Tag Archives: paranoid


“The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn’t real. I know that, and I also know that if I’m careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.”

~Stephen King

Don’t laugh, but what he said is true, at least for me. There are some things that I do obsessively, like before I go to sleep, I will check the bathroom, the dressing and the two guest rooms for any sign of intruders. Then I will go to my own bedroom, look under the bed, switch on the night light (can’t sleep without) lock the door, be sure that my phone and my knife are under my pillow and start making a nest. I have a big hotdog  pillow on my right side of the bed and two more square ones on my left. These I believe will keep a Ju-On or anybody from laying next to me. Then there is another set of pillows against the open headboard of my bed to keep someone from pulling my hair from under the bed. I never forget to bunch up the sheets/comforter around me and fold them under my feet because like Stephen King said: to stop that thing from grabbing my ankle…


images: taffytoy2 & chemical babygirl

Paranoid Me

That I’m a bona fide certifiable paranoid is no secret anymore. But__ how deep it runs, not so many people are aware of. Not even if one is living in and about my immediate neighbourhood like let’s say under one roof. Apparently, I can I conceal (without trying and with success) the truth inside a package of seemingly perfect, logical, sensible and sane blunt straightforward reasoning wrapped in a fluffy cloud of neat and clean appearance coupled with nonchalant devil-may-care attitude.

The source of my paranoia is –what-else- people of course! I cannot stand them close to me. Not even their voices heard from over the fence. They disturb my Zen! I cannot even sit in my gazebos or be in the garden if they are in theirs. If I heard them talking, I feel like I’m eavesdropping and it makes me uncomfortable. I want to build a fort-like sort of fence around my property but of course, it is not allowed by building society for several of obvious (to them) and not obvious (to me) reasons.

A glimpse of their countenance seen through the gaps between fences, plantings, trellis pergolas or whatever is enough to send me running inside in a sheer panic, afraid they might perhaps want to strike a conversation with me about mundane (what else?) things and I absolutely have no desire to do that.

I want to be able to walk in my garden in all quiet and tranquillity. So, what I do? I garden when they are asleep!   I erected fences, planted 500 tulips, divided perennials and sown annuals in the middle of the night till early in the morning.

I potted around my plot in the pouring rain (which is quite enjoyable) knowing they will never dare to come out in that sort of weather.

I peep through open doorways and windows before going outside making sure that no one but no one is out there waiting for me. That way, I will not be forced to say hello and thousand other little unimportant things like the weather and God knows what.

I averted my face and pretend I’m preoccupied with something (reading emails, answering phone calls, etc.) whenever I am forced to endure letting myself be seen in public. I run to my car as fast as I could and slam the door before anyone can get a chance to stop me on my track.

I avoid mailman, delivery people, kids selling waffles… anyone who could divert my attention away from isolation and solitude.

The funny thing is: everyone thinks I’m sociable, good conversationalist, life of the party etc. kind of person. My children, in-laws friends and co-workers included. The reason probably is I believe in the saying that if you do anything, anything at all; forced or not you have to give it your best or otherwise you might as well forget about it.

So, whenever I am “forced” to socialize, I don’t do small talk (I show genuine interest because I really am interested. People interest me a great deal, as long as they are not crowding my style) say only things that matters and see to it that a conversation is at least leading to somewhere substantial and not just another polite inquiries about nothing important in particular. People say I am a good listener. And true, I really listen. I find that one can learn a lot by merely listening.  It seems I inspired trust from most people without being aware how I do it. They often tell me their woes and secrets which is at times quite taxing. 

Do they know how heavy a burden of too many told secrets and to keep it safely tucked away under lock and key? Psychologically, it could be quite trying. Especially if you have some issues of your own. But yeah, people are born selfish and careless when it comes to others. Their problems are the worst kind and their troubles are the only ones that matter. Surprise, surprise.

But enough about that or otherwise we are in for a very long blog post and I heard/read that most don’t like lengthy ones which I am not even sure if they have a right to determine what someone could or could not pen because everybody has choices (to read or not to read) anyway.

Anyway, where am I?

Ah, I’m about to say that forget scientific explanations (for once) medical terms and clinical mumbo-jumbo; I am saying this as another ordinary person without falling back on my academic knowledge on the subject: I think being weird/psycho/eccentric/crazy/loony/cuckoo or whatever___ sits in the blood; or genes/DNA or whatever it is that’s responsible for carrying some certain traits through generation. I believe this condition is hereditary. I saw it from relatives, siblings, and offspring through the years. It manifests one way or the other. Some have it more pronounce and others can hide the symptoms better (like me) 🙂

But it is there, lurking just above the surface or sitting in the deepest chamber of their souls (mind) waiting for some environmental trigger to jump-start their genetic make up.

There is no cure for it. It sits in someone’s core (or not) forming the real basis of ones personalit(y)ies. With me, I can manage; as long as I don’t spend too much time out there or don’t get too close to someone…




Disclaimer: Totally work of fiction. Any resemblance with reality is absolute mere coincidence and not intended. If anyone decided to sue anyway, be sure you got the patent for whatever you are complaining about.

Dear Bebong,

I’m saying this to you plain and straight as to avoid any misunderstanding that may occur regarding this confession of mine. No coded words, no reading between the lines, just a simple fact. I realized even before I decided to make myself a laughing stock of cyber scene that you can be my downfall. But coming out in the open is the best way to clear all the confusion between us.

I’m in love with you. I have been in love with you even before you begin posting those saucy mutilated pictures of yours and were ignorant of your smiling eyes, luscious lips, elegant neck and inborn beautiful thighs. Even before I hear your true laugh in your video introduction, I am already slave of your confused, impertinent mind. You are my moon over Blogsville, your presence filled my lungs. That you are a bit paranoid and pseudo-intellectual doesn’t bother me. We’re kindred spirit, we‘re of the same mind.

So here I am, opening my unwashed and half naked soul for all to judge. I’m at your mercy. Please be gentle because I’m not only suspicious, I am also touchy.


If dreams are allowed, I’m thinking honeymoon in Casablanca ‘neath the paddles fan in Rick’s candle lit café. And don’t forget, I will go all the way for you girl!!!

 In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,  


It’s nice if this letter really exists. But it doesn’t. I wrote it myself and was inspired by some certain individuals who I happened to believe are harboring some ulterior motives. Of course there is no way I could know if this is all true unless they admit it. On the other hand, there is always a possibility that I am totally off-kilter. Who knows?

Here and there in the body of the letter I scattered some sentences which are part of several offline messages they sent to me therefore recognizable to them but the reader will have no knowledge about. Only they could identify the clues. Though acquainted with one another they have no idea about each other’s part in this story. I know I’m bad. But I don’t like people who are trying to tickle themselves at my expense. I could play the game too.

Man holding playing cards, ace in sleeve

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unlock the mind

I don’t want to be repetitive but as I mentioned before, I have this unnamed phobia of being left alone in the house; any house. And because I mostly work from home, I often find myself in this dreaded situation. The moment the door closes, I instantly panic! The scenarios of all horror/thriller books and movies I have ever read and seen come marching in my consciousness in rapid succession. If I run out of written and filmed ideas, I conjure up some myself and believe you me; I’m pretty good in that. Being a first row spectator all my life, my characters are so vivid and real I believe them with all my heart. My mother said I always have an over active imagination. I wonder if that is a compliment or an insult.

Because of my condition, I rarely sleep. Pills don’t work their magic on me. I tried herbal teas as well, warm baths sauna swimming hiking massage sex, all to no avail. One time out of desperation, I tried to combine all of them at once. Never again! Too much stimulation. (btw I was writing this in bed after I swallowed two sleeping pills and with no decent sleep for the last 3 consecutive days) I never talk about my condition to anyone. The reason for this is I don’t know how to tell my story without sounding hysterically funny. Seems I have this gift of downplaying my emotion and laughing at myself. So, I shut up and suffer in silence.

I’ve been to a psychiatrist. Once. The first and last time I reach out to seek help. He accused me of having third world mentality and luxury problems, whatever that means. Needless to say I never repeat the visit. I don’t want to end up with more trauma than what I already have. Besides, I can rationalize or guess diagnose more or less what I am suffering from. I think the right term is PTSD. Only mine is never been “post” to be a syndrome. But how the hell I know, I’m not an expert.

Sometimes, I’m willingly calling myself paranoid, when having just another day in paradise episode. It meant to be a joke but it hurts! Only I refused to admit it. But the truth is it governs my life, and my self-imposed solitude doesn’t help much either. Another thing is I just acquired a physical condition that keeps me in bed at times on ends. Great exercise for my over-active imagination, lying immovable in bed, all alone.  Probably that’s why I’m blogging (is it the right term?) to lessen the mental (or is it emotional?) pain.

Well, I’m  going to stop right here because I have an inkling that I’m spitting gibberish. I just hope that I’m coherent enough to be understood…


Reply To Writing 101: Unlock the Mind

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