It's been a while, I'm still on fire

I stopped writing for a while, obviously.

That doesn't mean I've stopped fighting with the Dog. I got bored of giving it power. I got bored of rehashing the same stupid metaphors. Writing is boring.

All this time though, all this time... I was still and am still in the middle of it. I should be grateful that I had some positive times, that there were indeed some genuine smiles along the way in these last few years.

I've had a lot of life experience since painting that alley wall white. (It was painted over less than four hours later, basically.) Despite me being absolutely disgusted with myself and my words, part of me still wants to chronicle, part of me still wants to share. I want to share what I've been through, as fruitless as it may be.

I'm hollow.

Looking for relief seems absurd. It's like I'm trying to ladle water out of a shipwreck already laid to rest at the bottom briny deep. Even now, this sentence.. why? So a dozen people can maybe read it? Relate? To what end? It doesn't fix us. It doesn't last.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of living from rare burst of happiness to the next, weeks apart. I find it an incredibly difficult endeavor to trudge along here, now. I'm not talking in the living-life sense. I'm talking in the even-sparing-five-minutes-to-write-this-bullshit sense. Nothing I say is new, nothing I can create hasn't been created, muse, mused, ad infinitum. So why?

If I'm being honest, and I think I am, I posit that it's so someone will feel sorry for me. On the surface and to save face I would never openly admit to that. If you see me on the street and ask directly, I'll call you a liar. If you have a print-out of this paragraph and show it, shaking and cursing, I'll still call you a liar.

Maybe it grants a breath of realness to this thing. This otherworldly thing that defines concrete description. Maybe it's all worth it if someone goes "well, damn, that boy sure is a little blue."

Currently, there are some actual reasons why I'm struggling today... this minute. Reasons that exist beyond some positivist defined chemical misfire in my brain, reasons that are actual tangible things.

Maybe I'll go share those stories, those fruitless tales. For now though, I'm still smoldering. I just want the pain to stop.

World Suicide Prevention Day [2015]

Nothing major for contributions today, just want to recognize the international day for Suicide Awareness and Prevention is 9/10/15 this year.

I've been working on a pretty elaborate piece about the S-word that I'll probably just scrap and free-flow instead. Remember a few things today.

It's okay to not be okay.
You don't have to fit into anyone's archetype.
It's absurd to measure yourself against another's successes and failures.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline for the USA is always available, for any reason.
1 (800) 273 - 8255
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

If you're in the Rapid City, South Dakota area a great resource is the Crisis Care Center, any time, day or night.
(605) 391 - 4863
www.crisiscarecenter.org

I got my hands a little dirty tonight in the local art alley.

Self Deprecating Buzzkill

I just spent the better part of the morning squinting underneath my own judgmental eyebrows as I picked apart my past posts postmortem.

I know that recollecting and reciting past emotions and events can distill wisdom and clarity on where we've each come from, but, man... man, most of this is an unrelenting buzzkill and a cry for help. There's a part of me that itched to just whisk away those past collections of words and pretend they never existed. Part of me wants to deny that I could be that big of a wet blanket.

But I was. I still will be, sometimes.

That's the clarifying realization I've made. I've said before my reasons for posting any of this. It becomes readily apparent reading things from a different (distanced) perspective that events just aren't that dire all the time.

Emotional pain is real pain, and I'll be the first person to tell anyone that writing about it or telling someone about it lets that pain out. Eases the pressure against the metaphorical dam. This being said, I struggle with the value of putting more negativity out into the world for my Earthly co-inhabitants to chew on and digest on my behalf. Should a man suffer in silence, or is it further proof that life is best experienced as part of a collective? I'm not sure yet.

I've been bred my whole life to live with a certain level of machismo as a primary driving force. It seems very perplexing to place my strength as man in my ability to allow myself to be heard. It seems a stronger test of mettle to air my grievances and sorrow instead of shoulder the cross alone. Does that make me weak? Is relative strength a completely moot point in any of this? What is strength anyway?

Questions, questions, always more questions.

I continue to slam these keys in a wayward sense, in hopes that somehow I will forge a literary voice that doesn't goad would-be readers into killing themselves. (Don't do that, that's absurd.) Whether this happens via the mediocre writing and prose, or the sheer multitude of overwrought depressing analogies and anecdotes. My inner critic (who's an asshole, beteedubs) is always saying that this is a giant waste of time and bandwidth, continuing to construct these borderline absurd articles. The other part is blissfully unaware, nay, intentionally hoping that this will all serve some greater good for someone, anyone.

Starting from Scratch

I know this is pretty much par for the course anymore, but it's "been awhile."

There's good reason for that though, instead of typing terrible words on this blog, I've been typing terrible words into a word document for a would-be book of sorts. Good news though! I just decided to scrap the whole 120,000 odd words to come back to a medium that I'm more worthy of. That's right, the confines of this underwhelming (but oddly popular for the quality of content) site.

I second guess every sentence I write. I hate every paragraph and every page of text that I squeeze out of these gangling fingers. Who am I to think my thoughts or experiences warrant a proper published book? What a farce.

In any case, now that I'm done bashing myself... let's talk a little bit about the state of said blogspace. I'm going to try to write a lot more and a lot more often. While the content will shuffle to more of a journal-type format instead of these past philosophically half-baked ideas. I'm sure those will show up in some fashion, but I need to find my footing again when it comes to writing and being vulnerable before I attempt to dive into the deep end of a pool that's much colder and deeper. Back to the kiddie pool of melancholy thoughts for the time being.

With this change comes another though. I'll be writing about the entire aspects of my life, not just the depressing stuff. While clinical depression and other brain type ailments to plague me on a day-to-day or minute-to-minute time frame, I'm growing rather irksome of labeling myself solely for my expertise on the despondent and woeful.

There is much more to this entity I call myself than just being a wet-fucking-blanket all the time.

It was difficult to destroy hundreds of hours of work and writing, but certain times in life call for a fresh start. This, ladies and gentlemen, is one of those times.

After all, the Buddha says something about letting go and being happy or other such something.

Of Another Hiatus and an Indecent Deception

I haven't been telling the whole truth.

It's been a while, hasn't it?

So often when I have good stretches of time, so often when depression is off my back, I often forget to chronicle it all. Forget is maybe the wrong word. Deception is perhaps a strong word. It's not fair to anyone, myself included, that I don't make an effort to publish the positive.

If this was a true and honest recollection of my journey with the Dog, then I should make the time to jot down the strides I've made in the fight. A honest recollection of the positives should also be represented. I still only find myself retreating to these confines when I'm ruminating and stewing with my own negativity in some sort of terrible black broth.

If this blog is some sort of rudimentary art, which an argument could be made for any form of writing, then I lose my muse without... the blues?

I just rhymed there. It was terrible. I feel bad about it. You get a little rusty when you don't habitually pick up the quill (keyboard).

I've had a really great couple of months and have come up with a lot of life realizations, habits and methods to battle the beast, and even changes in thoughts and concepts to what is is to really live the Good life. Maybe this is all the philosophy from the Greek rock-stars we all know and (should?) love. Maybe this is existential and tough-to-chew-on reading from the French existentialists. It's probably a whole mixed cocktail of the above and the heavy dosage of theology, mythology, stories, experiences, and just real live people in my life.

It's difficult to track the points in which you have those eureka moments, even more so just looking back on recently past time and trying to recall with a furrowed brow. I find it easier to dispense half-cocked wisdom and armchair therapy when people ask these days. It should be noted that people only ask in the first place because I'm the asshole that decides to be all open and gooey about all this brain stuff. It's kind of becoming my shtick at this point.

It's not even like I've turned a page now.

I'm only here staring at this window because I'm in a moment of crisis. I have no wisdom to dispense. I have no knowledge bombs to drop. I'm completely bare to the teeth of this disease in moments like this.

Alone. Worthless. Ugly.

These thoughts are still constant, they're still inelegant. boring, and cruel deceptions part of me tells the other part of me.

There's a point somewhere in here. If I root around a bit with words maybe we'll stumble on something.

These thoughts are still constant and they're almost impossible to refute. I know when I get this way, this way I am right now at 1:10 AM in Black Hawk, South Dakota, they're almost considered as facts to my mind. Disproving something that your brain believes to be so true and so powerful isn't easy. You can't just flip a switch and feel empowered. You can't just turn a key and feel beautiful.

You have to remember.

You have to remember the way this moment feels, just like you remember the way it feels after kissing the girl for the first time.

You have you remember this loneliness and this hurt and this sorrow and this loathsome feeling in your gut, just like you remember what it feels like to take off restrictive clothes at the end of a long and arduous day. (Think of your bras, ladies.)

You have to remember the pain, the racing thoughts, the aimless pacing and wandering, just like you remember the smell of the warm summer morning and the fresh cut grass.

The trick to this way of thinking is that each and everything amplifies the other. The lower the low, the higher the high. Be present in this terrible and loathsome moment because there is immense value in experiencing this terrible and loathsome moment. It's still a moment and every second has an unprecedented and unquantifiable value in our lives.

Anyone would agree that we'd work to extend the good moments. We want them to last as long as possible. There's nothing except your perception that is labeling this particular moment as good or bad, right or wrong. This can be a remembered moment in your personal story. This can be the moment when everything turns around and life has meaning and worth.

It's easier said then done, that's for damn sure.

You can run and find a crutch, you can source a distraction, you can nullify and diminish the experience. Pick your poison.

Or...

You can choose to think differently about the whole nasty ordeal and breathe value into an otherwise dismal and hopeless stretch of time. It's very possible to create worth in even the most seemingly worthless moment.

Then again, this may just be the insomnia talking. You probably shouldn't listen to the heavy-handed soap-boxing of a depressive and sleep-deprived lunatic, but sometimes the crazy loons have just the right dose of lunacy to solve a problem. I never said it was a common occurrence, but, hey, anything can happen.

This is all more for me right now. Writing always helps, strangely. Shameless self-reminder to talk about jealousy and attachment next time. Hopefully not in another four months, but much sooner.

Message in a Bottle

Echoing loudly on the side of nauseating at this point, I'm going to ramble a bit about #socialmedia ...again.

After the last post I threw out, many people in my life (as in, more than one) reached out to me hurt or angry. I don't write anything on here for any other goal than to write to a future version of myself and maybe help a wayward depression battler along the way.

I don't write anything with any agenda.
I don't write to cause pain or spread misery.
I write for the sole purpose of releasing emotion or insight so that I can purge it from my system. The fortunate (or unfortunate) effect of this is that people can latch on and share emotion, realizing that we're not alone in this fight.

Some folks mention that they like to read my inane scribblings for various reasons. This is all beside the point. I write for me first and foremost. I need to see movement with this illness. I can't settle for stagnation. Unlike visibly seeing a scar heal, we cannot see proof of the progress. The whole process of healing is intangible and invisible to the physical eye.

Documenting emotions and feelings is the only way I know how to track this slow, seemingly endless slugfest with the overly mentioned black dog. (Captain's Log, Day 223, etc.)

Why on the internet? Why not in the confines of a private journal or secret hard drive? Because I like the romantic ideal that this is me getting as close to putting a worn piece of parchment in a glass bottle and pushing it to sea from the isolated prison of this illness. I sit with a million bottles and a million ideas. Maybe there's a one-in-a-billion shot that someone out there, some wayward shiphand ("Googler"), might hear the bottle (post) clink against the hull of the ship (browser window) and read (click) my message (URL).

I'm not sure if that metaphor even makes sense to me, or what makes sense to me anymore... or if anything has ever made sense... ever.

Swimming back to whatever point I was trying to formulate, I've once again opted to be a volunteering pariah of online society. I currently lack the self discipline to use it for good and positive ways. I only measure myself against peers and screw things up with friendships I would like to maintain, fractured and broken as they may appear.

(The majority of the daily readers came from syndication with Facebook, Twitter and other forms of means-to-connect. Seeing as how I've discontinued my use of such digital venues, I highly doubt more than three people stumble on this.

Clink. // Any use of hashtags is strictly satirical.)

Playing Pretend and Social Media

I go on these stints of social media hiatus. Trips I tend to take frequently for various reasons. I feel that social media and it's various forms don't do much to remedy the sense of loneliness I get when battling the dog.

Usually people don't even notice that I'm no longer in their various feeds, timelines, or what have you. "Didn't you see that thing on Facebook?" I'll be asked frequently in the real world. Which I usually reply in some such capacity that I haven't been on social media for personal reasons. It's a big deal for my brain to force myself out of the scenarios presented online, but the remainder of the populace doesn't even notice.

Imagine the progress that I lose whenever I eventually cave and revert back to social media. Not only has everyone in my life moved on, but they've done so without me even being a blip on the radar. Old flames have moved on to bigger and better relationships, put me in their rearview and not looked back. Friends and co-workers live life as though when I leave their sight I just vanish into the tomes of some imaginative story somewhere. I'm to be called upon in a later chapter when I play a supporting role in their personal narrative.

It gets very difficult to maintain this facade of being okay while out in public. I laugh, I talk, I pretend to feel attractive when a pretty girl smiles at me... I'm just pretending, this is all just a big game of make-believe. It's unfair of me to think that I'd play a bigger role in certain individuals lives. Some sort of malicious egotistical thought process fathomed up by a boy that doesn't matter too much.

I finally caved in tonight, hoping to see some sort of happiness or social interaction by logging back in to the virtual halls of the interwebs. I look for signs that may have noticed I was gone, there are none. Life moves on, forever on and on. People that used to play a huge role in my life now continue their story without me in it at all, only a vague memory of a time that once was. Whether this is for better or worse, I couldn't tell you. I'd want to believe the former, though my brain would present heaps of evidence to the latter.

The process is always the same. I justify myself logging back into the confines of cyberspace through many reasons, but always have one stipulation I give myself. A stipulation that I always fail at upholding. I allow myself access to this social network, in the hopes that it helps my sense of emptiness, by promising myself not to look into the lives of people I've been jealous of in the past or brilliant women that I've loved/still love.

I always fail.

Unable to resist the urge to pry into the world outside of my own, these people have seemingly great lives. They're all moving on without the weight of me in their life. Even if it's not someone that's been at the forefront of my life, I see happy babies and smiling photos of couples. New houses or cars populate the stream of information regurgitation piping into my sight.

Despite me trying to seem calm, collected, cool about not getting text messages or call outs from the people I care about... it's fucking devastating. Some part of my brain thinks that people will eventually realize that the great and admirable Brett is missing from their daily interaction and send me a lifeline. It's been over a week since I've gotten any correspondence from the people I really want to hear from.

A fraction of me wants to reach out and ask, why? Why am I not worth the time? Was I just that much of an emotional drain? Are you that much better without me in your life?

The gall I have to think I should matter to anyone anyway. You have your boyfriends and spouses, why do you need a whiny me in your life? You don't. No one does. This always happens and it always causes a spiraling out of the somewhat bearable airspace of contentedness. I see life going on without me and it strikes a very loud realization every time.

Even if I were to end my life, life would still go on for others. How would I be remembered anyway? Probably as the "nice guy" that was always the beta male uncertain of his social status, always in his own head.

What I would give to be content and not have to pretend to be okay all the time. I pretend even now. Writing this, MAYBE ten pretend people will read it. Does that justify the effort? Does it even give me any solace from my own pain? Out of those ten people that read this, is one of them who I really want to know how I feel? Does it even matter how I feel? If not to her, him, them... then to me?

Out of everyone else that may or may not care about Brett, you think that the person that should at least care a little bit is the one inhabiting the vessel of Brett. Nope, not right now.

Life goes on with or without me walking around in it. To me it seems most people have more productive and healthy lives when I keep my distance and fade into the white noise of the supporting cast.