Decoding Our Depression

Depression is like being in an abusive relationship where the perpetrator, the controller you can’t quit, lives in your head. He can’t seem to leave you alone; He throws punches and takes shots coldly as you barrel along a dirt road that exists only in your mind’s psyche, holding onto the bumper that is the outside world. Your skin tears and bruises along the way, creating scars that would never fade.

You hear him yelling at you, telling you that you aren’t good enough, you aren’t worth the space you take, you aren’t useful. The air you breathe is wasted on you. You have no real place in the world. Everything you do is awful. Believing you can be good at something is deluded narcissism.

Your art is a mess of mediocrity.

You are a shell of a person. It isn’t simply sadness. There aren’t constant seas of tears falling from vacant eyes. You are empty inside. The hole in the pit of your stomach is hollow. You lay in bed, not seeking sleep, but not wanting to move because you know that this day will be no better than those that came before.

And when you aren’t laying there, staring pathetically at the ceiling, you’re filling your time with anything that will distract you. You don’t seek out people; just mindless activities that block out the emptiness. You spend hours watching television, playing games, or reading fantastic tales and living inside them. It was, after all, Mark Twain who said that books are for people who wish they were somewhere else.

And sometimes you want to pretend to be someone else, too. Just for a little while. Just for a little while, this isn’t your reality. That life is behind closed doors and you aren’t controlled by it, anymore.

But it never lasts.

You have to put the book down, turn off the television, put the phone away, eventually. You’re suddenly alone with him, again. He reminds you of all the terrible things you did. He brings back events and thoughts that should have been too far in the past for you to remember. He berates you for them. He tells you that you’re stupid, and that other people can see how idiotic and terrible you are. He controls your breathing. He controls your thought process. He controls your interpretation of the person in your mirror.

And you know, no matter how hopeful you become or comforted you superficially feel, he will never let you go.

Depression is when everything in the world is exactly as it should be, but everything hurts, anyway. It is a painful reality that forces you to hold a facade of peace, because people will change their perception of you if break the silence.

And nobody wants that.

The Egregious Effect of Epilepsy

Epilepsy is a condition that is too often misunderstood. A person writhing on the floor is not what a seizure looks like. It disregards the pain; the feeling akin to pins and needles after numbness, intensified so that it feels more like jagged knives digging into soft skin forcefully and repeatedly for long periods of time. But you see, the body doesn’t bleed, so it must not hurt.

But it does.

It is among the most obscure things in the world. You cannot see it. You can only feel it. You never stop feeling it. It is in your daymares and your nightmares. It is in the back of your mind during every single conversation, every joke, every laugh, every comment, every moment of every single day. It is omnipresent, looming, watching, waiting for the right—or wrong—moment to strike, because it knows that you have no way of fighting back.

It’s like being on an airplane. You are on a plane and you are the only one in the aircraft. It is wonderful, having no noise, no nuisances around you. You begin to fall asleep.

Then suddenly, it isn’t so wonderful. Just as your body dissolves into an effortless comfort, there comes a loud explosion and you are suddenly falling at break-neck speed toward whatever it is that is millions of meters below you. Your ears are popping like mad, and your screams are dying in the back of your throat, and you are only managing to take very short gasps of breath to keep yourself from suffocating.

And then, seemingly out of thin air, you are handed a parachute. You don’t know who it is that gave it you. You did not see them. They do not matter. All that matters is that you have this parachute, and you have the opportunity—however slim—to live. The plane slows down ever so slightly and you trip over your own feet trying to get to an open door; You put the parachute on, and you jump.

You jump, and you pull the ripcord and you look up, and your heart sinks, because there is a gaping hole in the very thing that was to save you.

You are still barreling down to what you now see are unforgiving tides of raging black ink lit up by a stifled full moon. The cold air harshly assaults your skin and your lungs have already begun to fail you, and you begin to recognize that you have reached the final moments of your life.

But just as you are about to hit the surface, you wake up. Everything fades away. There is no parachute, no water, no crashing airplane.

But you are still falling.

Friendship Ain’t Always Friendly

Sometimes really good friends turn into the type of people you fucking hate talking to. Their name comes up on your screen and you cringe, because you have no desire to converse with them. You know what they’re going to talk about.

“Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.”

Then you say something about yourself, and that lasts all of five messages, and then it’s back to the other person going on and on about something stupid as fuck that pertains only to them. They don’t ask how you are, they don’t want to know if something is wrong, they don’t want to talk about you, and they damn fucking sure don’t care about YOUR problems. Maybe they once did, but right now, it’s all about them. How dare you have issues when they’re talking?

Who the fuck do you think you are to think you matter somehow? This is a behavior-centered anti-therapeutic friendship.

Should you insert a comment about myself to attempt to redirect?

Honey, don’t you do it.

I’m a little more vulgar than usual, today.

Self-Righteous Indignation Post

I can say with utmost confidence at this point that I am out of ideas. I’m out of rants. I’m out of outlandish ideas and skewed corroborated morals. I don’t know what to argue with the world about, anymore.

And let’s face it; I’m just typing out all of these particular sentences so I can think of something that I want to display my righteous indignation. Self-righteous indignation, of course.

I still can’t think of anything. This is proving to be a struggle. Have I run out of things I hate? Absolutely not. I hate many, many things. This is depressing. I guess my heart’s just not in it, today.

That’s aside from the fact that I am doing this instead of working.

Because fuck work. See if I care.

Just kidding. Please don’t fire me, boss.

When Sickness Rears its Ugly Head

So I just discovered that I’m getting my head cracked open in May. Yes, I’m going to have an operation in which they’re going to dig into my skull.

I was trying to avoid telling anyone about it, but my dad came last night and told me he’s scheduling it for right after graduation. I have five months to anxiously wonder if I’m going to live through this thing. It feels like a death sentence, like I know exactly how I’m going to die and I’m speeding toward it like a bullet from a gun.

I was looking forward to May, because I’m graduating with a Master’s Degree in Applied Psychology. Blood, sweat, and tears went into this degree.

Now I want December to be as long as it possibly can be.

They keep saying it’s a simple procedure. I don’t believe them. Nothing is simple about opening up somebody’s fucking head. Nothing is simple about surgery.

Nothing.

My blood sugar is also unstable, again.

And I’ve been having many, many panic attacks, much pf them because of this.

And of course I can forget about publishing any books.

I haven’t told any of my friends or cousins or uncles or aunts.

I don’t plan on ever telling them.

Lol @ my life.

The Slut Paradox: A Contemporary Complex Controversy of Old

Sex and sexuality in our society are among the topics that spark the most angry and unkempt of fiery conversations south of the entirety of our world. The opinions vary vastly from each other, often inspiring hatred and even violence.

And perhaps the problem isn’t promiscuity of either sex, but the desensitization of us all to “matters of the heart.”

What the hell does that mean??

Society still most commonly dictates that sex and love ultimately go hand in hand, and though it is more or less agreed upon that one can enjoy the former without being subjected to the latter, sex with no goal or intention of being in an exclusive relationship defeats the purpose sharing your body with another human being so intimately.

But let the record show that I neither defend nor denounce monogamy or polyamory.

The problem I see is the judgment of others on both of these ideas. Do I believe that monogamy will bring two people a great incomparable joy when they are joined together? No. I don’t.

I have almost as many notches in my bed post as years I’ve been alive–an interesting comment from an asexual virgin–and a struggle that I have no intention of joining is an attempt to change the opinion of the other side. This post is not written with that purpose in mind.

In fact, this post was created for the clarification of the Slut Paradox; the question of whether there is use for this word at all is a complicated one, because the regard for promiscuity has been skewed. It has become a lock-and-key type situation.

A key that opens many locks is an amazing key. A lock that is opened by many keys is horrible.

Key: male
Lock: female

This is the biggest trouble in this entire argument.

If promiscuity and “slutty” are to become synonymous, then it should be removed from being gender-specific. A women is a slut. A man is a slut. They’re both sleeping around.

And if that’s how you want to work your body, well, who are we to stop you?

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Holly Jolly Hopes and Dashing Dreams

That title made absolutely no sense at all, because the story I’m about to tell makes absolutely no sense at all.

I got my first publisher rejection, today.

Just kidding. It makes total sense. I will never publish a book.

When did I completely lose my mind and actually believe I could ever be a writer?

This is what happens when your parents spend your entire life telling you that you can do anything you set your mind to.

Lol @ having hopes and dreams.