Relentless Pursuit of the Times


Sometimes it’s called an episode. I think I may have had a mildish relapse. The repercussions of which still resonate through me mody and bind. At least lucky enough to know how lucky I am. To have someone who understands me, stands with me, helps me, accepts me. Accepts me. Tries to accept and understand even the hardest things I choose to do. Still a glorious and unstained mirror ready to show me a light in myself I struggle to see.

My arrogance is a bitter meal. I’ve added sugar. I’ve added salt. I’ve tried cold and tried it hot. It is very hard to swallow. Pride. Arrogance. They are my defenses. They are my guides. Did I fail at something? Ha, who cares, I’m so amazing and do so many sick things, really doesn’t matter to fuck up once in awhile *runs fingers through hair before shooting you a finger gun and a wink*. Without that, what will I see? What will I face?

Suddenly pleasure doesn’t come so easy. Eyes wide as pies stuffed with suffering. Though the rocky and emotional and absolutely wrong path I took to get here has had a taxing effect on myself and everything I touch, still I thought I was bigger. I guess I’m not.

Wrestling with myself over knits I dare not pick. Head down. Eyes low. Why is this like pins and needles to me? I don’t need to ask what’s wrong with myself, unfortunately it’s slowly becoming a little more clear with every gasp and sigh.

Pressing on.

Pressing in.

Pressing my face against her chest. Shocked at her strength, how easily time blinds us. Familiarity can be revealing or deceiving.

All in all in all in all, I am relieved and content in her arms. The wilting and crooked thing I am. Bend to myself. Bend to balance. Bend to a Mistress I am just meeting, though long known.



What is it exactly? This is the same conversation I’ve had with myself a thousand times over and then some. Ideas, situations, experiences out of my control are inevitably irksome. Can I not change someone’s opinion of me? Do they not see I’m always trying my hardest? It drives me mad, I think about it until there is nothing else, until the world is drowned out, until I forget how to breathe. 

Out of my hands? In my mind. 

Unhealthy obsession with what I not only can’t control, but what I shouldn’t be able to control drives my thoughts and therefore emotions to a place which is hard to return from. 

I fill that void with words and art and games and crafts and stories and beer and love and sex and intimacy and still I hear my voice echo back from the depths of my endless internal universe. 

Cries in the Crisis

Every breath just somehow intensifies the crisis blaring behind my calm. Alarms blast warning but no one is listening. Just go to sleep, tomorrow will be new and fresh.

 Unfulfilled promises. 

Tomorrow is just today wrapped up in some different take on the same old tragedies.

Too bad.

Up the ladder down the ladder. Down the aisles and up the aisles. Move forward, double back. In and out on the shore. Run in and run out.

I want new places to stand.

Too bad.

Grind, grind, grind away. Don’t drag your heels, don’t dig them in, don’t make a sound, keep that head down. 

The Life

It’s that awful time where no drink is enough to drown out the sound of my own voice in my head. When food turns to dust on my tongue. When my attention cannot be kept, but must be allowed to fly free.

I stood in front of my U-boat, for the first time feeling resentful and anxious to leave. I’m usually so calm, I can displace myself and trick myself into working 6 hours without noticing. I just couldn’t wait to leave, my feet ached with the knowing that soon they could walk out that door. I feel like this is the moment that the depression really laid down in my heart and fell asleep.

I usually love playing my video game, really don’t even have the energy to log on. I normally really enjoy eating, I can’t imagine what that was like right now. I don’t have the energy to write or paint. I just go to work, sleep intermittently, and then sit here.

I knew that having a job would be hard. I think it’s just really driving home how much I have no idea what I’m doing. How much I have no idea how to be happy or okay at all. I don’t have any dreams, I don’t have anything better to do with my time, than be at work. At least there, I know I’m doing something in my life. Investing in whatever this existence is.

My coworker said he’d rather being doing anything else, anything else. I thought to myself “like fucking what?” because, what the fuck else is there in this life? It feels so small, and stupid.

I feel so small and stupid.

I am trying to remember how much I wanted this. Sitting around every day, thinking I knew what pain was. Is it worse to be doing this now, with no energy for anything I want to do? Or was it worse to have all the time in the world, and absolutely no inspiration? I’d say it’s pretty equal.

What’s the point of being alive and being human and waking up, if you’ve got no long game going? What do I want to do? What do I want to feel? What do I want life to give me? I don’t give a fuck about writing or painting, ultimately they are just ways to cope and feel cool. I used to want to be a publish author. What do I want now? Mostly, just to be done… and I know that’s the depression talking, but sometimes if it doesn’t speak, it just throws up all over the inside of my mind.

I wish I could at least drink and enjoy it. But no, the anger and frustration leak out, all loud and illogical but passionate and self righteous.

I want to rest, but not in the way a bed can help with.

Rest Less

Diligently I keep my eyes shut, half from defiance and half from exhaustion. The darkness encompasses all. The soft bed and warm air sooth, that familiar silence as I become deaf to the world and fall into dream lasts far too short.


Jolt myself awake. It’s okay, small pep talk to myself, keep my eyes shut. Shut out the world. Deep breath.


Tickle on my face, my own hair wakes me up again. I sigh the frustration out as if it will leave my body and perhaps this world.

Roll over.

Try again.

Nononononono, fuck. I shake my legs, wiggle my toes, pop my fingers and wrists, sigh, roll over. Doomed. I know I’m doomed. So tired. So exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” I quietly let out as I realized I have awakened her.

“I just feel bad for you,” she lovingly, gently scratches my head until she herself surrenders to sleep. Sweet creature of my heart. She lends me her own peace.

Roll over.

Try again.

Whispering silence as I am again deafened to the world of waking. Ripped from me by a stabbing pain in my leg. Sigh, scratch it. It does not ease. Pinch my leg. Scratch it deeper. Jam my fingers into my flesh. Stab. Stab. Throb.

Tears fill my eyes instead of dreams, as I am banished from the world of slumber. Left only to my own vices and devices.


It tugs and sears away at my mind. Thoughts lighting up one by one, filled with fire. I’m choking and gasping, but nothing’s coming up. Crawling across the floor, desperately clawing at the limp carpet flopped over the wood as if somehow that’ll give me the ability to clear my own airway. I’m sorry I have had so much to say as I try to swallow deeply and nothing happens. Constricted.

A small descript of the perpetual state of my being. Lost, scared, drowning, just waiting for that last minute to pass before it’s all over. As I slowly take on mouthfuls of this black, murky depressive ocean that threatens to rise to the top of the sky and throw me into space, I wonder if there is anything at all I can do.

Isolation creeps in at night and steals all my comforts. Everything, everyone feels so incredibly far away. No matter how I reach, I reach only empty air.

Where’s the logout? How do I disconnect from this torture?

Feeling so twisted up and torn, I honestly can’t find up. I reach for my finely tuned formulas that ease grief and anguish, but they output nil. My delicately balanced algorithms don’t seem to have any effect as the waves rush against me, topple me over, fill my lungs, then press me until I’m flat.

Fake smiles usually lead into sunlight, but I can’t seem to find the right path. Hold a paint brush, focus close, still I hear the black waters crashing endlessly against my sanity. Fill my mind with soft, swaying music, but a shadow of chaos and discord linger in every note.

Where does one go, to escape themselves?


She reaches across the space between us, and instantly a chasm is filled with her presence. Her hand partially cups my cheek, she brushes her thumb back and forth across my skin. My heart stops as her touch is gone far too soon, I gauge her with my eyes. How I long for her to grace me with her affectionate fingers once more, and more, and more.


Anger doesn’t really subside for me. Years after the fact I’ll feel the same powerful, moving, crushing rage as if a memory is fresh. I believe it is because I am unskilled at forgiving myself.

After a recent breakdown, I thought about what my closest friends said to me. That I’m hard on myself, critical of myself, and that no one expects as much from me as I do from myself. At first I dismissed these statements as inaccurate, because I don’t make it a habit to share myself particularly deeply with many. However it has come to my attention that I do hold myself to impossible standards. 

This eternal rage is because I refuse to accept my mistakes and forgive myself. I cling to the emotion because I associated it with behavior I’m working to change, and I fear forgiving myself dooms me to not only repetition but to eternal repetition. As if to acknowledge that it was okay to make that mistake, that I am somehow promising to do it again.

Though I can see that forgiving myself is the only way to grow and move forward, I still fear that forgiveness will force the lesson, like the wound, to fade. That with time instead of growing, I’ll shrink back into a lesser being. At the moment I’m not entirely sure how to utilize this information. Fear drives me, shapes my behavior and decisions. Knowing what I need to do doesn’t necessarily enable me to act on it. 

I am weak, and at times I am volatile. However, I have an open mind and an open heart, and the desire to be better. Giving it my all means being receptive to criticisms of my character, to be willing to acknowledge my flaws, and actively working to correct those flaws.

Even if it hurts a bunch.

Wish Wash

“I don’t know how to cope with being this weak,” my body shrinks even smaller. Her arms cross what feels like a vast distance between us and wrap around my shoulders. My soul quietly shudders at the sudden warmth. It’s hard to breathe, I’m not used to being this raw, rough… broken.

The voices yammer and hammer in my head, and I have no defense. A firm believer in not giving the depression validation, somehow I can’t summon the strength to defy it. I AM worthless. I DON’T have any value. I don’t see any substantial proof around me to show me those are wrong perceptions… I see that I am a burden. I see that I am weak. I see that I bring very little to the table. Who am I to disagree with these facts? These feelings are obviously more informed than I am.

It’s never been so hard to turn it around. It’s getting harder and worse; but is it? I think I’m just adjusting to the changes that I am making in my life and body. I’m not smoking, I’m not drinking; or at least not nearly as much. I am face to face, nose to nose, with every single negative thought. They scream and I cannot get away, I cannot block it out or plug my ears.

The chemistry of my brain locked inside it’s bone prison is undergoing just as much change as the rest of me. At first it was not a choice, why would I stop smoking? Honestly though, it has been a plague against me for a long time. There was a period where I could enjoy it without feeling any addiction. The financial situation has only given me further cause to make better choices. I choose to turn away from addiction, I don’t do it out of obligation. It’s been easier knowing this, but my brain… my body chemistry. The PH of my mental health is changing so fundamentally… I need new tools

This isn’t really what I meant when I expressed a desire for adventure and new experiences.

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