A Side-Note On Psychic Vampires
July 27, 2012 in Defining Things By Their Deeds
First? Let me define a “psychic vampire”. No, they don’t sparkle. Let’s get that out of the way right out of the gate – these aren’t trendy, mopey vampires who look like that dude with the hair in those comedy movies with that girl who likes to ride on her directors. Psychic vampires can’t be defined by their appearance. Psychic vampires can’t be defined by anything apart from their actions. They can go out in the daylight and stuff. They’re allowed to drive cars or hold down jobs or own pets. They’re just like you and me. I’m guessing you already know a few, and after I define them, you can take action against them. Because you should. You should stake these fuckers through their empty, draining hearts.
How do you spot a psychic vampire? Well, let me talk from experience. And recent experience at that. If I don’t talk from actual experience then you’ll be fully correct in believing I’m just talking nonsense on a blog to fill up space because talking nonsense on a blog to fill up space can be pretty fun. I’ve been guilty of that in the past and I know it. Mea Culpa, etc. No. I’m putting my serious hat on at a serious angle here. I mean – I’ll make jokes and shit – but one look at my serious hat should tell you I’m serious.
*checks brim of serious hat*
How do you spot a psychic vampire? A few examples. All relating to me. See – I’ve battled depression, serious fucking depression, for the past five years or so. I’ve been suicidal twice. I don’t mean “thinking about suicide”. I mean “holding the blade against my wrist and crying tears I never hope you ever cry” suicidal. I’ve had multiple nervous breakdowns. I’ve emptied my body of salty water I’ve cried so much. I’ve been exhausted by tears. I’ve got more words for crying than Inuits have for snow*. To combat this serious fucking depression, I’ve been on medication. The chemical cosh. I’ve flattened what made me human just to survive. I’ve crushed my feelings, my emotions, and literally my dreams, because for a while they were really fucking dangerous. Have you ever been down? Depressed? Suicidal? If you have (and one in four of us have, so don’t feel alone) then you’ll maybe recognise the “spiral”. Where something rather innocuous happens in your life, and the next minute you’re helter-fucking-skeltering down the chute of true-blue, kill-me-now, my life sucks, sadness. Well – my medication stopped the spiral. It stopped the anti-whee! down the slide into death.
For that, I am forever grateful.
I’m grateful because I feel better now than I have in the last ten years, if I’m honest.
And if there’s one thing you can rely on me for, Dear Reader, it’s honesty.
Problem is? Stopping the spiral? It stops a lot of other things. I studied the chemical make-up of my little Ol’ SSRI friend. I studied the results in a lab rat who looked a lot like me in the mirror. When I managed to look in a mirror, that is. What my spiral-stopping friend also stopped was things like my libido, my appetite (not just for food), my sleep patterns (so, so sleepy) and most of all, my ability to concentrate. Have you got a good doctor? I think I had one. I mean, he’s just a General Practitioner as we call them over here, but he listened and gave out dosages of what in retrospect was the right thing to do. I used to meet him once a month and try not to cry when he asked how things were. I used to discuss the effects of my SSRI. And especially the concentration part, or lack of it. I equated it to a shopping trolley with a bad wheel. Where you push it and it slowly veers off to the side. It keeps veering off to the side no matter how much you try to steer it straight. That was the effect on concentration. I’d try to concentrate (as you do) but my mind kept veering off to the side. I’d lose focus of what I was thinking and move onto another thing almost immediately.
This mental shopping trolley with a bad wheel saved my life. My shopping trolley with a bad wheel stopped me concentrating on what I was perceiving as the “bad” things in life. It stopped me spiralling down because I could not concentrate on what was initially pushing me down the slide. Before I knew it, spiralling kinda stopped. I mean – I’d get down, seriously-take-to-bed-for-a-week down and stuff, but I wasn’t holding a blade against my wrist and spreading mucus down a t-shirt I’d worn continuously for a week.
Yep. I can pretty much say that this shopping trolley saved my life. The next time you get a shopping trolley with a bad wheel when you’re out shopping? Don’t get angry at it. Think of me, and how a rather tortured shopping trolley analogy saved my life. Have a little smile. Then maybe push that shopping trolley away from you, let it glide down the aisle into some cornflakes or something, just leave it, then go back and get another, unfucked one. Life’s too short for bad shopping trolleys, and you’ve got shit to do. Give yourself another smile for ridding yourself of an annoyance you really don’t need right now.
Which brings me back to psychic vampires.
In short? Being and feeling well angers psychic vampires. Coming out of your own personal dark times, crawling out of your little cave of depression? They kinda hate that. That makes them hiss inside. That’s their sunlight – you feeling good, or not as shitty. Instead of saying “Hey, how you doing these days?” and you answering “Honestly? Haven’t felt better in ages. Weird, eh? LOL.” and them replying “Fucking Awesome. Let’s go get some tea to celebrate”, they sorta go “Really? You? Really? Come on. The guy who cries all the time over nothing? Fuck off. I don’t believe you. Remember when you had the blade against your wrist? That guy? Where the fuck is that guy? Are you sure? Come on. Cry for me, teary-boy. Just like old times. Summon up some snot. Go back to your bed and dream of nothing.”
Or something along those lines. You know what I mean. When you tell someone that you’re feeling better about shit, and they don’t answer in the positive?
That’s a psychic vampire.
But. You must understand. A lot of psychic vampires don’t know they’re psychic vampires. They think they’re being quirky, or just themselves, or “funny”. But they’re not. They’re trying to drag you back down in the only way they can. Your happiness is a crucifix to them. Your laughter is holy water thrown by Peter Cushing. And they’ll fight you. A lot of the time they don’t know they’re actually fighting you, your inner Peter Cushing, but they’ll fight you all the fucking same. They’re infected, you see. They might also feel strange while fighting you. You’ve upset their view of you. Maybe they know you and only know you as depressed. Or suicidal. Or blue. It’s a sliding scale it is, sadness, and the Kelvin scale isn’t much help to the inner workings of your mind. But when you finally get your head out from underwater (note my almost continuous mixing of metaphors, Dear Reader, to keep your mind agile) and they don’t throw you a life preserver almost immediately, they want you to drown.
Some psychic vampires know in their cold, barren hearts that they are. These cunts are the worst. Because cunts they are. Not only should you avoid these cunts like the plague, you should punch them in the cock/ovaries on general fucking principle.
All this aside – how does one defeat a psychic vampire, you ask? I think I’ve got a few in my office, to be honest, you say. Yeah. Jim. Or Sally. They kinda sound like psychic vampires. That shit Bob said to me last week? That cunty thing he said that really got me angry? Fucking hell. He was being a psychic vampire! I see now, VirusWithShoes! You has lifted the veil of not-seeing-a-psychic vampire from my eyes and now I feel reborn!!! Where’s my credit card, I want to donate to Wordsmoker rightfuckingnow.
Heh. You’re welcome, Dear Reader. But it’s not just in offices you find these hissing little bastards. It’s in everyday life. They could be what you can loosely call “a friend”. Or a member of your own family. Or a virtual friend on Facebook. Once you spot the signs I’ve carefully outlined for you, you might see these fun-fuckers everywhere. Sorry!
I’m not sorry. I’m here to pass on information to make your life better, Dear Reader. And keep your donation. This advice is free. Although I’d kill for a really good blowjob right now.
Where was I?
Yeah. Coming off my medication. I’m about a month into cold-turkey withdrawal. Symptoms? Brain freezes. Brain freezes and feeling a lot, lot better. Thinking clearer than I have in five years. Driven. My concentration is coming back with gusto. Looky-here – I’ve already written over 1500 words on psychic vampires and I haven’t even finished yet. I mean – I’m not saying this is the best thing I’ve ever written, but about a month or two ago? If you were to tell me that I’d sit down and hold a thought in my head for longer than a minute and then take that thought and write for what is now 20 minutes and produce over 2000 words on that single, fucking thought? I’d have laughed at you. Well. I wouldn’t have. I didn’t laugh a lot, even back then. But I do now. And I can laugh at myself too without it feeling like another nail in my own psychological coffin. I can be pretty fucking funny sometimes, I admit. Okay.
What to do with a psychic vampire.
Pretty simple. They’re flimsy, gossamer creatures. Although they’re somehow in your life, somehow they’ve managed to drain you, defeating these bastards is pretty fucking easy you’ll be glad to hear. First of all? Ignore them. Don’t listen to what they say about you unless it’s completely fucking positive. If they are not helping you then they are draining you. It’s as black and as white as that. No debate. Don’t start one in your head. You need to stop listening to these bastards immediately. They’re draining you and you, and they, probably don’t know it. Walk away from them. Go outside. Go sit alone, apart from them. If you can’t immediately walk away from them? Laugh at them. Right in their face. Don’t be embarrassed. You’re saving your own life by doing it. If they say something that drags you down, just smile and laugh right fucking at them. I mean – you can laugh and tell them they’re a cunt (because they are) but if this might get you into trouble, just smile or laugh and walk away. Psychic vampires hate that shit. That’s like silver on the skin to them, if your vampires are True Blood ones.
Psychic vampires hate you getting – or feeling – better. They hate the good coming out of you.
Are you on Facebook? You probably are. I am. There’s probably a fair few of them who are your “friends” on there. Congratulations, you can laugh in their virtual face too. How? By hiding them? Unfriending them? Yes. All these things. If you see one you can also call them out on it. You can straight off call them a cunt if you want. Or you can laugh at them. You can poke fun at them (pun!) and their pernicious, cunty ways. Laugh and joke and call them out, then defriend them. Get fucking rid. Say your piece and get the fuck out of Dodge, Dear Reader. Don’t look back. Honestly. Find the effort and do it.
Life is really short. Time, Dear Reader, runs away like horses over a hill, as a functioning alcoholic once said.
The difficult part? You might love a psychic vampire. You might be in love with one. That’s hard. Getting rid of them is the worst. Because ripping these bastards from your throat is painful. Their little teeth are deep inside your jugular. They might have been draining you for years without you knowing it. Staking them or silvering them could lead to divorce, or a break-up at least. But. And this is a big but – you have to do it. You have to hold up your own personal crucifix and start to fight them back. I know, it’ll be hard. But they’re slowly killing you. They’ve got their own problems (being a psychic vampire aside) but you have to recognise what they are by their words and actions and you have to begin to take action. Speak out. Be honest. Tell them that what they say or do is not fucking helping you in any way at all, and if they don’t stop it then you’re going to sprinkle holy water on their constant flow of draining bullshit and fight fucking back. Ignore them. Laugh at them. Smile at them. It’s really disconcerting when a psychic vampire doesn’t get the emotional response they’re looking for. When they can’t drag you back down. When they can’t make you blue.
They hate that shit.
Okay. Now I’ve both defined a psychic vampire, and taught you how to defeat one, I have to give you some bad news.
It’s up to you now.
Just you. No-one else. You, Dear Reader.
You have to take action. You have to laugh at them when they say something cunty. You have to walk away from them when they do the same. You have to ignore them. You have to call them out or unfriend them. You have to get rid of them from your life, your daily existence, because let’s face it – life is difficult enough without having a hissy little bitch psychic vampire in it too. Hey. It’s not going to be easy. Getting rid of them is easy (I’ve literally given you a step-by-step programme here) but the doing it? Easier typed than done. You can only be strong and be sure in the long-term results.
Getting rid of all your psychic vampires will save your life.
A Personal Note To Any Psychic Vampires Reading This
Hey, you. Over 2400 words, you psychic vampire. 2400 words on you little bastards. How’s that? You like that? You fucking hate it, admit it. You hate admitting that me feeling better about myself – or anyone feeling better about themselves – hurts you and hurts you bad. If you recognise that emotion within yourself? You need help. Go get it. You’re draining your friends or family and now you know it. Hate me if you want for feeling better, hate me for calling you out on your bitter, cunty bullshit all you want. But I’m onto you. I define you by your words and actions and here I am pulling back my own, personal curtains to let the light flood in and over your bitter, twisted faces. Fuck you. You know what you are now. Here’s over 2500 words right into your heart, fuckface. I can concentrate now and hold that thought and write over 2500 words in what’s now 40 minutes. Be afraid. Be very fucking afraid.
I win. The good in me wins.
* Inuit people (or Eskimos, if you prefer, don’t actually have like 50 words for snow. It’s an (icy) urban myth.