“Oh yeah, the nipple. But besides that, how did you feel about Kramer’s work?”

Laughing

I finished building my workstation computer last night.  I had to remove the enormous Cooler Master MA610P RGB CPU Air Cooler, and it’s going back to Amazon, along with the non-working cable extenders, and the extra Cryorig H7 ordered accidentally, (a $10 return shipping fee.)  I think it’s the last PC tower I’ll be building, even though I probably said this last time.  Heh.

It’s incredibly fast, so I’m pleased with the outcome.  I’m most impressed with the G.SKILL TridentZ RGB Series RAM.  It looks fabulous with its cycling rainbow LED lights.  I wish motherboard producers would stop putting their drivers on a DVD, though.  It’s time to use stick drives as Microsoft does with Windows, (at least the LAN driver.)  I haven’t built a tower with a DVD drive in ages.  Software distribution by downloading is nearly universal.  I can’t think of an exception.

inside new build

I’m heading out of town soon.  The Depression Monster still has me in a headlock.  I don’t want to do anything.  Everything takes so much effort and makes me want to cry.  I guess it’s a good thing I forget about this shit once I’m feeling better.  The downside is how surprised I am each time I experience an episode.  I hate having to give myself a pep talk just to get up and go to the bathroom.  Fortunately, Amelia Bedelia is a sweetheart, and she follows me everywhere as if she’s lending me some strength.

My appetite has fled.  I forced myself to practice my drums yesterday.  I’m also almost finished rereading Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson.  I’m awed by its depth of understanding regarding PTSD.  It’s helping me in a manner I thought could be achieved through therapy, but unfortunately, I’ve never had a therapist who could see beyond my skin.  I regret how long it’s taken me to recognize it’s a dead end.  (I’ve met a few who saw me as human, but they weren’t available to treat me.)  Thank goodness for the incredible novels I’ve found, (Harry Potter series and the Cosmere stories.)

I listened to the latest episode of Gettin’ Grown with Jade and Keia on Tuesday.  They talked about how women of color are at a higher risk of certain diseases and conditions, and the necessity of maintaining checkups and preventative care.  They both admitted to neglecting to keep up their appointments and committed to scheduling them before the next episode.  I thought about doing the same, but then I recalled my predicament.  Subjecting myself to the treatment I’ve received at the Sioux Falls VA is sadistic.

I still liked listening to the podcast, though.  It’s something I look forward to each week.  I’m more interested in enjoying however much time I have left than potentially prolonging my life by enduring hateful people.  As much as I’d like to forget my experiences there, I’m grateful I remember because it prevents me from going back.  I could do without the nightmares, though.  The CBD oil has allowed me to sleep for at least four hours a night since I started taking it.  I only take a few drops before laying down (because it tastes horrible.)

I’m going back to Azeroth (World of Warcraft) to force The Depression Monster back into hiding.  Flying around and looking at the scenery while listening to my healing sisters (Stevie Nicks, Agnetha Fältskog, Lorde, Amy Lee, Beyoncé, and Sheryl Crow on my ultimate playlist) will help me shake free of this lingering melancholy.  Then I’ll follow it up with some comedians on Netflix and a lavender bath bomb before finishing my novel.  I’m feeling better just from typing this out.  Yay.

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.

 

 

 

 

buzzcut season

I watched Sisters again.  That movie is so funny.  It wasn’t as crude as Bridesmaids, but just as hilarious.  I loved the cast.  Samantha Bee is in it, too.  Tina Fey and Amy Poehler portray generation x so honestly.  They do shit you did when you didn’t think anyone was watching.  My face hurt from smiling and laughing so much.  It’s absolutely going into my depression box.  I’ve been having a great time on the staycation end of my vacation.  I’ve also been sleeping since I got back from Denver.  Regular, nightmare free, sleep.  Each time I awaken, I sit there for a moment and bask in the wonderful feeling of being well rested.

This feels like my default.  My garrison.  This is the “me” that I strive for when I’m struggling.  I’m normally pretty happy.  Somewhere between the giddiness just before delivering the punchline, and on the verge of laughing.  I’m aware of my surroundings, but they’re muted enough to ignore effortlessly.  I feel creative urges, bordering on compulsions.  If I engage in any activity surrounding my interests, I begin to hyperfocus almost immediately.  I’ve been rocking and pacing a lot, but not like a drone.  While I’m stimming, I’m also brainstorming.  I either brainstorm about algorithms, or I brainstorm about creating something.  Like a poem, song, digital painting, or short story.

What I love the most about my default, is that it’s me at my almost best.  It’s like running at 80% speed in progressive intervals.  It trains you to push your 100% effort for longer.  It builds me up.  It’s awesome.  I’m loving my time here.  I know it’s temporary.  Sometimes, I push myself to my 100% best in order to achieve a goal I’ve set for myself.  I don’t do this very often.  I try to make it really count, when I do, though.  I’d rather get 3rd place most often, and go for 1st place when it matters most to me.  It’s a lot like a self esteem exercise you’d get in therapy.  Identify what you really want, then go after it with everything you have.  Put the mission first at all times to avoid getting distracted.

Eventually, the Depression Monster will come to call again.  Anxiety likes to try and make me her bitch on a daily basis, but I’ve gotten pretty good at keeping her in check.  Running is my best weapon against both.  Swimming is an alternative.  It’s probably better in that it makes my body strong all over.  Running requires additional exercises to prevent injury.  But it’s the most flexible.  After that, all I really have is distraction.  I have a depression box full of activities I normally enjoy.  I have a canister I decorated, and filled with small papers with activities written on them.   I draw one out, and just do it.  I have a sign on the wall next to the shelf with my depression box that says, “Just Do It”.  It’s a Nike ad, but it works for me.  If you insert, “just do it”, as a rebuttal to every argument with yourself as to why you can’t do something, it works every time.

Here’s a little something no one tells you about depression:  It makes you dumb.  You’re just so distracted by the chemical warfare going on in your brain that you can only focus on clear, short commands.  You don’t want to do them, but you can if you push yourself.  It’s incredible, the amount of effort it takes to do one simple task, when depressed.  So when you push through, and do it anyway, you just kicked the Depression Monster in his junk.  Each time you push a little further, you deliver him another blow.  But he’s a trickster.  Don’t fall for it when he tries to make a truce.  He’s really trying to trap you into accepting meh as good enough.  It’s not.  Meh sucks.  Meh is a depressed stupor in which you can function, but can never quite remember why you bother.  Fuck meh.  Aim for your default.  Your place where you feel most like yourself.  The depressed you is an imposter.

I know some people hate it when others claim it’s possible to fight depression with sheer will.  All I can state is that it’s possible for me to do so.  I have PTSD, and depression is a major part of it for me.  I have never experienced the depression of someone else, for obvious reasons.  In many cases, there are commonalities among those with the diagnosis, and this allows us to share what methods in fighting it prove successful.  Often, they are helpful to many people.  But I acknowledge the fact that there are exceptions, and I don’t want to imply that what works for me will work for everyone.

The more time I spend learning about diversity among humans, the more I recognize the mistakes I’ve made in the past.  I regret them, and am learning new ways to be respectful to other humans.  While I personally have a no malice, no foul policy, I don’t assume others do.  I don’t want to hurt anyone without realizing it.  It sucks ass when someone is insensitive to you for a reason you have no control over.  It hurts.  I can cope with it, but I can’t assume everyone else can as well.  So I’m interested in learning ways to avoid it.

One thing I want to note to other Autistics and similar who try weed, is that  you should remember to stretch before going to sleep.  Our proclivity for remaining in the same position for a good bit of time is magnified by weed.  I sat at a 45% angle for no apparent reason at some point, and didn’t move until my abdominal muscle spasmed.  The next day, I was so sore.  Mostly my neck, shoulders, and stomach muscles.  But my joints were sore, too.  I sit on my legs, and don’t move for a long time when doing activities.  They go to sleep, and then pain settles into my joints.  Most people move when they fall asleep.  Weed messes with your ability to communicate with your body a little.  Nothing frightening, just a heads up for when you wake up a little sore.  It’s so worth it.