Category: depression

on the verge of existential crisis

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It’s bizarre to me how when I throw on the headphones at work and put on an album, that it doesn’t matter what it is, it hits me somewhere directly in the raw nerve feelings, and every workday in the office begins to feel like an existential crisis.

Today, for example, I swerved from Transplants to Jimmy Buffett to Cameron Halcombe and Billie Eilish, and it felt like absolute hell, in the most incredible way. Nirvana didn’t help.

Why are all my nerves raw?

Why am I experiencing such psychotically exquisite depth of feeling?

Why so barenerved?

Like my chest, ripped to pieces.

Why?

And why don’t I hate it?

Target: 1600 words
Written: 960 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: The Stand, Stephen King
Comics: Invincible 79-81, Guarding The Globe 5
Music: From The Muddy Banks Of The Wishkah, Nirvana

rainy day card games

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And other such fun. We did get out for lunch, which was nice, but yeah. If I’m going to be stuck in my cabin all day, maybe it shouldn’t be with the whole gang, and no time to read, and a goddamned plugged toilet minutes before I go to bed (not my fault).

I’ll be honest. I am short-fused when I don’t get that sweet, sweet alone time.

It is something I wish the people around me truly understood.

It is something the world, in its current incarnation, barely understands, with its constant notifications, constant connection, constant updates.

Never was a world more lonely than the one where no one ever shuts up.

Target: 1600 words
Written: 2604 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: The Stand, Stephen King
Comics: Invincible 68-69, Invincible Presents: Atom Eve & Rexsplode 1-2
Music: Frizzle Fry, Primus (fuck, I forgot what a killer album this is)

today, i feel gravity

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Not the seriousness of the situation, but the sensation of being pulled down, to my knees, to the floor, to sink in and let my mind bleed out my ears into insensate despair.

I am fighting.

I am not yet losing, but it’s real fuckin’ close.

The kindness thing I can do for myself today is breathe. Continue to breathe.

I’m not sure what the trigger is – probably the monstrous headache I suffered through all day yesterday, and the copious amounts of Advil required to stave off the smallest part of it, plus all the stress of getting everything ready to go away for a week, which should be joyful and peaceful, but is often too busy and people-filled to be so.

Would that I could live in the woods, and release books for free.

Or hide them away, to be discovered after I’m gone, and released to posthumous brilliance.

To the floor, it be, then.

Target: 1600 words
Written: 2383 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: The Faded Sun: Shon'jir, C.J. Cherryh (perhaps it's just the knowledge of my inferiority)
Comics: Noble Causes 37, Brit v2 9, Invincible 55, Dynamo 5 18
Music: Freaked Out And Small, The Presidents Of The United States Of America (but hopefully, not this last one)

exhale

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The anger is going.

It is not gone, but the only way to truly forgive oneself is to let go.

Let go and take action.

That’s all one can do.

One cannot be free until one lets go of guilt, and then moves to make amends.

Or at the very least, not to repeat the mistake.

Target: 1600 words
Written: 1594 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Enchanter's End Game, David Eddings
Comics: The Pact 1-2, Noble Causes 10, Invincible 0
Music: For Tomorrow, Blur

too much anger

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Not just in the world, but in me.

I’m angry at the world’s situation.

I’m angry at myself, for wasting so much time.

I’m angry at myself, for not being a better man.

I’m angry at circumstances beyond my control.

I’m angry at being blamed for things I didn’t even do, and never would.

I’m angry at greed.

I’m angry at corruption.

I’m angry at myself for allowing depression to dictate the terms of my life.

I’m angry at other people, for constantly invading my time and space.

I’m angry, because I’m not nice enough, and because I cannot be less nice.

I’m angry at my own frustation.

I’m angry, again, at my inability to change any of this.

I’m angry at my inertia.

Target: 1600 words
Written: 1818 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Definitely Dead, Charlaine Harris
Comics: Noble Causes 8-9, Invincible 21-22
Music: For Those About To Rock, AC/DC

i hate being that guy

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Look, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the best way to live, but in my experience, the folks who are loudest about how you should live, are often the weakest in actually following through with that.

Those who are living the way they want generally don’t crow about it; they offer humble notes that they put out there and if someone takes inspiration from it, great. If not, well, that has little bearing on how the first person’s life continues to go.

They’ve figured it out. Those saying, “behave this way!” are often not behaving that way.

(See Tolle, Eckhart, Robbins, Tony and Trump, Donald)

So when I post be kind eighteen times, it’s a much a reminder to myself as it is anything. I don’t feel like I’m being very kind these days.

I’m very empathetic. Of that, there’s no doubt. I feel the weight of the world and everyone else’s emotional state keenly.

The problem is that I don’t act on it. I don’t offer to listen, or demonstrate compassion, or help out in any way.

I sit back. I evaluate. I judge. I know what I should be doing, but I don’t.

I make excuses about needing to handle my own stressors first; but maybe that’s just a cop-out.

Depression as procrastination for engaging with life and other people

(It certainly kills my drive to put myself out there.)

Anyway, that’s my thought for the day. Start small, do a few good things for the people you love. Then, world peace and the end of hunger.

Target: 1600 words
Written: 2043 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: 100 Side Hustles: Unexpected Idea For Making Extra Money Without Quitting Your Day Job, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Tech Jacket 6, Invincible 4-5, Brit 1
Music: Foo Fighters Essentials, Foo Fighters (it's been a few foo foo kind of days)

angry

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My wife says I’m angry. I say she’s angry. She says that’s just at her daughter, but it bleeds out into the rest of the world.

Mine does as well. I’m sick of other people.

I listen to A Wave Across The Bay and I want that for myself.

I want endless falling, never crashing, never landing, never ceasing to exist, but never engaging again.

Endless travel, free of care, free of responsibility.

When Sartre says hell is other people, he might be on to a thing.

Target: 1600 words
Written: 1721 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: On Love, Charles Bukowski
Comics: WildC.A.T.S. v6 8-11
Music: Flyin' The Flannel, FIREHOSE (I don't why it's listed in all caps)

trying to remember kindness

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This is a tough world in which to focus on kindness. I try to, but my frustration with our current political climate and people’s unfortunate behaviour makes it difficult to find sympathy.

It’s very easy to retreat.

Crippling depression and overwhelming stress doesn’t help. When one is in crisis, doing the extra for others seems a step too far.

But perhaps that’s when we need it most.

(What we really need is for someone to show us the same grace in return, but let’s face it – this isn’t that kind of world, and that’s a rare act.)

As someone who has dealt extensively with depression, I can confidently say that most kindness is tempered by judgment.

Oh, I’m so sorry, honey, maybe you should just buck up.

I feel you and what you’re going through, but maybe if you weren’t depressed, you wouldn’t have this problem (no shit, Sherlock).

He’s having a hard time, but he brought it on himself.

Etc., etc.

Do not temper your kindness with judgment; just be there. Give the hug. Hold the hand. Help clean up. Make a casserole.

Listen. Don’t be a jerk.

After all, better out than in, and judgment forces the latter, intentionally or otherwise.

Target: 1600 words
Written: 1354 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Night Shift, Stephen King
Comics: Voodoo v2 12, 0, Grifter v3 0, 13
Music: Flood, They Might Be Giants

eight-hundred-ninety-seven

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That’s how many days since I first sat down and said, “I’m going to try this writing thing,” and put together a haiku about birds falling as a metaphor for our blind spots and was promptly rejected by a magazine that prints exclusively haiku, because I hewed too close to the five-seven-five rule, even though I made it split-sentence run-on, for literary twist.

That’s how many days since I started thinking about monsters under the bed, which led to more short stories about misogyny, a comic about a woman’s revenge and her self-persecution, one about astronauts saving the world by killing innocent aliens, and a book about the Odd Couple, if the odd couple were virtue signaling hypocrites and MAGA monsters.

Eight-hundred-ninety seven days since I wrote down thirty-seven book ideas, a baker’s dozen comics, and vowed to write as many short stories and poems as I possibly could.

And still, I don’t have the guts to send them out to publish.

What is wrong with me?

Wait, don’t answer that. I already know.

I’m scared.

Rejection is the worst feeling. You’re the hero of your own story, tossed away like a background extra cut from the final scene in someone else’s.

My step-son did that once; he and a friend were extras on some dance movie. His friend was considered good-looking enough to make the background cut. My step-son danced for hours to never even get in the frame.

Target: 1600 words
Written: 1563 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Well Of Shiuan, C.J. Cherryh (I'm in love all over again)
Comics: Voodoo v2 2-3, Grifter v3 3-4
Music: Fleetwood Mac Essentials, Fleetwood Mac