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.

Hating Who You Are

I'm drinking and just want to air some dirty brain laundry.

The man I am is weak.

I am a poor excuse in measuring myself against anyone of real mental strength or fortitude. Woe is me, I am a sad example for an anything. Let us continue to throw a pity party and hope someone gives a shit. I push people away from my depression and myself in this attempt to save them from me. I want to save people the hassle of having me, Brett Hamre, in their life in any fashion. I spend hours agonizing over how I've wasted thousands of people's time and brought a negative impact on their life. All I want to do is leave a positive impact, yet here I sit---bellowing against the void, agonizing over every mistake or shortcoming.

I push people away even though, ironically, I want them to persist and stay. I want them to show me some love or sympathy. I don't want your sympathy! (Yes, part of me does.) Despite my attempts to fall on my own melodramatic sword... I am lonely. I want people to care. I think this is the human condition, or maybe just my purely selfish disposition.

Every day I think, with increasing fervour, that I should really just cash in my chips and settle my debts. Again, we confer to a cryptic allusion to suicide or death. A final answer to a temporary problem... for most. Not for me, for me this "temporary" problem has been persistent for nearly a decade of my life. It's the core of who I am, and what I consist of. My past and future reek of depression, self-pity, self-loathing, self-hate.

Actions I attempt to take out of the goodness of my heart are viewed in wildly different light than I even could fathom to comprehend. I don't do anything maliciously or with an agenda, ever. Other people constantly think I do. I'm always out to better myself or win someone over with a gift or gesture.

What the fuck do other people matter anyway? Right? It's it what we've all grown up learning that it doesn't matter what others think as long as you follow your heart. My heart, which I now increasingly becomes more and more numb to any emotion, is always in question. I always think my intentions are pure and true, and always considered myself altruistic, sometimes almost to a fault. Despite these thoughts, I've always recognized and agonized over when I did too little for someone or stood idly by while something could have been changed.

I understand why people drink. I understand why people medicate. I am in so much agonizing mental anguish every single day. This only lifts when I am with a few other genuine people in my life. This is unfair to them. I feel as though I am using them to escape from the hell I've built in my head. I've become reliant on other people to have a purpose to carry on living (at least existing).

I've failed the last college class I took because I couldn't force myself to write anything. Every word (including these) is tired and poorly written. They are all hollow and taunting in their reflection of the author's infinite lack of composition and guile. I sit again, forcing myself to write out the trail of thoughts currently circling in my head. They make no sense. There is no end to them. There is no believable conclusion or outright answer to anything.

Everyday I look into the mirror and stare at myself. Stare at what I can't believe is the body I am imprisoned in. I look at my faults, the weakness, the ugliness. Even though I am prompted to change, is there any changing for me? Is masking myself in muscle and tone any disguise for the pathetic monster that lives inside that shell? No.

So, I become more well-read and take care of my physical body. Let's assume that in six months time I am in the best shape of my life. Let's also assume that I've somehow become an interesting person that knows something about the world, anything for that matter. I'm still a depressive 25-year old that's failed more times then I've succeeded and feel like that's the way the future will always play out.

Wow. This all sounds like I'm just completely bitching and whining. I am.

Tangentially to whole depression debacle, I'm pretty sure I'm in love with a girl that I have no business being in love with. I should be allowed to love. I bring only heartbreak and pain to those who I caress. A curse which I will not impose on even the most resilient of persons.

Increasing is the emphasis on ceasing to exist. I'm attempting to save people from me. I have no right to have friends. I am incapable of being entirely selfless and caring for another person, despite me believing my intentions are full of honor or valor. I am a scared child in the skin of an older man. I don't deserve your time and should be okay without it.

Digressing to whatever point I'm rambling at... I look around my room, the confines of what I thought I inhabited, and am disgusted. I spent this much money on this much bullshit? I spent a large chunk of my life pursuing things that don't matter. Material things that mean nothing in the end. I have the grand notion of giving it all away, but then who am I? If not the sum of the things I've collected, what point did all of the past years of work serve?

The answers to all these questions I can hazard to guess, or even may know. This doesn't change the fact that they are still running through my mind constantly. They impede self-growth and rob me of any sanity I think I'm still clinging to.

There doesn't exist a soul, past, present, future, that should have to cope with the feeling of worthlessness that I drink deeply from daily. Even now. Even now I know only a half-dozen people have even struggling through these words... I can only think to apologize for wasting your time. There isn't a point to any of this. There isn't an enlightening thought or lesson to be learned here. I can't see one anyway.

You've indulged me long enough.

A Glaring Lack of Syntax

Only one thing lately seems to shut off the thoughts in my head, and that is currently no longer having its desired effect.

I blare hip hop, rap, pop in my headphones. Anything that has a string of nonsensical words and a predictable beat to follow. This is the only thing that kept my tormenting mind at bay. It used to be that

Every day I make a choice. The choice is always the same and it always comes up more than once in a single cycle of the sun.

Do I continue to exist?

I could just as easily stop this all, at the risk of sounding bleak. (Ha.)

Do I choose to wake up every morning and repeat this cycle, again and again? Is there some sort of future where I can find enjoyment in living without struggling for every minute of it.  Believe you me, I'm sick of being a downer too. Brett the proverbial wet blanket in every situation. 

This is a choice that every free-thinking man has on this bustling blue rock. For some this choice doesn't ever enter the picture. You are blessed.

This music is terrible.

All my mind lets me think of is my short-comings. The relationships I've failed at, the friendships I've fumbled, the opportunities wasted and squandered. How much time do I waste in any given day not living? I've said it before, and I still feel this way. This is not living, only existing---barely existing at that.

I don't consume food for the taste, it has none.
This loathsome music is just buzzing white noise now.

I lack the energy to finish a cognitive thought.
It's easy to reason, it's easy to say what I should be doing and that I won't end up dying an old hermit. However, I can't summon the strength to be anything but a burden to those who once cared about me, or perhaps still do. I shake, I convulse. I talk to myself more frequently, the probable conversation of a postulate madman.

I can't make any sense of this. I feel like ugly incarnate. I don't deserve your attention. I don't deserve anyone's attention. The glaring lack of self-worth running rampant through my brain. No matter how many positive comments I fabricate to describe myself, I count myself a liar.

How can I trust anything that I've ever felt or experienced? Have I ever even been in love? Do I know what loss is? If everything is so fragile and nothing can be rationalized in my mind, how does any of this make any sense? You don't have the answer, nobody has the answer. I don't know if I'm even a subject to this disease, maybe I'm just making this all up in some way or fashion.

I don't deserve to be in any sort of relationship.

Surrounded by people and yet I'm so unavoidably alone.

Note to self, work on syntax. Mental illness is no excuse for sloppy grammar.

The Urge to be a Martyr*

 

 Everyday I wake up, much like everyone wakes up.

     Many people groan about having to go to work, some lucky few greet the day with a smile or some varying degree of jubilant position, some others hit the snooze button and procrastinate leaving the warm confines of bed for those last precious nine (or multiples thereof) minutes.

     Everyday I wake up, I become displeased. Displeased because I didn't miraculously become a happy individual. Displeased that I didn't cease to exist and that this whole cyclical notion of going through the motions of a normal person hasn't ended. I don't want to eat breakfast. I don't want to look in the mirror at this sad pathetic humanoid looking back with hollow blue eyes. I don't recognize it and I don't like it.

     It takes all of my mental strength to brush my teeth.

      Can you imagine? It doesn't even make sense to me. Being physically and emotionally drained by the simple act of preparing for the day. I stare at the bottle of HappyBrain™ pills next to the sink and usually have a four or six minute internal debate about if it's even worth it to keep taking these apparent placebos.

     Every single day I feel as though I'm wading into an unrelenting current. A torrent of melodramatic and extremely irrational disdain for living crashes ceaselessly against me in every step or action I take or attempt to take. There is no end to any of it. It is constant. It is infinite. It is sad. I am sad.

    ...I take that last bit back. I'm not sad. I'm emotionally numb, indifferent to everything. My brain won't shut off, it never shuts off, make it shut off. It's usually at this point that I find myself standing in the sun. Miraculously dressed and standing under the sky. It doesn't matter if it's overcast, raining, sunny, snowing. I take this moment to try and appreciate the beauty of the planet and life around me. Lately, nothing comes from this. I usually at this point ask God if he's still out there, if I could get sign from somewhere that this is worth enduring, a sign that would make this all worthwhile.

     I stare at my wrists all the time. I never buckle my seatbelt. I play it fast and loose with gravity and I don't respect the gut feeling of fight or flight. This isn't meant to sound melodramatic, it does, but I wish it didn't. It's the truth. I promised myself I'd be vulnerable in these words and here I am. Them's the bricks, it's what I fight with.

     Thousands of times a day I day dream about dying for something worthy. Giving this existence up to be remember in a harrowing act of heroism. Making something out of all this pain, something tangible, something real and lasting. I fabricate situations where I'd be caught in a gunfight with bankrobbers and I take a bullet for a little girl. I dream up scenarios that involve saving kittens from a fire.

     I want to stop feeling like I can be replaced by the next guy to come along with some equally rugged good looks and a cynical (ie: humorous) disposition towards things. I am, I am replaceable though, through and through. I at least want to see that this disposable life I have means something. I want to have my cake an eat it to. One last act of kindness or selflessness and simultaneously put this struggle to an end.

     I'm so tired, so very tired of swimming up these rapids. I guess I'll just keep hitting the proverbial snooze button until something changes or I finally break. I have to believe that the cosmos intends the former over the latter, there isn't another option.

(I continue to ramble, reek of melodrama, and become less coherent. I'm lonely, despite being surrounded by crowds of happy people.)

Scapegoating in June 2014

At many times in my life I've given up.

Recently giving up on writing was one of these times. Reading works of outlandishly great writing left me feeling rather short-staffed in my capabilities. So I gave up. It's easy to give up. How exciting is blogging about depression anyway!? A melancholy boy that just writes about how this "disease" has been running havoc in his life.

Another thing to give up, depression. I feel/felt that it has become an easy scapegoat for falling short in life ambitions or objectives. Escaping the challenges life throws my way is really easy when I can just point my finger at the elephant in the room and scream "depression did it!" I mean, you can't disprove it right? It's a big mean demon that is as omnipresent as it is invincible.

I constantly even wonder if I am mentally ill or if I'm just a lazy sack of shit that's blaming the easy target. There isn't an easy answer to any of this. It's sort of like the crazy man wondering if he's crazy. Then again, by who's standards are we measuring crazy? By who's definition of depression?

I blame this feeling, this constant feeling of inadequacy, idiocy, weakness because it's easy to do so. The more challenging slope I could climb would be that of owning up to my actions as a grown-ass man and accepting what fate I have wrought. I have all the mental faculties to overcome anything in my way, right? All men do. Time and time again throughout history we've heard tales and witnessed feats of astounding strength solely brought on upon by the human psyche. The fleshy piece of gray goop in our skulls is capable of actions far beyond measure. Yet, here I sit wallowing in self-doubt.

I see the signs, but still act the way I do.

I'm throwing a pity party for one. You can come if you want, but the punch is really salty and some asshole put Depeche Mode on repeat.

Melodramatic Demons

Is it possible to scribe any words
 in this day and age
 that ring not of melodrama and  woe-is-me ilk?

Is it not overplayed to quote any  poet
 in this state of affairs
 that doesn't sound trite and  conceited?


Lately, every time I get the urge to run my fingers across the keyboard in some fashion, I abruptly stop myself from doing so. There exists a little man in my head that stops me from forming these ragged strings of words. There is a little wheel that grinds to a halt upon striking the notion of adding to this blog...thing.

Ambivalence. At least from my understanding, is the word that describes what my head is brewing up.

I want to chronicle my thoughts and ideas. I want to be able to look back in the future and see what a terrible writer I was. Perhaps, in this possible future, I will consider myself a much stronger author. Regardless, I constantly stop myself from sharing the quotes and ideas that I find enlightening or fascinating.

Constant is the idea that I'm seething a putrid and pompous persona of myself. I feel as though I'm being melodramatic, all the time. What is this "black dog"? Do I even have a right to use the phrase? I want to characterize my demons and cast vivid imagery of these diabolic and metaphoric... things...

Do I appear as some beret-wearing, mascara-sporting, poetry-regurgitating beatnik of-a-sort? This there is no definite answer for. What's next for me, I think, is some somber form of interpretive dance or perhaps maybe some overworded, complicated, "artistic" monologue I act out naked on a stage.

It's art! I scream. Soak it in you thespians!

I don't think anyone really wants to watch me beat this long-dead horse anymore. Hell, even I'm growing tired of this trope. Part of me feels like I have more important ideas and concepts to try and elaborate on than those of people that just hashtag everything. Nothing gives me this right. I feel dirty and egotistical for thinking this way.

So here I sit, on my high horse.
I'm also beating the horse.
Understand that it's a high horse, but it's also dead.
I'm also forcing the horse to listen to my monologue about philosophy and a black dog.
Poor horse.

Do Dogs Have Uvulas?

Another spur of the moment blog thing. Also, dogs do not have uvulas.

I should learn by now.

I should learn not to place my happiness in other people. Feeling well enough as long as my foundations are stable. Foundations can't be built on the backs of friendships or romances, even the most resolute. The best of individuals will eventually let you down. Only human, we are all only human. The weight of our own lives is far too great to saddle the weight of others' lives in tandem.

I chronicle this. Once again I have allowed myself to build happiness on that of another person. I have no right to put my mood and battle on anyone else, willing or unwilling. Only in the shallow confines of this stupid blog do I find any rest from my own negative brain waves.


Life is/was going well.

Job I didn't mind, not great, but didn't mind.
Straight run of high marks in university, intro classes, but still.
New beautiful girl that seemed to be infatuated with me.
Friends, co-workers, customers, these relationships all seemingly going swimmingly.

Despite my best efforts to breathe worth into these ideas, concepts, I only find myself staring at the edge of a knife or a bottle of pills again. Why now? Why have I put my worth as a living specimen of humanity on someone else's scale? I toss my own measuring stick aside to use that of another.

So long have I been ahead of this monster... I let my guard down and now pay the price. The ferryman cometh and expects his token payment. Here I thought I had gotten away with a free ride, mistaken. Do not make light of your foe or underestimate your enemy. If this depression is my enemy, I was laughing in its face. I now understand that the thing doesn't take kindly to ridicule.

Enraged, it has caught back up with me. The Dog's maw howls agape as it mists foul-stenched breath against my face. I'm not sure what to do. It's this moment, this millisecond before the fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, that drags on the longest. Do I run? Do I fight? Do I give up?

Probably not the latter, hoping.

I grow so tired, but can not sleep.
Punishment.
Punishment for harboring positive thought.
Positive thought that I had the Dog licked, put in its proper place.
Perhaps its proper place is firmly latched onto my gullet, my windpipe.

I feel as though I'm only whining. I'm bitching and moaning because I am desperately seeking some like-minded individual to trapse into my life with their own tumor of a dog on their neck.

"Hello stranger, nice black furry tumor you have there on your neck," they remark. "Does the pain become bearable?"

To which I reply, "No, unfortunately not, fellow person of depressive discontent. The beast's grip has not relaxed one iota as of yet."

I imagine I'm wearing a monocle during this interaction. This is probably the lack of sleep typing. I'm beginning to notice how I make little to no sense of any of this.

A Brief Thought On Duality; Jubilant Depression

The simple comfort of another soul, of simple social interaction can prevent a heinous action.

Reaching out isn't always easy; sometimes you just want to suffer in silence. Secretly, we hope for someone gifted with clairvoyance to realize that we require saving.Then again, are we even worth saving? Are you? Am I?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Perhaps it's a great scientific, insane, cosmic experiment. Some must suffer so that others can experience joy. If you believe in duality, and I'm not sure if I do, then it makes some semblance of sense.

Right?

If I, a lonesome sufferer of the charcoal-colored canine, am suffering in my current state... maybe someone on the other side of the world, the universe, is experiencing great joy. Maybe the sadness of one individual and subsequent jubilance of another is some supernatural balancing act by the forces unknown.

Perhaps the state of my mind does serve a greater purpose. Would I willingly endure torture if I knew that someone else was having the best day of their life thanks in some part to me? I'd think so. Thinking so brings some form of relief to the darkness that rips and tears at every corner of my being, my essence.

An interesting concept.

A sad sort of teeter totter.

Provable?

Nope.

No light without shadow.
No pain without pleasure.
No sense without nonsense.
Life. Death.
Happy. Sad.

On Metaphorical Ramparts

“Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.” These are the brilliant and truth drenched words advocated by the lovely Brené Brown. What of vulnerability? Haven’t we been conditioned to construct indestructible ramparts for emotional defense? We continue to exist only because of our barricades in place to prevent pain and failure from befalling us.

            As a young man, especially a man that valued stoicism for the majority of my life, you may find it odd that I’d be an advocate for the overwhelming benefits of showing vulnerability. You may find it queer that anyone would want to be vulnerable in the first place. Why show your faults and flaws? It’s much easier to put up walls and protect yourself from the world that seemingly wants to swallow you whole.

            
     Vulnerability is being susceptible to physical or emotional injury. Being vulnerable is being susceptible to attack, or open to criticism. With the idea of survival in mind, it’s readily apparent the being susceptible to any kind of attack or injury is probably contradictive to the end goal. I argue that you aren’t truly living unless you show the world all of you, beautiful you. This includes the nasty bits and pieces of you that don’t inherently want to be cast bare under the tireless scrutiny of fellow man.

            
     This is nonsense, obviously. A castle that has visible flaws such as cracks in the outer wall or an unstable foundation is more likely to be sacked by the enemy, is it not? This is true, but man is not a fortress to be protected. Man is not designed to house impenetrable gates and vaults to safeguard his inner emotions and passions. The enemy may more easily access these treasures, but perhaps after allowing the “enemy” passage within your haven they will turn out to be allies. Perchance this apparent enemy is, in reality, a group of merchants bringing fine silks and linens to your keep.

            
      We speak of this nonsense again. The hordes of people outside the castle, your castle, are only out to rob you blind. They’re only out to take what you have by force. Enemies that want nothing more than watch your world burn. We ought to just barricade the gates and allow none passage to our realm. Then how do we grow? I speak not just in fictional kingdom metaphors, but in truthful individual realities. Only by allowing the rest of the world in, in both our made-up castle and our hearts, do we truly live. It is easy to survive; easy to exist, but to truly live is a different beast entirely.

           
     Without being exposed, without the willingness to be defenseless we cannot be authentic. An American poet May Sarton put it rather eloquently, “We have to dare to be ourselves, however freighting or strange that self may prove to be.” It is impossible to know who we truly are in life without being authentic. It is impossible to be truly authentic without the presence of vulnerability, without the lack of emotional safeguards and other preventions.

           
     Fallacy! Blasphemy! Heresy! If you allow every person to see your flaws you will most likely be labeled as a pariah. People will take advantage of you, use you up and spit you out. You will undoubtedly be taken for granted. You freely allow yourself to be used and abused. You open yourself to feel otherwise preventable pain and hardship. This is an unnecessary allowance that isn’t warranted to lead a full and long life.

          
     Rejection is an innate and always present fear for many of our species. The idea of rejection is forever persistent in our dealings with other people, as well as blaringly prevalent when we take personal inventory of ourselves. Our hopes and dreams, thoughts and actions, even gestures and God given genetics are vulnerable to rejection. Nothing is safe from rejection, nothing. However, rejection is not a bullet, not an unbeatable monster, not an unstoppable force. Overcoming rejection is absolutely the key to making the practice of vulnerability work.

            
     Facing and overcoming these demons is at the very core of what I’m alluding to. Without hardship, without challenge, we do not improve. Sitting alone inside our throne room, closed off to the rest of the hurtful world, we do not flourish. We do not develop ourselves or the world around us; we do not live. Without interaction, true meaningful interaction, we do not begin to fathom what it means to be alive. Without rejection we cannot grasp what it means to be one of the many vulnerable, brilliant, and beautiful souls thriving amongst the throng of life.

            
     Allowing other’s into your so-called “throne room” opens you up to assassination attempts. You are allowing spies to steel their place within your court; the chance of sabotage rises drastically. Would-be dissenters and mutineers can study your weaknesses and plan their attack. You are giving fuel to the enemy and hamstringing yourself for the inevitable battle ahead.

            
     “If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles,” wrote Sun Tzu, the philosopher and Chinese general. Yes, life can be viewed as a battle; it certainly isn’t always easy. You would be hard pressed to find a philosopher or deep thinking individual, let alone average person persuade you otherwise. This being said, without battles there are no victories. Without victories there exists no defeat. Defeat may indeed be inevitable, but only if your perception allows it.

           
     In opening yourself to possible enemies, in allowing yourself to be vulnerable, you also open yourself to unquantifiable depths of love and friendship. I can personally testify that I had not truly lived until I shed my stone-cold stoic demeanor and allowed people to see who I really am. No, you will not be able to cast yourself bare just by waking up one morning and deciding to do so, but that is the first step to take. 

You will be rejected. 
You will be outcast. 
You will be hurt and disgraced.

You will be loved, cherished, admired. 
You will show courage, leading the way for others to be vulnerable. 
You will test your mettle and find it superior. 
Most importantly, you will have lived life.

Blue? Writing About Nothing.

What does it mean to stand on the sideline? I do not know.

 Is it a noble pursuit to allow another player on this blue spinny sphere to take a glory in your stead?

I believe it is.

...but then what is glory anyway? Is it even worth working towards?

Glory, and the pursuit thereof, is for the shallow. Accolades, trophies, achievements, laurels, these don't matter. Then what does matter? What dictates and defines one man's idea of achievement over another? One soul's pursuit is another's pain.

I ramble.

This hypocritical writing and "deep" thinking is growing more pointless and tiresome it seems. Always asking questions, never providing any answers. It's nothing but some wanton mind spinning out of control in the late hours of the eventide.

This is only a practice in preoccupying my mind for just a moment. Staring at the ceiling with blank expression and only accompanied by the unrelenting barrage of thoughts, malicious and otherwise. Is this all just a practice in morbidly hilarious futility? Again, an answer I can not provide.

I focus on the blue LEDs of my keyboard. They're an easy and simple distraction of thought. An exercise in stretching my lexicon of color.

Azure, Navy, Sky, Indigo, Lapis Lazuli, Ultramarine, Neon, Cobalt, Cyan, Teal, Egyptian, Prussian, Cerulean, Something borrowed...

This color is sharply contrasted by the faint red hue of my alarm clock. It reads 12:38. I could list colors of red, but I'm bored of this exercise.

This is nothing but an effort in free writing. An attempt to empty the gray matter in my cranium. No point made, no wisdom gleamed. You've wasted your time here and for that I apologize.

However, you should try it sometime. Ink to page, so to speak.

Does it prevent the feeling of bleak isolation that comes from occupying a space alone? No. It's more akin to warming yourself with a flask of whiskey. It doesn't effect the cold in anyway, but it knows how it pretend like the best of thespians.

Thoughts on Confidence, 11/23/2013

I'm trying to wrap my brain around something that I can't really come to terms with. How is it that, in the span of a few days, I can be told from strangers that I should work in radio, asked out randomly by members of the fairer sex, and even be teased about for an amateur model photo shoot... but still can't cling to one iota self worth?

Long-winded questions aside, I just don't understand. Sure sure, we've certainly been through this familiar song and dance a few times before, but it just doesn't seem to resolve and go away.

Thinking through the various steps of why I think this and feel this way, still brings no edible knowledge fruit. Usually when one rationalized his/her fears, those fears vanish or subdue themselves in the face of plain and simple logic. I know the answer to 2 + 2 is indeed 4, but the math still doesn't add up. Does this make any sense?

There is no reason I should be this way. There is no reason I should be plagued by this constant wheezing wind of emotional turmoil and the distilled fear of dying with lack of an interesting story to pass on, let alone anyone that wants to hear it.

Upon reading these poorly crafted strings of words back, all I can seem to tell myself...

Suck it up you chump.

What is self-esteem anyway? Do the charismatic individuals you see walking in the world amongst you really even have charisma? I'm told constantly that I'm a very outgoing and charismatic person; that I have the means to be a politician or motivational speaker, but I can't for the life of me agree with any of this.

The truth? I'm just faking it. Constantly fabricating this wall around the nervous scared boy that I really feel I am. The whole conversation puts the idea of confidence to scrutiny. Is it courage to be completely scared out of your wits, but jump into the lion's den anyway? Should it be blamed on depression? Should it be blamed on anything at all?

I feel like I'm forcing myself to find these answers out on my own. For what good, I do not know. I desperately crave social interaction, social support, and the like. I just don't feel it's really solving anything to push these problems on someone else to help solve. Will I come out of the pit wearing a new lion fur loincloth or will I spend the last minutes of this crazy ride in the various damp confines of the pride's collective stomachs?

Time will tell I guess.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."

I don't give my consent, yet still judge myself lacking. Logic be damned.

On Your Lonesome

How do we cope with loneliness? Do you embrace it and try to defeat it by remaining alone or does winning the fight involve leaning on compatriots and peers? I'd like to hear of someone with the mental fortitude and steel resolve to overcome loneliness... alone.

I often attempt to best this beast by facing it head on. Is that even an option? Is it possible to stave off the hordes of negative thoughts and ideas when you have no camaraderie to rely on for moral support?

At one point I wholeheartedly thought so. The power of the human brain is an astonishingly amazing thing.

Part of my fragile psyche believed(s) that it is indeed possible, with enough self induced brainwashing, to trump the feeling of being alone and impossibly disconnected from the world and its inhabitants.

Sometimes, I believe that's why we seek out romantic relationships. I believe that, unless you're in the small minority of lucky individuals who doesn't need social interaction, each of us NEEDS at least one other living (non-fictional) person to bare your soul to.

Therein lies another prong of this tangent. Is it fair of me to ask another individual for help with my baggage? The manly man inside of me believes, to this second, that there are crosses for each of us to carry, alone. I think, I think that...I think...anyway, that it's not unfair to expect someone to hold the door for you while you tote around your big, proverbial, invisible cross.

If you're any half-way kind of decent, you'll open the door for someone with full hands. It's no different if the door is imaginary.. and the cargo is a big made-up lowercase T.

Then again, sometimes the act of surrounding yourself with support still does nothing to sate the feelings of emptiness and the vast void of space around you. Sometimes the dog robs me of my capability to connect with other individuals, regardless of how hard I try.

Always questions, few answers.

Back to the point, if there was ever one to be made. There is nothing wrong with accepting a little bit of help to deal with issues of the brain and heart, just don't use people as a crutch. You have to be able to stand on your own to provide a positive impact on the world.

I'd also like to talk about fabricated confidence sometime. Self-defeating thoughts that prevent me from asking a brilliant beautiful girl out, or facing a crowd of people... is this even depression or some other character flaw? Maybe tomorrow.

Stagnation and a Bandicoot

It's been a while.

I've seen my share of ups and downs this pair of months since I've mentioned a word. I've come to realize, now more than ever, that I will never truly defeat this beast; only run far enough ahead of the monstrous canine to catch my breath for a brief respite.

A metaphor that keeps cropping in my mind involves Crash Bandicoot, an old PlayStation mascot. Crash, our unlikely protagonist, finds himself fleeing from a giant boulder of crushing death. The unique gameplay in this level (at least at the time) includes Crash running towards the camera, moving closer to the player. The gamer doesn't see what obstacle he has to avoid or pit to circumvent until seconds before it appears. The focus is always on the looming deathball rolling ever more rapidly in your direction.

This is what I've succumbed to. I can't see what's in front of me. I don't know where I'm going. I don't even want to write about it anymore. These words ring with nothing but yawn-inducing boredom to me; it's becoming a struggle to make myself believe I don't come across as a distracted youth making fart noises.

That's the thing about this disease. I steals my confidence, my drive, my motivations. It robs me of my convictions and persuades me to give in to stagnation.

 Stop moving and I stagnate.

If I stop running I'll get my innards squished out by the spherical hazard, but I'm becoming increasingly tired of holding down my left analog stick, so to speak. I realize that the only way to get back the guy in the mirror that I can stomach looking at is to continue to move forward, even though the vast majority of myself is yelling for the white flag. It's not worth it. Why try so hard? You're better off just sitting in stagnation, in this mind's mire you've been cursed to inhabit. Why waste energy if you'll never make it to firm ground.

...there's the catch though. I know there are dry islands in this muck. There are places where I can wring out my socks and make heads or tails of this "life" thing. However, I can't stay at these places forever. I have to jump back in to the mud and move forward again, away from this monster of a boulder, or boulder of a monster, whatever it is. I know this, I just don't want to put in the effort.

Procrastinating the end of my own stagnation.

I could list all the ways in which I've fallen off the wagon lately, all the progress I've made and then subsiquently lost. This serves no purpose to repeat. Mistakes were made. Mistakes will be made. I believe the only thing I can do, the only thing anyone suffering this disease can do, is to continue to get your socks wet.

Hypocritically, I currently dwell on my mistakes. I currently wade in my self manufactured sludge of lethargy. Realize that I know this is no way to live or even exist. There comes a time soon where I need to get over myself and move forward. It's either that or we just decide to give up entirely.

My Name Was Brett

Preface: I'm not actually going through with anything "stupid". 

I asked or a sign as I walked with tears in my eyes tonight; I got one one. At 8:00 pm, I received a unplanned internet message from a beautiful soul I hadn't thought of or had any communication with in years. You know who you are and you did, infact, save my life tonight. Thank you beyond measure.

I was just writing this when I got that message and I think it's really important that I continue to write this. Who knows what will happen tomorrow. There are no reasons to sit on these words. Words only matter when they're out for the world to see, not held as a secret within one's head.

The letter is as follows...

----
I walked past a black dog tonight, it was ominous.
The last song I heard was 'Home.'
I was five feet and nine inches tall.
I had blue eyes, and light brown hair.
I wasn't very good looking, but I liked to pretend.
My nose sat slightly crooked, and my right cheekbone made of plastic.
I was absolutely crazy about Dave Grohl and the Foo Fighters.
I liked drawing, but never considered myself any good.
I adored music, but could never strum a guitar.
I wrote words, but to me, they were only gibberish.
I wanted to be a muscular sex icon, but ended up a skinny boy with imperfect skin.
I lied a lot more than I would have liked; it wasn't until recently that I prided myself in honesty.
I had a habit of falling madly in love with the idea of a girl before she even opened her mouth.
I loved. I lost. I lived.

I am gone now.

Writing about yourself in the past tense is a little strange.

This wasn't anyone's fault. What happened isn't to do with any one event or any particular day or moment, but was a heavily calculated decision that I'd been putting together in my head for seemingly years. This has nothing to do with God or the devil. This is not fate, nor anyone's burden to bear. This is one young man's decision, one young man's choice.

My own worst enemy has always been myself, since I was capable of thought. I undermined my hopes and dreams and sabotaged my own success throughout these short twenty four years.

I used to be known for my "stone-cold demeanor", but ended as a hopelessly romantic blubbering buffoon; unable to keep my thoughts inside. Hell, look at me right now- putting this out for the public to see.

There was never any logical or rational reasoning behind my depression. This is what I struggled with most. Why was I so damn sorrowful when I can look in any direction and have overwhelming waves of support and love. My family couldn't have been any better or loved any more. They supported me in everything I did and I will always cherish them.

There are hundreds of people that influenced my life and I'd like to reach out to a few of them in particular.

My best friend throughout adolescence was Jordan. He was there for my first skinned knees and grass stained pants. I remember catching crawdads together and hitting rocks with plastic bats in his backyard. We fell apart in middle school, and even more in high school. He still had a special place in my history and I valued his friendship greatly. I still remember that time you "accidently" threw a heavy metal toy truck at my head.

The most embarrassing moment of my life was peeing my pants in the third grade. Jake and Donna will remember this. Don't make me laugh so hard.

Donna, Carlie, and Doug were my second family. I'm so happy I had them in my life, because they made me who I was and taught me a lot of the basics of growing up. I miss Patches and Tweety. I was recently able to witness Carlie's marriage. I was truly happy for her and know they have a great future together. Donna put up with a lot of young me. Growing up, in that house, I will always hold those memories fondly.

My first fight was against a boy named Mike. I ran like a coward. He cleaned my clock.

The first other person I would consider my brother was Jake. Jake was there when I first started battling this demon. We fought digital wars together at night. During the following days we spoke with fervor of our triumphs and defeats as makebelieve Navy Seals. I let the relationship with Jake dwindle out, even though he recently had reached out and tried to be part of my life. I always felt like I was cramping his style and he was much better with the ladies. I didn't want to be "Jake's skinny friend" anymore. I hope your family the best Jake and wish I could have met your wife in person; she seems like an amazing lady. I love you man.

The fairer sex that, as of writing this, I still struggled with talking to. Every girl on the planet was a thousand times out of my league. I had a nasty habit of "showing all my cards" at once and scaring them away. I always figured I'd just die alone; this was easier to swallow than letting someone else down for the rest of my life. I could never even draw or paint women. I always felt that I couldn't do the feminine mystique any sort of justice. If there is one perfect work of art ever created on this planet, it was woman, unable to be replicated.

My first crush, which still kind of persists today, was for a girl name Samantha. Then there was a girl named Kristin; who is brilliant- whoever ends up with her is lucky beyond measure. My first kiss was outside of Dakota Middle School with Miranda. I never confronted them about these crushes. I never possessed any kind of courage. I had my sights on destinations unreachable to me and knew it.

It wasn't until 21 until I considered myself in true love. I had never had the thud of something supernatural in my chest just at seeing a woman; before words were even spoken. This was enough of an otherworldly nudge to actually get me to ask her out on a date. Me, Brett Hamre, asked a girl on a date. Which she turned down, but I persisted. Man, was I persistent.

If you're reading this. You are one of the most stubborn, hard-headed, headstrong, beautiful, intelligent, extroverted, brilliant women to have ever graced my path. The three years I knew you were some of the best years of my life. You gave me something to live for other than myself. You actually opened me up for the first time of any of my friends. I learned to love and to acknowledge that I had real emotions. You opened up the proverbial can of worms and changed who I was, for the better, I think. Thank you for being my best friend for those days. I love you, and part of me always will.

Cory and I shared thousands of hours together. He saved my life, on more than one occasion. Some of my fondest memories are not even on this physical Earth, but those manufactured in digital fantasy lands with him at my side. Slaying imaginary dragons and digital demons, nothing but pixels. I would call Cory my brother and I know he would do anything for me. He got me my first job and we used to spend hours sitting in that taco joint parking lot after closing time. Doing nothing but listening to music and talking about life. I love you man, thank you.

Patrick and I had our fights. We had greatly differing opinions on various different occasions and topics, but he was the first guy that I was actually capable of sharing deep emotions with. Patrick caused me to be level-headed and apologetic when I was not. He was there to talk about love. He was there to talk about sadness and self-worth. The first time I ever openly told another non-blood related male I loved them, without being affected by a near-death experience or heavy medication, was with Patrick. I think it might have been in a fast food joint too, I can't recall. I love you man, and hope the best for your future and family. Send Amanda my love too, and make her get that book published already.

Bob, physician-patient privilege, but thank you for the numerous times you've pried this beast off my back. I wouldn't have made it this far without you, payed by the hour or not. Thank you.

Thank to the various teachers that put up with me in their classes throughout the years and opened my mind to new knowledge and ideas. You have the most noble profession on the planet and you are the saints that walk amongst us.

Tyler was my "100%"

No one has ever seen so much of the darkness in me than Tyler has. Tyler saved my life too. He single-handedly fended off depression that night and words cannot express how much that means to me. The first time I was ever drunk was at Tyler's house, Bud Light with Lime, which is gross, was the poison of choice. I may not remember much of that night, but I know we had a good time. Tyler harbors more charisma than any man I know and I considered him a role model. I thought he was the smoothest-talking guy to walk on this planet and in many ways he most definitely is. He showed me a lot about the way the world works and I would kill for that man. He's stood by me in thick and thin and I only wish I was a better friend to him. Love you hombre. Don't worry about the last thing you said to me; I only remember the positive "shit".

John was the best boss I've ever had, but he was much more than that. He taught me about my faith and was there for me whenever I needed him to be. It's probably weird to say, but he was like a second father to me. I learned about hard work and what it means to be a goal-oriented man of faith from him. I only wish I was a better employee and that I could have had him in my family in the future. If people still wrote of normal men becoming saints in this day and age, there would be volumes about John. There are no words existing in the language of man to adequately convey how thankful I am for his friendship.

My mother and father are the most loving people I could ever possibly hope to know. I love my sister and wish that I hadn't gotten away from our relationship in those high school years. She is a talented, brilliant, beautiful young woman and I know she's going to take the world by surprise. My mother is the closest person I can relate to Maria Teresa on this great blue planet. She would do anything for anybody and I love you drastically Mom. You were always there for me, in every way I knew I needed and even those I didn't know that I did at the time. My father and I didn't talk much. We didn't say the L-word much, if ever. I love you, you beautiful bald man. You are my hero and I hope that if I live to make it to your age that I'm half the man you are. I know we don't say things much, but you mean more than anything in the world to me and I wouldn't change our father-son relationship for any other.

Tonya, Jennifer, Lisa "Chibbley", Brianna, Uncle Dale, Kyle, Hilary, Adam, Tony, Jason, Timmy, Eric, Chris, Sam, Jason, Phil, Darek, Brandon Terry, Jeramie, Ryan, Rachel, Julie, Luke, Leia, Gemini, Jinx, there are dozens of you; If I ever write a book, I will most assuredly include.

I'm being vulnerable because I believe now that showing vulnerability is true strength. Too many of us are ashamed of who we are, myself included, to tell the truth and be completely open. I am no longer willing to be judged by what people perceive me as, in this persona I have built up around me as a shield. I was not a perfect happy-go-lucky charismatic guy. I was broken and lacked patience. I wasn't smart and I definitely wasn't a saint. I was never a ladies' man and never will be.

I continue to write this letter, even knowing that I'm not going through with anything drastic... because, well, because people should know who I am and love or hate me accordingly. I will never play the "game" of relationships again, life is too short. Look at me, willing to cut it down at twenty-four and some change. I'm not going to impress people anymore. There is no more pretending I'm okay when I'm really, absolutely, not.

I don't know what I future holds for me. I don't know if I'm destined to be a hermit in some forest somewhere, or eventually find another soul mate and live happily ever after. I have no, absolutely no, idea what I'm supposed to do with my life-- or even, at this stage in the drama, what I want to do when I "grow-up". I do know a few things. I will continue to write. I will learn the guitar. I will never send another girl flowers while heavily inebriated.

To love greatly, you have to open yourself to pain and ridicule. To enjoy life deeply you have to take the hopeless parts of the story too, if only to appreciate the ooey-gooey heartfelt parts all the more.

I think that in the future, I will look back at this and remember the place I was in. I don't know if I'll be in a better or worse place, but it's good to remember the path we traveled. Maybe this way, being painfully open, some other lost soul will have that elusive glimmer of hope.

My name was is Brett Steven Hamre. I'd like to live for a bit longer I think.