I sit in a cubicle, facing no one. All day I answer phone calls. I help students register for classes, learn how to use the website of the college where I work, or navigate the waters of financial aid. I sit with the sides of my cubicle hiding me from most people's view. It is an isolating thing, to sit in a cubicle. I am good at my job. I've been doing it for five years. I am but a peon, in an institution where peons aren't valued much. I am part of the machine.
But there is so much more going on in that cubicle than what the people around me can see.
I am a CIA operative. I have been mind controlled. Perhaps, even that monitoring device I thought they had put into my leg (which I tried to cut out of my leg in 2004) was real. I know that the reason I have always worked (mostly) in call centers is that I am doing a secret job for the Illuminati/New World Order government. I am being tested, and am giving out information, even giving orders, in double speak and code language. I talk to people about concentration camps, and they test me to see if I will act like I am a Nazi. They test me with their questions. Everything is a test. They say words, which are key words, code words, like, "Gotcha!", and I know what they mean. They caught me in a lie or they caught me giving out information, or they realized I'm not loyal to the Nazis. They tell me I am going to die. They tell me I am going to give birth to a tomb baby - a dead baby that has supposedly been in my body for years. And years.
In short, they tire me out, these people. These conversations. I become weary and close my eyes as I speak on the phone. I want to escape. But there is no escaping your own mind. I tell myself, "It's not real. It's not real. It's not real". And that is how I survive it.
I know none of it is real. I also know that part of me wants to believe that I'm part of some bigger, grand purpose, some master plan, some big deal secret universe, that I'm longing to be an insider, and that I want to believe I have superior intelligence and special knowledge gained telepathically. I want this sometimes. It makes life more interesting. But I hate it, all the time. It makes life a total hell.
People where I work assume I am an underachiever. I've never applied for a higher paying job there in five years that I've been doing this menial labor which I am over qualified to do. But that is because I can't make any more money under the rules of Social Security, so I can't get promoted even to a higher paying, part time, temporary job. I flat out told a human resources person and an upper level manager the other day that I have Schizophrenia, and that is why I've never tried to be promoted. Who knows what they thought of that. I just said it because it's the truth and because the human resources guy was telling me about how if I disclosed my disability (which I did, before), they could provide "accomodations" (which they're forced to do under the law). And I am thinking of doing that since I was told that I was "lucky" not to be fired for going into the hospital for three weeks.
But it's just a job. It feels like part of the netherworld. It feels like my duty. It feels like secret communications are happening all the time. I know how crazy this sounds. I know how ridiculous. But I am writing about it here because my therapist thought talking about the thoughts might help me, in writing. I can look at these thoughts of me being a CIA op, and say to myself, "There's that old story. I know where that leads, and I'm not going there". And I can fight the thoughts like that. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy can help me. Mindfulness can help me. I can ground myself in the present, the here and now, the world where there is no Holocaust occurring right now in the United States.
Five years, I've done this job, and I've deal with these symptoms that nobody would understand if they knew about them. It gets better sometimes, worse other times.
I did get some ostensibly good news today. I had my second appeal to my university to allow me to continue getting financial aid approved after they got the letter from my psychiatrist that said I was able to return to college. The problem is, I'm not so sure I am really able to return to college.
That's kind of a problem.
Reading is impossible, as usual. I want to read this book called Brain on Fire, so I bought it but, of course, I can't read the book. Just a couple pages here and there. I don't know how I'll get through another semester of reading and writing papers. Plus I took Spanish I, last fall, and now it is a year later when I'm taking Spanish II, where I won't remember much if anything. I'm scared that I can't do it.
But I must do it. Everything rides on me going to school. Everything. I must do it. And I must keep my job until I find something better where I can do some other job with my weird thoughts believing I am a special op on other duties. Or something.