Canonization

“I am not a saint, unless you think of a saint as a sinner who keeps on trying.”
-Nelson Mandela

 I continue to work toward being a 'good person.' My methods for this are just to follow my moral compass and practice what feels right and avoid what seems wrong. I've been told I'm blessed with a good head on my shoulders and I have the ability to discern good from bad character. Most people are good, given the chance. 

It's hard though, because I'm not Saint B. Hamre III. I'm not a celebrated figure of good and purity, but not a single saint started out purely righteous; saints as we know them were/are just malfunctioning human beings with big hearts or extraordinary strong wills. Keep trying, keep practicing, keep fighting; even though you may end up as a martyr when the text books are published. 

I actually just want to give up right now. I don't want to keep trying. I feel like I'm just faking it.

Every time I find myself leaping in front of a proverbial bullet for a friend or stranger I feel like I'm just doing it for myself. I feel selfish for being selfless? Does that really equate to being altruistic? It's almost like I'm only acting the way I am for some sense of good morality or inward need to do so. Sure I do "kind-hearted" things without thinking about them. I'm willing to share the load and even endure hardship in the stead of others, but whenever I do something for someone else it feels good, it feels like the right thing to do. This leads me to believe I'm only really the way I am to chase this moral high-- from one buzz to the next, selfishly. 

Shouldn't volunteering be a chore? Shouldn't offering yourself and time come with more of a mental strain and thought behind it? Shouldn't I have self-preservation and want something tangible out of this whole deal? Sometimes it's as though I act this way because I feel I'm working toward heaven or eternal life, for personal gain, or whatever the hell you believe in. Isn't that just being an egocentric asshole in sheep's clothing?

If I continue to pour myself into people and seemingly get nothing back, am I going to end up vacant and hollow? Cause that's what it's starting to feel like. I'm running out of fuel in the tank and I just passed the last self service station for three hundred miles. I don't want anyone's pity or storied accolades. There is no need for people to reimburse me for my time or effort. Guess it's just that I feel like it's hit a point where I'm being taken advantage of or taken for granted. It will pass.

The survivor in me tells me I should stop giving so much and focus on self-preservation, but I can't stop the addict from continuing to shoot up.

Even this note has been self-centered and full of the word "I." Me. me. me. I suppose I'm just attempting to get some of these confused words out of my brain box so they can stop festering up here.

The Guise of Defeat

"There is no truth. There is only perception."
 -Gustave Flaubert

A smattering of incoherent ideas and ramblings this time.

Take a moment. 

Massage your temples.

Inhale.

Sort through the garbage in your head. Rationalize what is real and what is perceived as such. The sense of defeat is only "defeat" if I allow it to be. Failure is only failure if we.. if I stop trying.

Exhale.

Mornings like these are rough. Having a crazy imagination on these days is an absolute curse. Running rampant and wild, It tears me down with the worst possible ideas and notions. Focus on just a color. Place all your thoughts so intensely on a color. Simple. Today I choose purple. The crazy scrawling ideas and sounds in my head are overwhelming; so I imagine myself taking a paint roller and slathering these messy walls with a deep purple. 

I can't let anything else matter. I just intensely focus on the movie of an imaginary me, painting. This helps "cover up" the chaotic logic and sloppy thinking that persists on the walls of my mind.

I still want to reach out to my best friend for help, but I need to figure out how to paint on my own. I'm getting better at it, but it's always easier with two people. I'm still not entirely surewhy I have to learn to paint alone. Somethings in life are a thousand times easier with an extra set of hands.

Inhale.  

It's an interesting notion. Things are never just black and white. One man's trash.. One man's defeat... Is it just a hurdle? Should I give up? Is it a lost cause? I feel like It should be classified as something but I can't stop myself from waking up every morning and trying again and again. I'm getting tired of it.

Like the coast repeatedly crashed by an unrelenting barrage of waves. I continue to erode and wear away.

Exhale.

I've been reading things I normally wouldn't read lately. Actually; I've gotten away from reading as a pastime in general the last decade. To be honest, initially, part of this effort was to win over a certain brilliant girl's affection. It's actually served as a method to really expand how I think and what I think about. Even though it takes a lot of concentration (at least for me; at least starting again) to read someone like Flaubert (as an example) it pays dividends in the end because the words and ideas are beautiful. These thoughts of other human beings are inspiring and provoking. Other human beings wrote these words- not demigods, not titans. Flawed human beings birthed this art. Squirming, squishy, alive things much like me and you.

I'm not just about spouting high-level gobbledygook, but it's enlightening to realize that there is true brilliance out there. Brilliance from other people; past, present, and future.

Dogged Determination

I mean, I never liked being told what to do. It's one of the reasons I dropped out of school. Give me something to assemble, I won't look at the directions, I'll try to figure it out by myself. It's why I love Ikea furniture.
-Dave Grohl

 It's hard for me to have motivation to write. As I've said before it's a lot easier to channel hurt and pain into words than when you're content and enjoying most days. That's what the last week has been. I wouldn't say it was easy, but it was enjoyable. Tackling obstacles and constantly improving step by step, day by day. I'm mainly clicking on my keyboard right now as an alternative to throwing on one of my new suits (which are fucking awesome) and getting a bouquet of roses or something ridiculous like that.

The fight with mental illness has really given me a unique set of tools to use in my other relationships and tribulations of day to day life. Forged by the fire... so to speak. 

As I continue to gain strength -- I gain clarity. Every day I know what's worth spending the effort working towards. I'm learning how to use every minute towards a worthwhile goal. I'm becoming efficient and confident; decisive. There is less and less wishing and wanting and more pursuing and catching. The predicament that I find myself in is that I'm still madly, wildly, fiercely, intensely in love with that same girl; this hauntingly beautiful angel.

One thing I've really started to like about myself is that I have strength to fight for what I feel is right. I'm not just some schmuck that blabs righteous words and spews kind-hearted yarns; I practice what I preach. Yeah yeah, sounds like I have a big ego, but realize that when a month ago I looked into the mirror and loathed the person looking back. To like anything about myself after those dark days is a miracle.

Full steam ahead to the point.

I'm continuing to fight for what I believe is my once-in-a-lifetime love for a woman. Each and every minute that I become more okay with who Brett is and will be; the more this mental image of her next to me is what I desire for my life. I haven't outgrown her or grown apart despite anything that has happened. 

I'm kind of annoying actually. I'm not deterred or routed; I keep bouncing up. I remind myself of Little Mac. (Geek Reference +1) 

I'll keep mashing my controller and keep getting back up. Over and over. Over and over.

Over and over.

Give up already.

Nope. 

This kind of motivation is the stuff they used to write sonnets about. My goal is for people to start using 'Hamre' as part of an idiom for 'dogged determination.'...and that folks is what we call a title tie-in. Smooth. 

A New First Thing

“I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.”

- John Green, Looking for Alaska

The Head.

I spent last night drinking UV Cake and Cola. I had a great time just bullshitting with good people. Despite waking up this morning to a chewed smartphone; the first thought I had was- this day is beautiful. 

You can't imagine what that's like. Waking up and feeling comfortable in your own skin for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Not thinking about anything else first... for the first time in three+ years. Me waking up and not thinking about one damn thing other than the warm sun on my face. Not having to run myself through a battery of mental exercises to just crawl through the day. It's about being excited to accomplish anything or NOTHING today. Being excited to just fucking be me.

This is the first time that I actually feel like I'm winning this duel. I'm beating it. Take that you evil good-for-nothing hound. I've felt shreds of this happiness before; "glimmers" if you will.

Nothing this strong.

Nothing this solid.

It's not as much of a release to talk about the happy moments. That's human nature I suppose. We all just want to stew in our own sadness; at least that's what I was like for a long while there. Probably will be again, but lets not count on that today.

The Heart.

Yeah, my love is still there. That will never go away. It's evolved into something much different almost right before my eyes. [Pokemon reference.]  It's kind of like getting cold water splashed on your face to wake up. EUREKA! Yeah, I still get butterflies every time I think about it. Yeah, I'm still hopelessly head over heels, but saying these words over and over again doesn't do anything to help the situation. I can keep yelling at the weather to change, but it won't. It's not about lacking the urge to express myself or still feeling those ushy gushy feelings. It's not about shutting down the romanticized ideals and shutting off the constantly thinking of ways to express those. It's about realizing it takes two. I will always have these forces that drive me toward that future for myself, because I still want that. It's about coming to my senses and realizing that I'm also worth effort. 

I can't keep wasting this energy and effort on this; even though I still really want to. It's not really giving up as it is tackling the problem from a different angle. I've done more than enough to show the quality of person I am. I'm not going to stop being who I am, but I'm not going to settle for less than I'm worth either.

First Thing

"Morning without you is a dwindled dawn." -Emily Dickinson

The first punch in the morning is always comes from the gap in my heart. That's honestlyalways the first thing I feel in the morning. The greater longing and needing of the piece missing that I know is supposed to be there.

Blah blah. You're hopelessly over your head for her Hamre.

I spend the first hour of the day preparing for that fight. Draping that piece of me in thick armor; gripping a tarnished and beaten shield to prevent more damage. I prepare mentally for that before even leaving the comfort of the sheets. Before splashing water on my face or brushing my teeth; I have to put my guard up. Knowing I have to wade through the bloody battlefield for a chance for a future at the other side of the valley.

Romanticized ideals and dreams serve as my chain mail. The philosophy of stoicism provides me with my banner.I'm beating the depression. That war is still being waged off to the east, but it's looking favorable for us. The enemies forces are dwindling and their supply line is effectively cut. Each and every day that I begin to realize the long assault is finally subsiding for a while... the more I become resolute in my motives and purpose on this emotional theatre of war.

The strangest thing about this fight; is that it isn't even a fight against any normal barrier. It's a fight against time and patience. It's playing the waiting game. Casting your dice and waiting for the result. I'm at the mercy of the cosmos ladies and gentlemen and it's absolutely infuriating.

 ---------------Intermission---------------

The tone has changed from this morning. I'm just human; I'm allowed to be upset. How can I be so hopelessly lost in what I think is absolutely stunningly pure... I just don't get if this is some sort of grand cosmic joke? Why make me feel like giving my all but not allowing me to do so. Why enter me in a 10k and take away my legs? Analogy. Analogy. Analogy.

I know what I want to feel, what I do feel, but not what I'm supposed to feel. If that makes any fucking sense.

I'm growing sore and tired from this. The constant struggle drains everything around me. I can only get pushed down so many times before I just can't summon the strength to get back up. I'm completely aware of my ups and downs; last night I could have had a fist fight with a Great White Shark on a cocaine bender and lived to tell the tale.

Whilst today, this moment, I wave the white flag and wait for the next opportunity; if it ever decides to present itself- which I'm seriously starting to doubt. 

July 9th, 2013

"He who wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper."                    -Edmund Burke

Everyday I can feel myself getting stronger. It's a little easier to cope with this battle and what life throws at me.

Everyday I know more and more what I'm meant to spend time and effort pursuing. She's still at the forefront of my mind. She's always cutting in front of the line. Queue up Eye of the Tiger; cause it's that point of the flick where the protagonist needs a montage.

This is where I get completely confused. The plot becomes muddy and disorienting. I get these bursts of clarity and motivation to move forward and do something about it, but I'm grounded in reality. I look at the roster of participants in my life and the circled, bold, underlined name is missing. Most of the people that signed up to come on this field trip are already waiting in the bus and packed their lunches. 

This is no longer the fight with depression of overcoming self doubt. This has become about realizing what's worth fighting for with greater conviction than ever before. Wanting to jump in head first, ready and prepared to take that leap of faith... just stuck waiting.

I feel like I've gotten everything prepped and ready to go, but the bus doesn't have gas. That one thing it needs; the keystone to the castle, the lynchpin in the foolproof heist. This is especially hard because I have genes that make me want to fix things. DNA that makes me pick up trash and wipe off smudges, straighten products on store shelves; that 'OCD' type stuff. It's seeing a broken or fractured anything and wanting to fix it; to give it its true purpose back.

Today I believe that, in the end, I will indeed be fine. I really will. There are storm clouds out there in the distance, but I'm not afraid of getting a little wet. It's really a fight about realizing what you need and what you want. I want to go fisticuffs but no one will let me in the ring. Let me at 'em! Don't hold me back!

What do I do? What would you do? What do I do?  

Every book I pick up on a whim always seems to strengthen my resolve and reaffirm my beliefs. An example recently being "A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful" by Edmund Burke. Brilliant.

I hope that if you haven't found that spark that ignites your passions you will. Whether you're 15 or 85, it's out there for you- if it's a hobby or passion to pursue, a place to visit and conquer, or a damsel to save. I know what mine is. I just can't do anything about it, yet.

This is all a test of patience it seems... and I just wish I had crammed before this exam.

Happenstance?

"Some things are destined to be -- it just takes us a couple of tries to get there."
                                                                       - J.R. Ward

 Fate? Coincidence? Circumstance?

These are things I think a lot about, especially lately. Signs only contain as much credence as we place into them. Is it only a sign if I'm in the mental state to assume it is? God's finger pointing the way... even if I don't believe? Do things only click when we're self-aware enough or is it only when we need them to subconsciously? Does this include or exclude the study of astrology and the zodiac? There are many, many questions.

Some would argue that it doesn't matter. The message is delivered. Either by some divine intervention or your own mushy brain bits working strangely- the envelope is in the box. Does the urgency of the message change depending on who wrote it? Surely you would pay more heed to a message by a king than a farmhand; an officer over a drunk. Even if it's the same message? My imagination fabricating what I want to see or classify as the stars aligning and pointing me towards my destiny or just the inner workings of a lobotomy waiting to happen?

Mumbo jumbo.

The more I type and erase thoughts. The more I click clack on the keyboard and subsequently slap my delete key.. the more I realize that it ultimately doesn't matter. We gather strength where we need to. It doesn't matter if it's otherworldly or self-fabricated; it's still strength.* There are a lot of questions and not many answers today; now. 

The constant lesson I learn as I continue to wage this war on all fronts is that people (myself included) need time. Nothing happens overnight. I've always been a quick study and it's a character quirk that I want to be a master at everything instantly. It's why I've been prone to give up drawing/art too quickly or never dig too deeply at learning an instrument. I force the issue even when every rational voice outside my own tells me that 'You need time Brett.'

Fine.

I get it.

You're right.

It doesn't make me happy, but you're right. 

I honestly believe that I know the big picture ending already, but I still have to watch the parts where the protagonist faces his trials and tribulations. Pass the script to the next cast member because I can't act for all the roles.

People need time to learn, yourself included mister. Stupid human brains. 

01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101 00101110 00001101 00001010

*Oh, and if you were wondering. I'm still a "pathetic" romantic. I'm okay with this. I like this about myself. You don't know me until you hear me on one of my rants.

July 5th, 2013

"Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light."
                                                          -Helen Keller

Desperation today. Lowest low. I can't... there are no words-- No words in any language that can describe the anguish I was in. Pushing friends and family away, kicking and screaming. I was a child throwing a tantrum.

"Pull the plug already!" 

I felt like I was on my death bed. I said DO NOT RESUSCITATE dammit. Just let me go. Let me die. Just stop fighting for me, because I'm tired of fighting for myself. I'm tired of the daily grind; mining for scraps of happiness. My fingers are blistered from digging. My eyes are red with soot and tears. Just let me stop. This is torture. I'm putting in my two-weeks notice.

I think it's important you understand the desperation I was in even if it may not cast myself in the most flattering light. It's important to know the details so that if you have another loved one in your live that goes through this you can perhaps understand and help them better. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

I was on my knees. Tears streaming down my face. Snot not doing anything for my complexion. Here I sulk in the back yard of my parent's house. 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I'm driving my fists into the ground. I don't know why. I'm having a panic attack? Perhaps.  

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I continue to pummel the same spot. There is no logic or reason, there is this only this force to feel something, anything. I will continue this until I come to some form of numbness where the emotions all stop. The world stops and the darkness lifts again. Numb.

Depression is scary. Depression is real. You have loved ones in your life going through what I'm going through. It's like a secret society that you know about, but can't join. Only members can feel this way. You may be aware of the secret door; but you don't know the password and handshake.

There is no mantra you can repeat to lift this sorrow. There are no friendly gestures you can rely on to grant peace. Only time. Only time shows the light again. You can pray to whatever deity you like, grit your teeth, scream at the sky- this doesn't matter. In this moment you are a slave to it. I don't care if you're the strongest demigod in the universe. You are a slave to this. Just like I am a slave to this moment.

Loved ones can remind you of better days, they can tell you you're going to make it through- and you are going to. In that moment though, these people are liars. The reaffirming words they repeat seem half-assed and fake. If you're trying to help someone out of a situation like this don't hold the way they act against them. Give space, but don't give up. 

I sorely lashed out at the person trying to help me in this moment. This wasn't me. This wasn't Brett. I was possessed.

I can't reiterate enough how much of a slave us mopey folk are to this shapeless cloud. The more people suffering from this that I interact with an talk to; the more I believe what I suffer from is tangible and real. I'm not just faking it. Moments like this.. they're hell on Earth. 

Explaining these feelings are truly like trying to explain colors to a blind person. The smartest scholar in the world can't adequately describe them. If you care about the victim here you can't let what they say hurt you or cause you to waver in your resolve. It takes a true loving friend to help another through this moment. You have to be strong enough for the both of you; because Lord knows I wasn't.

I just happened to have a true loving friend close by. Thank God. 

If me suffering this helps at least one soul out there... I'm willing to be the social pariah/mascot of this disease. I'm willing to bare my thoughts and feelings and be looked at in odd ways. 

I've said it before, and I'll say it again- you are not alone. 

..and I'm saying that as much for you as I am for myself.

July 4th, 2013

“I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work.”
                                                      -T. A. Edison

Driving home is always the hardest. 

The drive home is when my mind starts to torture me. The drive home is when the demons start their shift.

If anything dealing with this sickness has taught me over the years, it's how to appreciate the pure moment. The minute that I'm actually glad to be alive. A variable amount of seconds where I get an armistice. 

Being at the point where I can be out with good friends and appreciate the holiday. Feeling alive in that minute. Just taking a breath and heightening your senses to everything that's around you. I feel the cool breeze rush past the hairs on my legs. I smell the residue of Chinese manufactured recreational explosives in the air. Grateful for the kids laughing and screeching twenty yards away. Actually happy that I can feel like mosquito crawling on my arm; actually smiling when I feel the slap of my hand ending said mosquito's pub crawl. Alive. Living. Breathing.

Have you had that? Have you had a mosquito make you feel like you were actually supposed to be alive, standing where you are, when you are, who you are. A mosquito... that's nuts.

I take this time to appreciate the moment, because I know... I know that it's not going to last. Armistice Day is over.

It's time for the drive home.

Driving away from a get together with friends has always been a somber experience for me. A finishing of a paragraph. The period of the sentence. There may be many many more pages; but I can't read them yet. They haven't been published. This is when my guard is down and I start to become vulnerable to the Black Dog.

No light without darkness they say. This is the way the universe works. Initially I'm happy. I think of her looking at the same sky I'm looking at. I think of the laughs she's probably having with her friends and the happiness that she's beeming with. The thoughts quickly turn for worse, in true self-defeating fashion. Some other lucky guy has his arms around her. Some other guy (in my mind sexier, smarter, faster, stronger, better looking, more manly, etc.) is sharing a blanket with her somewhere much nicer with a better view. This all may be fiction. This all may be a yarn. I can pull every scientific and rational thinking atom in my mass to try and believe this; and still assume the worst. 

Part of me is truly happy. I'm trying to let go. I'm trying to be over it. I'm trying to give up.

This is when I start hating that I can feel. I hate the feeling in my gut. I hate the butterflies in my stomach. I hate my grip on the wheel. I hate the oncoming lights; this stupid music I'm listening to. Each note becomes sour and jaded. Tiresome to enjoy. Boring. This is the moment when I become aware that I'm losing the good and allowing the bad to rush in.

Driving home is always the hardest.

I talk a lot about that feeling, that gut feeling. I know I'm supposed to listen to it. Just like you'd run from a T-Rex. You're coded to not want to be eaten alive by Sue. So you run. I'm coded to chase, to not give up on this gut feeling. Since I've never felt this deeply before- I'm torn between what is 'depression' and what is 'heartbreak' and if they're even distinguishable from each other. The line is blurry and I can't see the separation. One fuels the other.

Churchill doesn't play fair. That's what I've decided to call the Dog, by the way. He sabotages my logical thinking. He allows me to think I'm obsessive, hopeless, fanatical, insane. We all have the voice of right and wrong in our head. We all have a moral compass. Mine are just yelling at each other right now. Like a brother and sister in the back of the station wagon on a long road trip across a state with nothing to see (looking at you Wyoming.) They bicker back and forth for stupid reasons. 

"Quit poking each other!"

Doesn't matter. I can't just leave them at the side of the road, as much as I may want to.

Hopeless Romantic

" I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen."
                                                     - Lloyd Dobler ['Say Anything' 1989]

Time to air out a little more dirty brain-laundry e-neighbors and friends.I miss my best friend. 

I'm hopeless. The only thing that shuts the thoughts up in my head is to throw them out there for everyone to see. Write some strange strings of words and phrases in hopes of adequately portraying the messy chalkboard that is my manic thought process. I only wish I was a better writer.

I've been far too closed off my whole life. Shut down; not exposing myself to the pain of failure and subsequently the joys of success. Everyone but my closest of friends knows me as pretty much 'Cynical Asshole Smartass.' Some of you may even find me funny (you're wrong. Heh.) 

Yeah, that's me partly; but that's not all of me.

I'm a fucking hopeless romantic. HOPELESS. Use whatever term to find that fits. Chump? Pansy? Push-over? I care too much. The thoughts that run through my head on a daily basis for pursuing love. That driving force that causes me to wake up every morning wondering if she's actually okay. Did she have a good night? Is work treating her right? Tickets to Paris, staring at the stars, touring Europe--- the world, taking spontaneous weekend trips to places picked at a whim; stupid memory making events and gestures of adoration constantly spin in my head---with no one to give them to. 

That's who I am. I'm the romantic. That guy you hate in the romantic comedy cause it's just so damn CHEESY. Those make me cringe too. Stone cold me, but I like that about myself. And that's not just true for her.

That's about all my friends. How did their job interview go? How did they confront that person they were dreading? Not romantic crap, but just concerned about general well-being. I usually just release those ideas and thoughts and forget about it. People in my life tell you to focus on you! Focus on yourself and your well-being. That's totally valid, totally. I agree.

That's where my conflict starts. Outside sources telling you to turn right, inside forces telling you to turn left. Which do you place your trust in? When I'm told to place myself as my highest priority-- that just isn't how I'm wired. I'm a blender. I don't make toast. I blend things.

This whole process of finding out who I am has been enlightening. Yeah yeah.. take care of my mental and physical health, but what I love about myself is the people I care about. What point is it to work for all the wealth in the world if you have no one to buy things for? Why learn all there is to know without teaching others that information? All we have in this world is out relationships. 

I told a friend yesterday that when you're on your deathbed; you won't ask for your trophies or diplomas. You don't want to see this physical things that mean nothing in the end. You want to see your friends and family. You want to share that last image on Earth of the people that shared life with you. That's important. Relationships are important. So I stuff these feelings once more for another day. No contact. No contact. It's what needs to happen.

Mettle; show it you schmuck. 

July 3rd, 2013

"A lot of people don't realize that depression is an illness. I don't wish it on anyone, but if they would know how it feels, I swear they would think twice before they just shrug it."       -Jonathan Davis

Good fight today Churchill.

Busted out the water bottle and rolled-up newspaper; currently the flea-bag is cowering beneath the couch. For how long? No clue.

At least this is a moment of postponement-- the upswing.

I may be beaten and bruised. I may be cowering in fear tomorrow, but today is a win. It's a lot harder to write about positive emotions than negative ones. Everyone wants to complain these days; myself included. I'm not sure if it's that I finally feel like I'm kicking this summer cold, the pleasant cocktail of happy-pills I'm downing, or a combination of everything-- It's a good hour to be Brett Hamre. My muscles still ache from my attempts to wear myself out of depression through exercise Monday night. That's a good thing- that means I'm doing something right. I hope anyway.

I noticed something today about myself that I have always done and don't want to do anymore. I've always censored my faith in God and thanking him around my non-Christian friends. Maybe this is to spare them of awkwardness? Maybe this is so I don't alienate anyone? I'm going to make a concentrated effort to stop that. It always feels better when I talk about God having my back. I like imagining that there is some higher calling for me and some greater purpose for these hands and heart.

No Bible-thumping here, but in these moments I just inherently know there is a greater power out there.

Remember this Self, when you read this and you're in one of your funks. There is hope. This is hope right here. This is love and life and mushy gushy gooey feelings. Don't forget about these good moments.

Elation. Delight. Jubilation. It's all here. No snake oil though, no false promises or fancy cures. Gotta keep fighting because the war is far... far from over.

I can not write enough and thank enough for the outcry of support from people out there. Going through this or not. You're out there dealing with your own lives, and own problems, but care enough to reach out and see how I am. Sometimes when I'm lost in that gloomy maze I take everyone and everything for granted. I can't promise that I'll never do that again. I am just a human. Flawed. Imperfect. Human.

If you're in the place I was in last night, and even into this morning. You know these words seem hollow. Impossible. Fiction! Absolute fiction! That's where you're wrong though.

 When you're in the suck there isn't much you can do to stop the bombing. The constant shelling of negative thoughts and emotions. Emotional shellshock.

Know that I'm nothing special.

It'll be your turn for this feeling soon enough--

you just have to survive the air raid. So find your proverbial desk, cower, and protect your vitals.