“That’s funny, George. You’re very quick. I feel like I don’t have to explain every little thing to you.”

The Depression Monster ambushed me in my sleep.  I got about an hour of rest first, so there’s that.  I just hate when he gets me at my most vulnerable.  My bullshit detector doesn’t work when I’m asleep.  (It barely works when I’m awake.)  I haven’t managed to find a way to avoid this sadistic slumber party, yet.  Aside from not sleeping, that is.

I wake myself up from weeping in my sleep when this happens.  Then my bullshit detector has to warm up.  It usually takes about an hour before I manage to talk me back from the ledge.  Humor is my most effective (and probably only) weapon against the Depression Monster when I’m half asleep.  It’s the one instance where being a smart ass with a twisted sense of humor has paid off.

He usually plays the race card first:

Depression Monster: You should just kill yourself. You know damn well it’s just a matter of time before a cop shoots you for existing while being black.  And autistic.  And mentally ill.  Um…  How are you still alive?

Half-asleep me: I knew it! This sucks!

DM: Even I have to admit it’s pretty messed up.

HM: But I don’t want to die.

DM: Everybody dies. It’s the only thing you can assume without putting your foot in your mouth, which is something you often do, I’ve noticed.

HM: Hey! I’m eleven days into creating a new habit to correct that. You’re mean.

DM: At least I’m honest.

HM: No, I don’t think that’s right…

DM: You think? Since when? I thought you medalled at First to Reply, not First to Edit. More like, reluctant to edit, right?

Me: I hate you.

DM: So?

M: When will you be dying?

DM: What do you suppose Stevie Nicks would think if she heard that evil question?

M: I don’t know… Shut-up.

DM: Make me.

M: I don’t make trash, I burn it. (Not really, I use city sanitation.)

DM: Rote!

M: You’re a figment. Fig Newton. Farfegnugen.

DM: Rude much?

M: Nope. I save it for you.

DM: I’m touched.

M: I know.

DM: You know… It’s too bad you’re not at least a man. At least then you’d have fewer people who hate you for existing. Also, you wouldn’t have needed a Ph.D. if you were born with a penis. It’s your paper penis.

M: (singing) Have I told you lately that I hate you?

DM: This is why all the hashtag gamers hated your guts. So much. You don’t even understand what funny means.

M: Remember figgy pudding? It was the rudest part of that song. So demanding. Fig.

DM: If someone says the n-word around you in any context, you cry. Every. Single. Time. I don’t think normal black people do.

M: Now I’m going to live just to spite you.

It drags on for a while, but I ended up laughing at myself, (after bawling a little.)  Once I’m fully awake, it doesn’t take long to shut him down.  It’s no wonder I get lost in the shower if I don’t follow my checklist diligently.  The only strategic hint I got out of today’s adventure:  Work on having fewer insecurities.  Sigh.

“She’s like an expensive car with one of those motion-sensor force field alarms.”

I’m still struggling to entirely free myself from the grip of the Depression Monster.  I’m doing better, thanks to our Stevie Nicks party.  When I think about what she’s taught me, it helps free me from my inner asshole.  I quit beating myself up for having depression and focus on forcing it back into remission.

I watched an interview on YouTube in which Stevie Nicks was royally pissed off.  I had to view it a few times to recognize she was angry, (this is one of my known bugs.)  When it clicked, I realized she gets pissed precisely the way I do.  We both talk a whole lot of shit to cover up how powerless and hurt we’re feeling.

I’m kinda glad there’s someone else on this planet who reacts this way besides me.  When I reach that point, I’m incredibly compelled to throw out unbelievable threats against whoever has me riled.  I know as it’s coming out of my mouth how ridiculous it sounds.  I just need to say it anyway.

As I age, I’ve improved slightly.  It’s been decades since I’ve threatened to hit someone with the Empire State Building.  It’s symbolic of my rage, not literal, (although, if I could, I might need a timeout to prevent it.)  To me, I’m merely stating exactly how pissed off I am.  Others usually choose to find it amusing, (which only makes me want to replace the Empire State Building with the moon.)

Before I acquired this um… Skill…  My only way of expressing rage was crying.  This is better.  Just so you know, the best way to react to someone losing it like this is to remain silent and avoid eye contact.  Perhaps no sudden movements, too.  Please, don’t laugh, it just makes it worse.

 

NVIDIA Titan Xp Star Wars Collector’s Edition

Tomorrow morning at 7AM PST, the pre-ordering begins.  Of course, there’s a dark side version as well.  It’s red instead of green.  I was in the process of researching my new gaming build, when this popped up and said, “Strong with the force, I am.”  Gamer’s who also prefer their machine to look like a brilliant, (damn near garish) alien artifact:  May the force be with you.  Always. 💜

I’m getting ready to watch comedians on Netflix.  Laughing until my face hurts is my way of going nuclear against the Depression Monster.  I keep it in reserve for this use.  I’m not pulling out my secret weapon just yet:  Wanda Sykes.  I do need to start watching Conan again, though.  He’s like America’s Prozac.  I love him.  Okay, I’m off to laugh like there’s a prize.

“No matter how depressed I get, I could always read the sports section.”

The Depression Monster got me.  It took all of the last night and most of today to take back control.  I feel like I just finished playing professional tag for three hours.  I’d kinda like to cry, but I’m too stingy with what little energy I have remaining.  At least my thoughts are slow for a change.  Time certainly seems to pass more quickly when I’m fighting a bout of depression.

I just wish it wasn’t because everything takes far longer to pull off in this state.  M. suggested we have a Stevie Nicks party this weekend to send the Depression Monster packing as quickly as possible.  I’m totally going to marry him.  I know I agreed already, and all that.  But this was precisely the moment I knew with all my heart he’s The One.

Geez, I’m grossing myself out.  Heh.  (Mostly because I mean it.)  I don’t know what this feeling is called, but it’s the same way I feel about four chapters into every book by Stephenie Meyer.  I always think to myself, “Dammit, she did it again!  She tricked me into reading a romance novel disguised as speculative fiction!”  (Please note, I’ve read everything she’s written, and will continue because I love her.)

I pay close attention to the way M. says things.  He’s never put his foot in his mouth that I’ve noticed.  He didn’t fall into the trap of suggesting a way to “get over my depression.”  Just a way of getting through this round more quickly.  With him.  This is two new things to consider.  Usually, I send him away when I get depressed.  He figured out how to invite himself to hang out.

Damn, he’s brilliant.  I’m sure there are several ways he could have accomplished this, but a Stevie Nicks party is a home run.  Or maybe a touchdown.  Whichever one is better.  I’d be printing out Stevie Nicks quotes on pretty backgrounds and hanging them all over the place if I could get up.  Tomorrow,  I’ll gather some hardcover notebooks, my best pens, and my favorite blanket.

Then we’ll sit on the blanket in front of the TV and watch my ocean scenes Bluray, and write poetry.  (M. will probably write poems about surgery.)    Then a live concert DVD or three.  Yes, this will send the Depression Monster running in tears.  Perfect.  I love reading poetry written by people who insist they can’t write a poem.

They don’t know the rules, or what’s expected.  It frees their creativity.  Some people are naturally poetic.  I think of them as graceful minded.  I like being near people like this.  I’m probably hoping it’ll rub off on me.  I have a lot of faith in osmosis, apparently.  I’m off to read.  🙃

You got a problem with paba?

The Depression Monster is kicking my ass.  I’m doing surprisingly well, despite.  Well, in that I’m too numb for it to touch my spirit.  The buffer has always existed, but it’s only recently occurred why.  I’m delighted by this new insight.  I’ve decided to accept it without analyzing it (to death.)  My understanding is enough.  How rare.  But I don’t dare linger here.  The brain zaps from Prozac withdrawal are happening every few moments, now.  It feels a lot like being excessively high on cannabis.  It’s almost out of me forever.  Yay.

I’m glad I went on the marijuana tour last year, or this would probably freak me out.  (Okay, definitely.)  I was awed by the amount of weed I was able to consume without consequences during the tour.  I watched the younger tourists consume far more simultaneously, also without repercussion.  It had the intended effect of eliminating rote fears.  Something about cannabis works the same way Prozac does on my brain.  Does this mean I’m going to replace Prozac with pot?  Nope.   😂  Fuck drugs.

While I had no compunction with legally consuming in the past, I’ve grown since.  People who were off my radar then are now present in my world, and their influence is intense.  I could legally smoke a joint in front of both Michelle Obama and Lisa Bloom (my imaginary personal life coaches) without feeling like I was hovering over a pit of doom.  I couldn’t do it in front of  Stevie Nicks, though.  I can’t even do it knowing Stevie Nicks exists.  So here we are.  Post pot life.  I’m glad I experimented, but fuck feeling like I’m hovering over a pit of doom just to get high.

It’s not even ironic.  Stevie Nicks specifically said to avoid cocaine, bourbon, and weed because she used the hell out of them, and it almost killed her.  She added Klonopin to the list of never do’s, too, stating it was the worst of them.  Through watching her documentary DVD’s and the interviews on YouTube, I learned of this dark chapter of her story.  It made me grieve for what she endured.  (That’s the only part that didn’t surprise me.  😂)   Do as I learned, not as I did before learning.  That’s fucking powerful.  I’m amazed by this turn of events, but not upset.

I’m pretty confident I was born high enough.  I don’t need mood altering substances to tease reality.  I can just read a Stephen King novel.  Or Clive Barker, who is rapidly gaining my loyalty as a reader.  I abandoned Tess of d’Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy quickly, and read Duma Key by Stephen King, instead.  If you’re an artist, read Duma Key.  You’re welcome.  (It’s an excellent story, regardless.)  I’m done reading fiction that centers on women as victims.  I’m basically abstaining from the Lifetime Channel variety of novels forever.  ‘Cuz holy shit.  It’s like forced empathy training for sociopaths, (as if that would work.)

What?  Your novel is about a woman who got raped?  (Visualize me running away, screaming “Fuck!”)  I don’t even watch TV anymore.  I have four TV’s, two of which are newer 4k LG’s with HDR.  I’m going to give away the other two.  The new ones are still useful for movies and video games.  And to watch Will and Grace when it starts, of course.  My other show, Better Things, I buy to stream via Amazon.  I’m going to give away my Fire TV, too, since I just realized I haven’t used it since I set it up a year ago.  Oops.  Roku made it redundant.  I haven’t even looked at the Apple 4k whatever.  I’m good.

I need to give away my excess computers, too.  My house AI can stay once I adjust her, but all the single card computers can go.  I don’t need to know the humidity level of my bedroom while I’m  sleeping, for starters.  I regret I’ve crossed the line between smart home and smart ass home.  Sigh.  I thought I would love it, but it turns out I find it incredibly annoying between the hours of 2 and 4 AM.  Even Wanda Sykes couldn’t make me laugh during that time…  On second thought, she probably could.  😂  But until she shows up to try, I’ll be sleeping during those hours.  I’m off to debug de-feature.

…No soft cheese of any kind.

I got triggered.  I don’t know what caused it, but I’m not in the mood to linger on it.  I’m super tired from not sleeping well (in a strange place.)  I’m debating about going to Denver to ride this out.  I’m trying not to let myself give in to the urge to be Negative Nancy.  I know it’s one of The Depression Monster’s automatic weapons, so giving in means letting that bastard win.  Not happening.  I’m off work this week, but I think I’d be better off skipping a nap and sleeping well tonight.  Swimming will probably help.

I’m starting to realize what will get me to finally move to Denver;  Issues with the VA hospital here.  For some reason, getting decent care is iffy for me at the VA here.  From my perspective, it seems as if it merely depends on the mood of whomever I see.  Of course, I suspect racism whenever a caregiver mistreats me.  I scrutinize a list of possible reasons, but it almost always results in cause unknown.  Racism is easiest to detect based on experience, but it’s rarely the reason.

You can see why I concluded it’s a mood issue.  I find it ironic and frustrating.  It contributes heavily to my desire to replace all humans but nurses in most medical environs with AI, starting with psychiatry and psychology.  A human psychologist is offensive to me because it’s intrinsically half-assed.  I’m disgusted by partial effort, but it doesn’t blind me to the fact psychologists can get good results despite being hobbled.  I just know AI would do better due to being less fettered.  Moods;  They’re finding me in a bad one.

I just realized what triggered me.  I heard sirens while in Mexico City.  They still use the version we used in the US years ago.  I used to have a panic attack anytime I heard sirens.  It sucked.  It basically dictated where I could live peacefully.  Now, the newer siren sound doesn’t trigger me anymore.  At most, I get a sinking sensation that passes quickly.  (I suspect it’s genetic by now.)  When I hear sirens, a switch is flipped in my brain that signals my body to expect sudden death.  Good times.

This may be common, or it might be a quirk.  I don’t know (because people don’t like being asked if they feel a sinking sensation and impending doom whenever they hear sirens.)  It’s baffling.  They act as if my next question will be, “Do you think anyone will hear you scream?”  So it’s in the I wonder bin.  I saw a GI in the Denver airport and thought to myself, “OMG!  He’s so young!”  Then I remembered I’m old.  I finally understand why I almost got sent home before basic training (because nobody believed I was 17.)  Imagine how offended I was.

I pulled out my group photo of my basic training unit earlier.  I’m the only person smiling in the entire photo (53 people.)  (It was before I got the memo informing POC and soldiers not to smile in pictures.)  I looked pretty young back then, I guess.  I think it had more to do with how I behaved.  I was still very much a child at 17.  I’m the one who was taken home with a Drill SGT over a weekend to play barbies with her daughter, (because she knew I would get my ass kicked if she turned her back too long, but I didn’t know this at the time.)

I hope this passes quickly.  Tomorrow, my first bass guitar arrives.  It’s a lightly used Dean acoustic electric.  I love creating electronic music, but I would rather spend time with the actual instrument than my computer.  Creating sounds on my computer is awesome, but I only like to do it when it’s a sound I can’t produce for $200 (and some time on YouTube learning how to play.)  My first guitar was easily mistaken for a toy.  I’ve learned a few things since, and am looking forward to studying bass.  I have so much material in my head that I sometimes play on guitar while wishing it was lower pitched.

I use the bass pedal far more than the drummers I’m playing along with.  I think I have double bass pedal envy.  Okay, subtract the I think part.  I’m not ready for it, so I just use the shit out of my single pedal.  I need to anchor the padding beneath my kit because I keep inching forward and to the left.  When I try to drag it back into place, the puzzle piece connections get strained.  I’ve adjusted my hi-hat pedal so much it looks like someone was bored and had an ice pick.

Okay, I think I’ve distracted myself out of panicking.  Whew.  Sorry about the rambling.  I just finished Imagica by Clive Barker.  It was an incredible journey.  I’m still on a witches and magic streak but in such wildly different and unexpected ways.  It’s fascinating.  I’m reading Terminal World by Alastair Reynolds now.  I started laughing when witches were mentioned.   They seem to be everywhere.  I like them far more than vampires because they’re so Sappho.  (Women don’t automatically put me in combat mode, except for Ann Coulter.)  I’m off to read.

 

 

I hear everything.

The Depression Monster has me in a Full Nelson.  (I had to use Wikipedia.)  I’m no longer able to ignore him, but I’m flipping him the bird.  I’ve learned studying Stevie Nicks requires a commitment of sorts.  You have to accept the fact it’s going to hurt sometimes, or you have to move on.  I didn’t even need to think about it.  I like earning my passage into her world.  It’s calmer.  I also like how it doesn’t matter that I’m out of sync in time.

I’m on the second documentary now.  It’s called Stevie Nicks:  In Your Dreams.  I’m at the point where Katrina happened.  Fuck.  I wasn’t ready.  You can tell Stevie directed and edited.  It’s raw where it needs to be, and soft where it’s not.  I suppose this is a trigger warning.  Pause when you see the first hint of Katrina coming next.  It will be obvious now.  Make sure you’re in a safe place to ugly cry.  Get tissues and a few bottles of water.  Round up your pets, and your favorite blanket.  Then take a deep breath, and hit play.  You’re welcome.  (I do this because I love you.)

This hasn’t happened since I spent hours listening to Amy Lee (Hartzell) sing, Hello and Like You on repeat, while I wept with her over losing our little sisters.  It’s a good thing I eat intensity for breakfast.  I never thought I’d say that.  I’m so used to people telling me I’m too intense, (and having it sound like, “fuck off.”)  I’m glad it keeps proving valuable where it matters.  I slept on Tuesday night, so I should be good for a while.  I started writing my short horror story last night.  In hindsight, it may have been better to do it in the morning.

I learned some secrets about fear years ago.  It has a ceiling.  There’s nothing beyond scared shitless.  Further, I discovered there’s a limit to how long you can remain terrified.  I’m sure with practice you could extend it, but for most of us, it’s a relatively rare event.  It’s intense until you run out of energy.  Then it’s surreal.  It stays surreal while you recover a bit.  Then it repeats a few times, like a chorus.  But it has diminishing returns.  Your initial level of terror is greater than your fourth course.  Eventually, it just becomes hysterically funny.

Don’t look at me, I didn’t create these rules, I’m just reporting them.  This is how humans process prolonged fear.  At least the ones who don’t pop straight away, that is.  It’s not good news, but I believe it’s better to know up front.  I hate surprises.  So anyway, my point is I’ve learned how to cope with fear.  I don’t flee at the sight of it.  It’s a bitch, but so am I.  And you can refocus your eyes, I’m done giving myself a pep talk.  I plan on writing more tonight.  Last night I wrote two pages, then deleted them and started over.  I thought about an outline, then didn’t create one.  Finally,  I wrote two better pages.

Creative writing clearly had a far greater influence on my writing than English Grammar.  I love rules, except where creativity is involved, at which point it reverses.  Rules are for one type of thinking.  Creativity is for the other.  They don’t mix.  Mixing them should cause profound halitosis.  That’s how serious I am.  Incidentally, when my orchestra instructor tried to tell me how to feel about Beethoven, I noticed he had funky breath.  (I don’t believe in coincidences.  I’m far more impressed by irony.)

This is the closest I’ve ever leaned into my blog.  I’m incredibly impressionable, so it’s likely Stevie Nicks’ influence on me.  I’m becoming a little more open.  I didn’t see any of this coming.  Despite the tears, I’m having a fabulous time.  It’s a little like following a rabbit down a hole if you know what I mean. 😉  I have a long night ahead.  I’m off to get to it.

What does the little man inside say?

The Depression Monster is riding my back. It’s at minor annoyance level.  I’m a bit surprised by my suspicions of why I’m feeling low.  I think it’s because I’m studying Stevie Nicks, and I’ve come to a rough point in her past.  I’m at the overwhelming betrayal:  She was told she had to stop using cocaine or she’d die. Clearly, she stopped.  When she was recovering from addiction to cocaine, she was prescribed Klonopin.  It led to a worse addiction.  That’s a pretty big mind fuck.  I’m experiencing it retroactively, but apparently, my empathy didn’t get the memo.

I paused the documentary at that point to process what I’ve learned so far.  Fame is ugly.  It’s not new information, but watching Fleetwood Mac lose their innocence was hard.  I now know Rumours was created from pain.  They were all experiencing raw grief.  The successful album says a lot about their professionalism and abilities.  Most people don’t want anything badly enough to endure such circumstances.  They were about to make it big, but I don’t think they knew it.  They certainly earned it.

It bugs me something so sought after is basically a trap.  A trap for drug addiction, and a new type of loneliness exclusive to famous people.  It triggers my protective nature.  Fuck the universe for tempting so many people to strive for fame before revealing it’s true nature.  People don’t like to be fucked with, especially not after pouring everything they have into reaching for excellence.  Fuck.  Also, the men interviewed in this documentary are pissing me off.  They’re music producers from the late 70’s, which is probably enough explanation.

They’re accidentally doing a fairly good job of conveying how things went down, but you have to read between the lines.  They’re inarticulate and behave like frenemies at best, ex-lovers at worst.  Nobody is watching this documentary to hear about how butt-hurt the producers are decades after the fact.  Besides, Gen X women know misogyny speak fluently.  When men describe a woman as a bitch, diva, full of herself, bossy, and/or demanding, we are aware it actually means she was a formidable leader.  It says she didn’t submit to male dominance.  It means she’s someone worthy of our attention.

I’m noticing similarities between Stevie Nicks and Carrie Fisher.  They’re both survivors and storytellers.  They’re understandable to me.  I’ve probably stated this many times, but understanding is the path to love.  When you understand someone, you can’t help but love them.  Loving those who don’t know I even exist is surprisingly delightful.  It’s a safe secret.  I’m not very good at being a fan of famous people.  I rarely go to concerts because the other fans scare the shit out of me.  I’m pretty sure a lot of famous people have been traumatized by their fans.  We should rename fame.  It should be called Public Pain.  (I’m a huge fan of stating what’s meant.)

I can’t recall ever meeting anyone famous.  It’s a perk of living in South Dakota.  We’ve all rehearsed how we plan to act should it ever occur, but even my rehearsals haven’t gone well.  My imagination is kind of an asshole.  I’m barely able to manage it, (mostly because it amuses me too much to try very hard.)  The only famous person I’m confident I could meet (without regretting my behavior ever after) would be Michelle Obama.  I know exactly how that would go down.  She’d smile and offer to shake my hand, and I’d immediately start bawling.  I wouldn’t be ashamed because I know so many who would react exactly the same way.  (She’s probably used to it.)

I know I’m rambling on and on, but I can’t help myself.  I haven’t spoken to anyone but my cat in a few days.  (It was deliberate, but I’m an inch away from too weird, to begin with.)  So here we are.  I still have a profound sense the end of my life is impending.  It’s been over six months, but the feeling hasn’t waivered.  I hate to admit it, but I’m enjoying the planning process.  (I think it’s just that I like planning in general.)  I’m at a point now where I recognize I need to write a short story about my childhood nightmares.  It’ll be a cleansing.  I’ve always been reluctant to write it because it’s a horror story and it’s not reality.

I would suck as an author.  I have the discipline and imagination.  I don’t have the thingamajig required to convince anyone a fantasy is real.  The things I love most about novels are things I’m only capable of recognizing, not reproducing.  I’m pretty sure identifying them is more fun, though.  I don’t do the foreshadowing dance anymore, but I still get a burst of joy every time I recognize it on a first read.  That’s a lot of mileage considering I was in primary school when I learned of it.  But as a writer, I don’t foreshadow, I announce in advance.  Sigh.  Sophistication is a bitch.

Why give me comprehension without the skill?  That’s fucking mean.  But I’m not complaining, just rambling.  I’ve managed to put off this short story for most of my life.  I guess it’s time to purge it.  I’m extremely curious about what comes after life if anything.  I’m mostly sure the answer is nothing.  The thing I like most about that possibility is its nature; there can be no regrets.  The itsy bitsy chance someone imagined it right, or even close, is still enough to get lost in for a while.  It bothers me a bit that I’m not grieving, though.  Does it mean I’m ready?  We’ll see.  I’m off to beat my drums.

 

 

 

 

Still with the neck hole?

Content Warning:  Descriptions of severe depression, the aftermath of sexual assault.

 

 

I’m feeling much better.  Turns out, it wasn’t a round of severe depression, as evidenced by my improved condition a few days later.  I believe the suddenness (that word is spelled so redundantly) in which my happy-go-lucky stasis was shattered led me to panic and overreact.  My bad.  (Please, dear Universe, don’t use this as an excuse to teach me the difference between mild and severe depression.)  I do remember on some level.  A level I can push away at will.  Usually.

The scenario that stands out the most for me is when I was an inpatient at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.  I was severely depressed.  I remember walking outside to a roofless enclosure within the ward.  I don’t recall any thoughts.  I crashed in a moment.  I had to lay down on the cement.  I remember only being able to muster the necessary energy to lower myself somewhat gently.  Then that was all I had.  I could only breathe and lay there.  It was like I was paralyzed.  I couldn’t move, but I had no idea why.  I didn’t even feel upset or concerned about it because it took more than what I had.  I’m the type of person who seriously considers abandoning my apartment over a spider.  I hate bugs.  I have the willies just sharing that fact.

That’s how I remember severe depression.  It’s nothingness.  No control, no abilities, and no drive.  It’s laying on the bare ground while a Daddy Long-Legs spider crawls on my face (when typically it would have resulted in a frenzied attempt to practically peel the skin off my face.)  It took 18 months of my life to get from that point to the person who could do a task without weeping.  I remember my Mom suggested I do a load of laundry one day after I was out of the hospital.  The question filled me with panic.  I learned how to do laundry when I was 12.  I relearned when I was 28.

The second time required me to trust in myself and my abilities again, after spending so long as an inpatient.  I wish I didn’t remember that part so well.  My mom’s suggestion sent my mind racing immediately.  What else am I going to have to start doing again?  Why is this so hard?  Why are you doing this to me?  Can’t you see I’m broken?  I deeply resent the interruption to my life, the termination of my military career, and the murder of who I used to be.  All because a man decided his momentary pleasure was more valuable than my existence.  The mindset is where I focus my fury.  Those who view women as mere sex toys and worse.

Severe depression is traumatic.  The women who slept on my right at Walter Reed was undergoing ECT for depression at the time.  She was funny, I liked her.  There were people from all branches of the military at Walter Reed.  I met a lot of individuals who were there for attempting suicide, often over their sexuality.  They were always quickly processed out of the service back when it was Don’t ask, Don’t tell.  I’m glad they stopped that bullshit.  It should have been, Don’t treat humans like shit, Don’t drink and drive.  I bet my slogan would have resulted in far fewer deaths.  (Don’t worry, I’m keeping my day job.)

I just needed to clarify the varying degrees of depressive episodes.  It’s easy to get the impression PTSD is a walk in the park based on what I share when in actuality, I’ve been living with it for several years.  I’ve had psych nurses teach me all about coping skills, how to distract myself, and most importantly, how to trust my ability to endure.  Then I had the remedial course, the refresher, and the graduation ceremony, (when the nurse kindly but firmly reminds you about having the skills but needing to actually use them.)  I earned my walk in the park through endurance, experience, and a blessedly short attention span.

Side note: Thanks, J. and M.

You bought a car because it was owned by Jon Voight?

Content Warning:  Sweary as fuck, angry, and unsafe for anyone feeling fragile/suicidal.

 

 

I’ve gone and tripped into severe depression.  I usually only dabble in low-level depression.  For some reason, I forget what it’s like to be severely depressed soon after I stop experiencing it.  I can recall feeling wrecked, but my mind shies away from remembering it well or lingering.  There were signs, but I don’t tend to pay attention until one of them smacks me in the head.

All the things I worry about silently have surfaced and demanded I pay up in stomach acid, anxiety, and restlessness.  My thoughts are all over the place.  I forget what I was about to do every time I try to do something.  I can’t find my empathy.  I feel cold and emotionally detached.  It feels like I’m on a rollercoaster.  Every few minutes my stomach drops like I’m free falling.  I’m out of breath like I just sprinted, yet I’m sitting here, rigid and numb.  I want to run so badly, but it’s against the rules.  I have very strict rules during these episodes.  It’s how I’ve lived this long.

I don’t interact with people when severely depressed.  I also don’t drive, shop online, or leave my home.  It upsets me how severe depression alters my thoughts.  I feel like a parasite has invaded my mind and has taken control while I’m still in here, alarmed by what it’s doing.  But nobody can hear me scream.  Some parasite hijacked my perception.  Intellectually, I’m aware it’s because I’m depressed, but this fucking parasite doesn’t believe me.

It’s like I’m in a heated debate with the parasite over which of our perceptions is accurate.  I used to like debating.  Now it just makes me tired.  The parasite insists everyone I know despises me overtly, and everyone realizes it but me.  How the fuck do I debate that?  So I wing it and throw out statistical norms.  I’m not falling for that shit this time!  So of course, the parasite comes at me with my sparkling history of making and maintaining friendships.  (It doesn’t sparkle at all, it’s sarcasm.)  Damn.  Right in the nuts.  Sigh.

That’s alright.  Fuck everyone.  Fuck you, fuck me, and fuck that guy over there.  I can convince myself I don’t care if everybody hates me.  I’m autistic; I’ve had lots of practice.  So take that, you parasitic prick-face.  And more of the like.  I’d like to go for a run.   But shit!  Why does it have to be so fucking hard?  I want my mind back.  I need it!  I was using it!  It’s fucking mine!  Parasite, get out and die in a fire!

I want to break lots of things.  Preferably those that shatter on impact.  Why am I so angry?  Why am I feeling this way when I didn’t do anything wrong?  I do every little fucking thing depression demands.  It’s a lot.  I could use that time to do other stuff.  But no, I have to fucking deal with depression.  I have to fucking exercise even when I don’t fucking want to.  I have to pass on delicious things like Cheetos and Pringles because if I indulge just one fucking time, I fall off a fucking cliff of despair.  Is that fair?  No.  No, that is not fucking fair.

This shit should only happen to people who are hateful and vile and mean.  The ones who do horrible shit to others just because they’re fucking evil.  They’re the ones who should have a parasite in their brain trying to convince them life isn’t worth enduring times like these.  But no, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.  I hate this.  It isn’t worth it.  I just keep fighting likely out of habit.  Maybe one day I’ll be the first person to die from eating Cheetos (in a roundabout way only others who get it comprehend.)  Although, it would be cool to die hilariously.  I’m going to go stim and not die.  Because fuck depression.