Category: depression

neurodivergent

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I think I’ve been pretty clear here that I’m not entirely normal. I’ve dealt with melancholy, with frustration, with anger issues and isolation.

I don’t think like other people.

My mind immediately rejects any presentation of any perspective with questions about other possible perspectives.

I’m a little bit OCD. A little bit ADD.

(a little bit of Erica by my side.)

Probably bipolar, but you know what? Fuck you.

I don’t have a single actual diagnosis. I don’t need one.

For my entire life, I’ve looked at labels with suspicions. It is very easy to reduce people to less than, to caricatures, based on a label.

Oh, she’s ADHD. He’s gay. Norm’s a Republican. Tara’s a leftie.

Depression, social anxiety, autistic, black, trans, women, disabled, these are all unfortunately convenient shorthands used to make all kinds of assumptions about people that only serve to reinforce stereotypes and tribalism, instead of opening up space to actually learn about who people actually are.

It’s too easy.

And it’s bullshit.

I refuse to get a diagnosis, because I do not want that diagnosis to define who I am. Indeed, today, I listened to two people openly mock the neurodivergent, despite the fact that at least one of them was fully aware that there was one in the room, reducing them to oddballs and weirdos. They rolled their eyes at the idea that we might take the time to recognize them, or accommodate them in any way.

It pissed me off, mightily, and my boss did nothing to push back.

That’s why I don’t get tested. Not because I don’t want to fix the problem, but the second that label is attached, you are now less than, a joke, no longer an actual person, but a diagnosis.

You are not Empty; you are (insert diagnosis).

The farther away we can move from boxing people in with labels (a favourite pasttime, it seems, of the millennial and Gen Z crowd, although Boomers are great at labels as well, though theirs tend to be a little cruder, and more bigoted), the better.

Remember how you chastise and cancel people for every little thing; when you’re no longer the youth in charge, you too, will be labelled horrible, and probably for this. Your children will reject you, and the stigma of your endless labels.

The reduction of the human is tragic; the pasting of a prefab schematic onto anyone’s life (and I’ll include our pets in this), is a fucking monstrosity.

There. Go cancel yourselves now.

You deserve it.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1479 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: An Astronaut's Guide To Life On Earth, Chris Hadfield
Comics: The Walking Dead 41-44
Music: Hefty Fine, Bloodhound Gang

why am i always apologizing?

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I know I’m Canadian but it’s a bit ridiculous, even for us.

I was thinking about my grandmother today, my dad’s mom, and all I could think was that I wish I’d been a better grandson, that I’d spent more time with them, that I’d been just… better.

I do this all the time.

I feel like a failure – as a father and a son, a husband and a writer, a person, a political entity, a human being.

I’m sorry for that, and I don’t know how to move beyond it.

I feel responsible for everything, and powerless over all.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 2524 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: The Girl Who Played With Fire, Stieg Larsson (I understand the ending, but something about it seems unfinished, doesn't it?)
Comics: The Walking Dead 25-28
Music: Heaven :x: Hell, Sum 41 (better than you'd think, bit of a throwback)

massive rewrite

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Holy mackarel, looking at this chapter, there are so many missed opportunities, so many fuckups.

Wow, amateur hour.

Total hack.

But I think I have the solution.

Stop writing, give up, never type again.

Wait.

Maybe not.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1688 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: The Girl Who Played With Fire, Stieg Larsson (I'm impressed, but it does drag a little in the middle, I'm finding)
Comics: The Walking Dead 17-20
Music: Heated, Big Sugar

the fifth was a monday

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And a day of reckoning. Do I give up?

Do I move on? Why is every day an existential crisis?

At least, every work day.

How do I move beyond it?

This is the point where the lesson of kindness I sought in Father Lightning should kick in.

Unfortunately, the lesson I’ve learned out of that has become something else. It’s a story about men and women, and how even the best of intentions can blind us if we don’t address the reality around us.

It’s one thing to say you support women and you’re an ally in the face of sexual aggression.

It’s a whole other thing to actually pay attention, and help where it’s needed.

And sometimes, boys, that means leaving it alone. This has nothing to do with the book; our hero should have done more sooner, but with trauma, sometimes, your support must be indirect.

If a women has been abused by a man, is a man who she wants to comfort her? There’s an inevitable mistrust there, in many cases, whether it’s warranted or not. It doesn’t matter.

Sometimes, you need someone who knows what you went through to offer the helping hand. You don’t want to hug someone who might just be your next abuser.

So, do what you can boys, jump in where needed. And if you see any of those boys from Cornell (or their enablers in the police or the administration, feel free to let ’em know what’s what. Fucking garbage people, every last one of ’em.)

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1698 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Proof Of Conspiracy, Seth Abramson
Comics: Cloak And Dagger v5 3
Music: Healthy In Paranoid Times, Our Lady Peace

happy post-birthday, bro

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Sorry, I was so caught up in poopin’ yesterday that I forgot completely – except for my post on Facebook, in which I likened your birth to a minor Biblical omen and Empire Records.

(Great movie, by the way. Not on Rex Manning Day! Also, I credit this movie with restoring my love of AC/DC, because If You Want Blood, You Got It is a spirit animal.)

Plus, whatever happened to Rory Cochrane? First, he absolutely nails Slater in Dazed And Confused, then is perfect as Lucas in Empire Records, then… what?

That level of commitment to depth and caricature deserves better.

Anyway, happy birthday, brother. I used to question your anti-social attitude (so much like my own), but you’re retired and not even fifty, so clearly, you knew something I didn’t.

I’ll be working (preferably writing), until I die. Hopefully, I won’t still be working shit jobs to that point.

Also, happy birthday Rory Cochrane, whenever that is, because you deserved better than you got. Here’s hoping for a comeback.

(Please don’t turn out to be a scumbag.)

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1702 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Proof Of Conspiracy, Seth Abramson (damn, this is a dense read, but should be required reading in public schools when discussing Trump)
Comics: Cloak And Dagger: Negative Exposure 2-3, Cloak And Dagger v5 1-2 (great, new powers again - and a baby)
Music: The Head On The Door, The Cure

one thousand

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You believe that shit?

Yesterday, I crossed the last milestone before the manuscript milestone for Father Lightning and today, I realized that it’s been a thousand days since I laid out this gigantic series of goals and focus and wrote a little haiku called Birds Fall.

Now, I’ve written a novella, a novel, most of another novel, five more poems, eleven short stories and eleven more comics.

Man.

A few days ago, there I was, ready to give up.

And now?

I guess I’m on it.

Golf clap for me. I’m not doing too bad.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1771 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Proof Of Conspiracy, Seth Abramson
Comics: The Mutant Misadventures Of Cloak And Dagger 16-19
Music: Hard Volume, Rollins Band (holy fuck, when I say something is genius, or that it sucked me in, or is absolutely transcendent, I'm talking about Joy Riding With Frank - what an experience hearing that for the first time)

must be nice to be pretty

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I’m not pretty; I’m not a looker.

I’m overweight, and unkempt, and my fashion sense is non-existent, because I think fashion is mostly ridiculous window dressing, unnecessary for anyone of substance.

Why waste time on clothes if you’re not a model or going to a wedding or something?

Of course, it’s a biological thing partially, to attract potential mates, and an ego thing partially to make one feel better about at least one’s outer appearance.

Me, I’m a comfy clothes kind of guy; I can’t be bothered to tuck in.

Ever. Not since I was a child, when I would be forced to do so, and would untuck immediately, as quickly as possible.

Anyway, not pretty.

Would be nice to be.

Maybe people would treat me better.

I hear that happens for the good looking. And they get paid more.

How fair is that?

Nice jawline, bro, have an extra ten grand a year. Great butt, here’s twenty. Nice smile, bright eyes, high cheekbones?

Thirty, forty, fifty.

Great tits, six pack abs?

A hundred!

Life is real shitty for the uggos.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1522 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Proof Of Conspiracy, Seth Abramson
Comics: The Mutant Misadventures Of Cloak And Dagger 4-7
Music: A Hard Day's Night, The Beatles (fucking masters)

you know, you plans things

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And you think, man, light schedule, a morning off, easier work, very time limited, etc.

Should have gotten lots done.

Instead, I went to a funeral, drank and ate too much after, and lost two days to feeling like absolute shit.

Well, that’s a fuckin’ bummer.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 2158 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Proof Of Conspiracy, Seth Abramson (you know, in light of everything going on now in the Middle East, this actually sheds a whole lot of light on the behaviour of both Trump and Netanyahu, the pricks)
Comics: Strange Tales 13-15, Cloak And Dagger: Predator And Prey 1
Music: Happy Hippie Hits, Discs 1-5, Various (man, for a thing that was supposed to be full of hippie music, there's an awful lot of not even close, especially the Merle Haggard Okie From Muskogee, which is explicitly anti-hippie.  Weird.)

i think i’m happy with that

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Sometimes, I feel like I’m too repetitive.

In The Mungk, it was semi-intentional. The metaphor was for trauma causing hopelessness, paralysis, as the world fell apart around you, and you descended into mindless hell.

In The Conflagration of Boor and Aghast, it’s used for some dramatic effect; Walter’s interactions with the dog, for example, grew increasingly tense, until, well, I don’t want to say until the book is released. It would be a shame to spoil it, if anyone actually cared.

In this one though, it seems out of place, and I feel like I’ve done it a lot.

Like the story could go in a crazy direction, but it doesn’t. I doesn’t really need to, but it’s a paranormal horror novel; it should a little.

I don’t know.

Is it weak? Is it thin?

Fuck, it feels thin.

Perhaps I’m not the man I thought I was.

Perhaps in the next one, one must get truly, truly insane.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1873 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Armada, Ernest Cline
Comics: Capes 3-5, Invincible Universe: Battle Beast 7
Music: Hallelujah! I'm A Bum, Local H (I always wanted to be one of those, though the reality of it has ripped the romanticism away; I think it had more to do with the idea of being happy no matter the circumstance.  A rejection of material things, an embrace of the present, no matter its conditions.  In retrospect, a bit naive, if well intentioned.)