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. 

July 2nd, 2013

"No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it."                                                                                            -Albert Einstein

Today I'm getting beaten. 

Today... today...sucks.

It's not for any particular reason. Nothing eventful happened to me. 

I worked on the newly purchased truck, listened to some Mental Illness Happy Hour, worked out. There was a moment of respite from this onslaught earlier today. A moment I felt like a full fledged adult. A moment when my lungs hurt from working out, my muscles sore. Just feeling.. alive. Feeling alive for the first time in a long time. Don't take that feeling for granted. Take a minute and look outside. Rain or shine, snow or sun, life is beautiful. I can see that. I know that. I just want feel that. If that makes any sense.

For the first time in a long time I seriously thought about a future earlier today. Maybe taking psychology classes, joining the Marines, doing something - anything.

A future? Me? Unthinkable. 

Now I'm currently in the 'Brett-won't-make-it-until-his-next-birthday Camp'. Earlier today I could feel the hot sun beating on my neck; working with my hands. I could feel the dusty film on my hands. I could feel the warm water from the garden hose on my ankles and feet. I can't grasp that feeling again. It's fleeting. It's elusive. 

These thoughts running through my head like un-exorcized demons, unwanted foul guests. Running circles around my skull, destroying the fine china; ripping the fine linens to shreds. Go away! This is why we can't have nice things. Desperately I fling around holy water; I scrawl quick crucifixes in the air! Go away!

I had a great conversation with a friend today. A friend that went through a similar situation, that I had no idea about. His story was touching, and had a silver lining. This gave me hope for a while. I really appreciated this.

Hope? Super cliché Hamre. 

No really, hope. Hope that I could have a happy ending? Why can't I have one? Don't I deserve one?  There are nearly seven billion people on this spinning blue rock. Why do I feel so damn alone? I can't be the only one thinking about this kinda stuff. I can't be the only one struggling to just feel alive. "That's not true. That's IMPOSSIBLE!" Mark Hamill would say. In fact I know I'm not the only one. There is proof that I'm not the only one. My brain and rational thinking tells me, "Hey Brett, you're not the only one.. bro." Why does it feel like I'm the only one?

I go to bed every night earlier and earlier. Life goes on for everyone I've crossed paths with. I'm not a necessary cog in the machine. I feel like a doodad that sits in the miscellaneous junk drawer. I'm here for a reason, but I can't remember what for.

I can't really describe what I feel right now with any perfect picture. There's that feeling of being stuck in a strange state, in a strange motel room with no working air conditioner and a weird smell. The sheets are starchy and the TV only shows fuzzy lines. You're wearing day-old clothes, and don't have a spare set. A jet soars lazily overhead and you're hit by a wave of warm dry air as you stare out into the uneventful horizon. Uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in my own skin.Uncomfortably boring. 

This is probably why each days seemingly takes an eternity.

Another day, another silly note.

July 1st, 2013 [Part Duex]

“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”
                                                                                                             -Laurell K. Hamilton

Desperate to escape this boredom. This constantly struggling to fill my brain with thoughts and actions. Nothing seems to work tonight. Nothing seems to quench that thirst. I feel like that man in the old 'Got Milk?' commercial. He eats the most delicious chocolate chip cookie in what appears to be heaven; but there is no milk in the fridge to satiate that thirst. Desperately looking for that feeling of fun... hell, any emotion.

I've had the same dream for two weeks now. Every night, same thing; when I finally manage to grasp that elusive sleep. I thought it was a sign from God at first.

Wrong.

There are no signs, at least not right now, not to me. Only my brain telling me what I want to hear. Another method that this animal has added to his arsenal to torment me. False hopes. False promises. Lies. Barks ringing with deceit. I keep reaching out, feeling as though there is some Disney movie ending to my tale. To one day have the clouds part and the sun shine through. That day very well may be coming; I just can't see it right now.

I have to say, that has got to be the hardest part of this perpetual struggle with this damn mutt. These glimmers of hope that never seem to really last. Always worming my way out of the submission hold only to find myself right back face down in the dirt.

I will house break you. You bastard.

Sure, I may not believe what I currently type; but maybe if I say it enough I'll believe it. "Fake it 'til you make it." Maybe with enough false hope I can fool myself into thinking I've got a chance here. Every single minute feels like it's the last minute before the bell rings for summer break. That second hand is perpetually stuck at 2:59:59. The digital clock flashing 12:00. Time doesn't pass with any sort of certainty to me. I look at the clock; thinking I've managed to make it through the majority of the day only to find that it's still before lunch, sometimes even breakfast.

Life shouldn't be like this. Life should be wishing for more time; not shaking the hourglass to make it run faster. 

Every part of me wants to be out and about. I want to meet new people. I want to meet new girls. I want to put myself out there and see if I'm worth loving again--- see if I can love again. I'm just so self-defeating. You'd think the effort it would take one man to just say "Hello, my name is Brett!" would be pretty insignificant. It's almost like climbing a mountain for me right now. It's looking at the ocean and wondering if you could swim across with just some water wings.

Let's see if I can fend this monster off until the morning. Tomorrow is a new day... even though it's only 8:02 now.

July 1st, 2013

Success is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm.
 Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.
                                                                                                       -Winston Chuchill

Feeling like just another notch on that belt today. 

Decided I'm going to start writing my thoughts down about my depression.

Why Facebook? 

There are loved ones here, support groups here. Sure it's a stupid social media site, but I am who I am. If I secretly jot my suicidal thoughts in a notebook and shove them under my bed and don't tell you about it; I'm hiding who I am. We're e-friends under false pretenses. Distance is easily remedied and people that don't want to be involved in this type of atmosphere or fight can ignore these/block me/whatever.

Placing so much of myself and my persona into that of a "soul mate" has left me completely void of positive emotions.

"Plenty of fish in the sea." "Time heals all wounds." etc. etc. These are quotes that ring with hollow sound. They mean nothing to me at this point in time. I appreciate the thoughts, and in a situation where I was dealing with a mopey depressive I wouldn't have much else to say either if I hadn't been there and done that myself.  "Time heals all wounds."

I don't want to run away from these memories and problems, I want to confront them. I want to master them; but damn is it hard to feel like this. I allow myself to feel this way, I understand. I don't want pity or people to feel guilt for me. 

I made myself get two phone numbers yesterday. Randomly walking up to women and just faking confidence. You know that rush you get when you're flirting with someone cute? Isn't there for me anymore. I just want to be with her. Will that change? Hopefully. Do I want it to? I'm not so sure yet.

The Black Dog just barks in the yard, casting a shadow of doubt over whatever future I think I may have.

The Black Dog?

Referring to this intangible thing, this.. miasma of doubt and hopelessness by a phrase or word helps me imagine myself fighting it--- taming it, if you will. You can't really see depression or sadness; you know it's there, but it isn't a giant scaly serpent or hissing furry spider that you can combat and kill. Black Dog is what Winston Chuchill called his diagnosed manic depression and he was a great man by anyone's standards. He lived a life that affected the world. This reminds me that I can be that type of person. I can mean something even though my 'Black Dog' sometimes takes that away from me. 

This is really for no one but myself... However, if a random person on the internet finds some solace in that they're going through what I'm going through---and can hopefully follow back to when I eventually effectively neutered this beast; then this period of my life served some purpose. That makes it worth enduring, worth proving myself wrong, worth fighting.

That gives me hope. Hope that this isn't all just because life sucks and then you die.

...or if I can look back in however many years and laugh at how I was depressed over nothing at all and maybe put things into perspective.