Category: depression

revelations that we pray are not

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I’m not talking about the Bible (which, by the way, is bullshit, and anyone who’d actually read it would tell you right away it’s not something to be followed), but about personal revelations.

It occurred to me in the midst of making notes about editing for this ninth draft that I could be one of those people that has a repressed memory that they refuse to acknowledge, but which has subconsciously destroyed their entire life, and sent them so far off track from normal that there’s no real return.

It would explain a lot.

The problem is, I can’t think of any instance of that. I know my downward spiral began at twelve, when I was going through confirmation classes and I decided, because I am a completist weirdo, that I would read the Bible (so I guess I am talking about it).

Keep in mind that I’d really committed myself to being a holy little roller at the time, and I will say it again and again: nothing will turn you atheist more than actually reading the Bible cover to cover. If you’re not out by the end of Leviticus and its pro-slavery, anti-woman stance, then certainly, by the time Saul and David have committed their eighteenth genocide, you’ve got to be asking questions.

Anyway, that threw me sideways, because this was the dominant philosophical framework of the world around me, and if it was not only faulty, but downright evil, well, then, what to believe?

(The burgeoning alternative scene that came along around the same time didn’t help – thanks, Matt, for introducing me to INXS, Dead Kennedys and R.E.M, which led directly to grunge, punk and any manner of anti-social glory. I’m sorry I never got into Cannibal Corpse. Rest in peace, friend. I’m sorry it fucked you up worse than me.)

Anyway, this repressed memory. What if I’m walking around with one of these things dictating how I interface with the world through a lens of trauma I wasn’t even aware I had?

The world is spinning. Please don’t be a revelation. I don’t want it to be.

Target: 900 words
Written: 904 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Wishsong Of Shannara, Terry Brooks
Comics: Once And Future 23-26
Music: Unknown Pleasures, Interpol

it’s a day for staring blankly

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I feel like my body is about to burst from my skin, and yet, the only thing I want to do is sit and stare blankly.

Being a vegetable seems cool to me, somehow.

I worry I might be a bad person; on the other hand, maybe I don’t give a shit.

Target: 900 words
Written: 328 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Club Dead, Charlaine Harris
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 40-41, Die 1-2
Music: Live Shit, Green Day

tight pants

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I’m tired of them.

I can’t take the pushing on my belly anymore. I had lost about a dozen pounds, but then, of course, we went away so I regained seven or eight, and now my belts, my shorts and even those that are just stretchy push in on my stomach and leave me feeling nauseous.

(Not to mention the blood pressure raise.)

Anyway, I hate going to the office; where are my comfy pants? My PJs? My board shorts with the elastics so old that they’ve lost most of their elasticity?

An elastic with no stretch; if that ain’t a metaphor for getting old, then I don’t know what is.

Target: 900 words
Written: 764 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Club Dead, Charlaine Harris
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 38-39, The Wicked + The Divine: 1373 AD 1, The Wicked + The Divine: The Funnies 1
Music: More Live Random, Guns 'n' Roses (you wanted the best, but they didn't make it... so here's what you get.)

shadow

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Yesterday, I saw my shadow stretch across the yard, a giant apparition that stared back at me with thoughts of monstrous consumption.

We stared at each other for a while; it’s said one should not stare into the abyss.

Surely, it looks back.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1736 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Happiness Of Pursuit, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 18-21
Music: More Random Covers, L7

new beds

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We’ve got new beds coming today, and I’m praying it does for my sleep what a remote mountain lake does for my peace.

I’m praying to sink into oblivion and forget everything that exists.

Until, of course, the next time it does.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1276 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Happiness Of Pursuit, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 14-16, Phonogram: The Immaterial Girl 3
Music: More Random Covers, Electric Frankenstein

caught up, okay

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I’m okay. I’m probably okay.

I mean, nobody’s really okay, but I’m okay-ish. All my idols are being destroyed one by one, which probably means one shouldn’t have idols. The lovely men and women of the world never seem to be the ones at the forefront, the darlings; it’s always the guy nobody really realized until they were gone.

Also, again, no correlation between talent and being a good person.

(See Spacey, Kevin).

It’s easy to go off the rails, and I think we underestimate how much fame can affect a person. How when people start throwing themselves at you and it’s no longer an effort to earn things, one can become entitled to the point of criminality.

For the most part, we let them get away with it, which is why it’s such a goddamned shame when the public image is ripped away.

Fuck ’em, for the most part.

But still. The Usual Suspects, Neverwhere, The Belgeriad… still good, or even great, even if the ones that created them are monsters.

It’s a conflict that never ends; is great art made less great by bad behaviour, or is bad behaviour just one facet of an artist, to be divorced or overlooked when evaluating the content of the work?

No one is perfect; some men are far less so.

There is no answer here, only acknowledgement.

Perhaps we’re just fooling ourselves, because we want to believe. We want to enjoy. We want to love.

But humanity is complex; there are ever demons with which to be dealt.

Target: 900 words
Written: 949 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Happiest Days Of Our Lives, Wil Wheaton
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 12-13, Phonogram: The Immaterial Girl 1-2
Music: Random Cover, CKY

letting it slide

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And so I did. Let it all slide.

Everything but the writing and reading.

Meditation? Nope.

Exercise? Nope.

I even forgot to walk the dogs, and neither my wife or I noticed until it was bedtime.

Good thing we wore them out the previous couple of days.

Now, if only someone would allow me a day of rest.

My “sick” day, taken for rest, wasn’t exactly restful. I’m tired of the constant go.

I need hibernation. I need newness. I need to get laid.

I need to be out of this routine, and committed (in either sense of the word).

Target: 900 words
Written: 649 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Happiest Days Of Our Lives, Wil Wheaton (ironic, ain't it?)
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 8-11
Music: Random Cover, Anti-Flag

headaches and light beers

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And being behind.

I let stuff go off the rails yesterday. I could have done better, but I didn’t.

Blame it on lack of motivation, lack of sleep (another storm, another night up with Sofi Jo), lack of willpower, depression, hopelessness, fatalism, whatever.

But I shit the bed on everything but writing and drinking yesterday, so here we are.

Behind. In pain.

Pray for me, children. This headache shall not last.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1023 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 4-7
Music: Lust For Life, Iggy Pop/David Bowie (apropos)

when good sites go bad

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Like this one.

Most of the time, I want to write about what I’m feeling, what I’m going through, and I know it comes across as probably depressing, or angry, or manic depressive, a bit bipolar.

I’ve never been diagnosed with anything, but that’s because I refuse to go, mostly. I suffer from depression, I know it, but like I said, nothing formal.

I went once to a therapist when I broke down at work and had to take some time off, but all he wanted to do was ask me questions about internet pricing. I wonder if he ever wondered why I didn’t come back, or why I was staring at him with abhorrent disgust on my face.

That’s a guy who should not be practicing psychiatry, not if he thinks an initial session should be to talk about how much bandwidth he might get at his place, rather than what brought me in that day.

So, that’s my experience with therapists. I’m sure there’s better out there, but fuck, who has the time or money?

That’s the thing this new touchy feely existence of ours forgets – it’s offset against the horror of unrelenting capitalism, which leaves us with neither the time nor the funds to be able to engage in any of the things they want to sell us, unless we’re rich.

And ain’t none of us rich, baby.

Target: 900 words
Written: 940 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram 5-6, Phonogram: The Singles Club 1-2 (if I ever need to point to a work of utter pretentiousness, the exact kind of bullshit clever art we should all avoid, this is it - never read fiction written by someone whose interface with music is critical instead of connecting.)
Music: Some Random Folk Stuff, Todd Snider

fat/skinny

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I fear for some women.

Look, I like a thin woman as much as anyone, but there is a point where it’s gone too far and the concern stops being “is she fit and attractive?” to “are you okay?”

“Do you need help?”

The pressure women are under to look perfect is unbearable. Better to be happy than thin; better to be overweight than unhealthy.

Positive body image is wonderful; obesity is still a threat.

I’m fat. Obese, if you believe the Wii Fit I stand on for ‘exercise’ each morning. I have no authority to judge. I care not for fashion. I dress mostly like I’ve been working around the house or lounging around in my sweats (though I rarely wear sweats – I mostly stick to band/beer/superhero t-shirts and board shorts).

I don’t like shoes.

I am not anti-fashion; that would be more like Kurt Cobain. I’m more like non-fashion. I don’t exist in fashion.

I am fashion-pathetic, as well as apathetic.

(A pathetic?)

Anyway, this weather woman looks beyond unhealthy; if it’s not an eating disorder, it’s veganism.

Or meth.

She’s definitely missing something in her diet. She would have been attractive twenty pounds ago; now, she’s more crypt-keeper than svelte.

Anyway, I’m concerned for her. It’s none of my business, obviously, and I’m sure many a folk will cancel me for daring to say so, but I’m just very concerned.

I just want to ask:

“Are you okay?”

Because I’m sure as hell not.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1177 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sylvie And Bruno, Lewis Carroll
Comics: Phonogram 1-4
Music: Random For A While Yet, The Rolling Stones