks to address it to my parents, my mother discarding one pill and my father not even caring. And one night, when my mother was in my bedroom for my heart palpitations, I suddenly felt like my heart stopped until I eventually started hyperventilating and rocking back and forth on my bed while my heart skyrocketed at 178 beats per minute. It was a panic attack, and it's the first I've ever gotten in my life.
I was really afraid I was gonna die at that moment, so my mother had to phone the emergency as I took as much deep breaths as I could to lower the heart rate. The emergency team eventually came in and checked my heart for good measure, only to find out that I'm slightly above average. Why? 'Cause I breathed and breathed of course. After the emergency left, my mom decided that I should stop taking one of the pills that she thought was giving me these palpitations, but to no avail.
The storms continued week after week, pouring frogs and locusts
Days later, my damned palpitations continued. It was worse due to the fact that the pill causing it also gave me muscle spasms and it worsened by every dose. My father forced it every morning and evening, 2 doses in the day and 4 doses at night, torturously spoonfeeding them to me like they're nutrients no matter how much I refuse. On the last day I took that pill, I got my second panic attack, so even if my father continued with his "You gonna be okay felio" bullshit it was still urgent because I couldn't swallow correctly, I couldn't control myself, and my heart still raced even if I took breaths.
I eventually made a visit to the emergency to try and fix this issue. The nurses gave me a blood test to see what's going on, though it probably was a day before this one. After the blood results came, indicating a consistent blood stream except for my thyroid hormones acting up, I was told that I would take a single dose of that pill every start and end of the day.
However, that still didn't work. One morning, my heart continued speeding itself up even if I tried to take deep breaths, including serious headaches I didn't have and increased emotions, so I had to go see the emergency AGAIN to see if they can resolve this once and for all. After being pale and depressed from all the pain I was going through while crying at what I thought was cancer, all my medications have been discontinued and I was assured I'd be much more fine. Thank god I could taste carbonated drinks again.
But that was only the prologue to another troublesome illness.
He can no longer feel anything of senses and body, only the sense of blackness
When last month began, I felt horrible out of nowhere. I was in a session with a new therapist who doesn't visit my house every day while I drank my good ol' Sparkling Ice, yet with every sip I didn't feel comfortable with drinking it, almost fatigued even. It was after I had the meeting that I drank my milk and vomited on my bathroom wall out of control, tempting my mother to clean all of it up for 2 hours. This is where my current problem began.
At first, I guessed that I had an upset stomach, so my mother commanded me to "eat more food" and "you neet to eet food" and by God all she blabbered was just gluttony but that ISN'T the fuckin' problem! I couldn't taste anything, not even digest it properly while I was at it. I was also pale and had arrhythma, not to mention my weight going down a lot more. And the worst part is, we haven't even figured out what the hell I had.
So after being sick of not eating anything, I went to the emergency around the third time with my father. The big problem was that I couldn't have a good conversation with him because he said so much stupid unrealistic bullshit that proved he couldn't remember what happened, and I got so angry due of it because he was supposed to be helping me and not turn into such a dumbass who suffers from Alzenheimer's. He asked the same stupid fucking question over and over, he kept interrupting me because he thought my more honest observations were bullshit when his was much worse, he kept yelling at me despite telling me not to yell (I guess that's what happens when you have parental hypocrisy!), and the worst part was that he thought I didn't have any problems at all! What good is that?! "Yoo don haf problim yoo are perfectly fine you haf to neet to ee- I'M NOT HEALTHY GYARDDUMMIT
And guess what? I was right!
Faint timbres of etheral serenity sound through his auricles
The doctors actually know more than my father: As I described my symptoms to one of my doctors, he observed it as a case of hyperthyroidism (It made sense because my blood test results mention problems with my thyroid), and I stuck with it for a while. The nurses then gave me three liquid medications to help my digestion, and they surprisingly worked! Before I took them, I was pale and I didn't build up much saliva, but afterwards those problems have been casted away. Well, medically at least. Thank god for those medications. What's better is that those medications have given me the ability to chew food again, but I still can't taste anything nor am I gaining more weight.
Days later, I had an appointment with the endocrinologist to see if he discovers my problem, resulting in him hypothesizing that it isn't hyperthyroidism (and also nothing even happening). My mom stuck to that yet I still don't know what exactly I'm ridden with, and I don't want this to end with "Everything is fine," because it'll mean none of the doctors give a shit about my health and will continue to lie to me. So I just stuck with "The thyroid hormones not working because of my weight loss that came from a cold" (My mom doesn't understand either so I guess we're both unsure).
Not as much has developed for now, resuming the clergy's search
There are some days where I have troubling physical faults that come out of nowhere, like when my jaw feels loose and it's about to fall off. I still have this loose jaw right now and I'm afraid it'll not cure, but let's see.
Days ago, I went to an ultrasound test to see if my thyroids are inflated. The result was obviously "Everything is normal you are normal I am normal we are normal hyowminz" because the doctor didn't examine jackshit or double check anything, though I did show my mother an ultrasound scan of hyperthyroidism and she pointed out that there were no sponge-like holes or more than 15 blue and red dots (they indicate the blood flow). So if the doctors still haven't found anything, the next exam must be 50 times more indepth. I could have an endoscopy or a blood test.
A great sea appears before the eyes of the shipmen, where they hear the deafening cries of the wicked one in the distance
And then came the time where I wanted my ears cleaned because of all the earwax clogging up my hearing. What bugged me with that was not just the inability to hear clearly (Hell, I've had that going for more than a year because my ears weren't being cleaned enough.), but to hear my heartbeat louder than I used to. As stupid as I was, I would press each of my ears and rub them around to try and get rid of the earwax, but all it did was make one of the ears sting painfully whenever I burped, did the Valsalva maneuver poorly, or put pressure into my jaw in general; and due to the tremendous pain, I was sent to the urgent care to get my ears cleaned, and I was expecting the cleaning process to be extreme.
Now, the urgent care could've been good if my mother wasn't being so sensitively overprotective over my impression of Harry Callahan that she thought was just me making fun of the doctor's voice. That sure got me agitated, which brings me to the second concern that set a worse period: My heartbeat.
I noticed that my heartbeat made two pumps a beat, which isn't really dangerous because I've heard that exact pattern before through audio of the heart. And if I weren't so concerned about it (I never thought of it as a typical heart rhythm), my mom wouldn't remind me of her heart disease I don't really have called "mitral valve prolapse." 'Cause she has a far more arrhythmic sensation than I do, and thank God for that.
So when the doctors got in the warm water, I would finally have some cleansing to go through. First they'd load up the syringe with the water, and then plunge it through the ear canal so I can feel that intense pressure and audibly ear-bleeding blast of the fluids. At that point, I was really shivering myself off from the power of the procedure, falsely laughing at how much it tickles but still in fear at how sharp it was.
Good thing I was thankful enough to have my ears cleaned, and I wasn't exactly freaking out tremendously despite being pretty nervous. After I left the ear doctor, I was certain that nothing would get in my way as much as before.
That thought had been halted.
On the Day of Mars, a deadly curse tarnishes the hope once wished to be had
It was just a few seconds before I would wake up early that morning after dreaming, and something unusual happened that I didn't really understand at the time, but was really paranoid about. I heard myself croaking in a falsetto, gargling at times even. It was so scary to go through that, after I woke up, I thought I heard my own death rattle (That's the noise a person makes when they die). I panicked, breathing heavily while my heart pounded rapidly as I was desperate to ask my mother about it, but due to no answer I had to message her through the iPad instead.
She came into my bedroom with the most annoyed look from being disrupted of slumber, and I was begging her to take care of me because, from my thoughts, I was going to die. She kept telling me that everything was going to be fine and that I'm not going to die at all. Thankfully, I have not, as that was just a case of sleep apnea, but ever since that day, a whole entire era of anxiety immediately develops.
A presistent illness rampantly swirls within the body, and the clergy begins pending the answer to all of the torment for him
Ever since the 5th of August 2025, I was stressed, worried, and scared of an impending demise I thought was soon to come. My heart was palpitating, I was panicking, and perhaps traumatized if anything. I felt weak, and my throat would close up out of stress.
Speaking of which, just about a few days later my throat suddenly closed up out of nowhere, and being the absolute dumbass I was, I tried to massage every area of my throat in need of having my muscles relaxed. But nope, it made the sensation last FAR longer than that, and at the time of writing this it's been about 41 FUCKING DAYS AND NOTHING HAS GOTTEN BETTER.
And then came the inflammation, the congestion, the numbness of my right arm, pulses of pain on the chest, blood clots in the brain, and the discovery of being a life-long mouth breather. I've had to take Lorazepam, which would've helped but still gave me various side effects, especially the numb right arm. I've even been suffering through inbalances in my blood, oxygen, and electrolytes too. What's worse is the amount of pressure on my skull, accompanied with cognitive function issues and trouble creating a fluent sentence through speech. Hell, I may not be doing a good job by neglecting priorities and forgetting about a schedule, not to mention straining my eyes with an iPad, but at some point I'll get through all of this and redeem myself completely.
The disease is yet to be lifted by salvation, rekindling the damned at last unless all is temporary
And all of this time, literally through the last month to this very day, I kept wondering to myself, "What the hell is it that I have? Am I forever cursed with a disease?" My prior speculations are: A) Thyroid glands that have been effected, B) Underlying conditions like a heart infection or a brain disease, or C) Symptoms of cancer, if at all. Hell, my mom doesn't know what I have either, nor does my father.
But the worst part is that those are just a bunch of assumptions I brought up through a bunch of cyberchondric search-binges as I'm dying to know what's really happening, and if I attribute those results to myself, I will end up mentally depraved and my anxiety will manifest those feelings into my body paradoxically.
Hope rests at the far end of the iris with good fortune and will to be expected
As of right now, I have made several improvements. Even if I feel depressed and I'm still seeking reassurance, I've been able to gain a healthier diet, exercise a few times (not right now though, and I don't know how to get through it), and improve my behavior from aggression to something a little passive. I might have to conclude that even if what I may be feeling right now MIGHT be a bunch of underlying conditions, all that could be happening is an allergic reaction, a bad phase of bone growth due to scoliosis while undergoing what could be my final growth spurt, perhaps withdrawal from Lorazepam, and most importantly of all: The anxious feelings that continue after 5 weeks.
I'm thankful enough to know that my heart is mostly fine, even if it feels quite weak. As proof, it shows that I am, of course, NOT dead. So mark me when I type this, 'cause it'll assure me a half-pint of good luck...
I will not die until I'm 76 years old. A damn thing is hardly gonna get in my way, and I'll work on what I've imagined for a long time. Stress is a silent killer, and I will kill it louder than it ever can!
But we'll see...
