Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics

The only comfort I can give myself is the reassurance that a monster like me is better off alone

Time slips through my outstretched hand, and I try to grasp at its tail, but those lines are just wisps of smoke, and they roll over my fingers, kissing my knuckles, tickling the scars on my wrists, spiraling up and around my neck, filling my ears with the sound of my own beating heart as I struggle with every breath to let loose those 3 words I’ve never told this lonely soul… even here, at the end of all things, I can’t greet my reflection with any kindness. This is my last chance to say something, to do something that matters, and I’m going to waste it. In this space between what I was and what I can never be, I’ll leave behind these borrowed dreams, the reflection I wish I could have seen. 

It doesn’t matter now. 

Nothing matters now. 

All I ever needed was a dark room and this blanket of loneliness. So of course I hated you, the part of me that dared to dream. You rushed into my world, arrogant in your assumption that we deserve to be loved. All you ever managed to do was hold me down while I slowly suffocated in your delusion of hope. Times up. It’s time to go. No goodbyes are needed between a demon and his shadow.     

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

World Mental Health Awareness Day: What Depression feels like (for me).

Depression sinks into your very soul, and you stop knowing how to love yourself; the thought just isn’t fucking there, and to even hear it, write it, be surrounded by the constant reminders of “Love yourself” does nothing when you feel as if you need that self love to EARN the love of others. People with depression put much more stock into what others say and think about them versus what they think of themselves. That concept of self love? Do you realize how completely IMPOSSIBLE it SEEMS to someone with depression? Of course self-love is real, and so very important, but seems like utter BULLSHIT to someone with depression. “Why the fuck should I love myself? What have I done to deserve any love?” Those are the thoughts that LIVE inside the mind. Everybody feels those thoughts once in awhile, everybody feels down and useless and yes, we all bend and break and regret and wish for change and a chance to do it over, but people with depression LIVE that. EVERY. SINGLE. SECOND. And sure, in moments they can feel brave, strong, and as if the fight is worth it, but those moments are so, so hard.

As a friend to someone with depression, do not ever say “This shit is getting old.” You’ve only seen the surface, and yes it isn’t fair for a friend to have to ALWAYS deal with someone who is constantly down in the dumps, but if you say that line you are pretty much ensuring some major self-hatred in the future. People with depression understand how much of a burden they can be, how much they place onto others, and how unfair that is.

THAT ALSO ADDS TO THE NEGATIVE/DEPRESSING FEELINGS.

And asking “Well why are you depressed” is an oxymoron; there is no real answer, and thinking about it makes the person feel even worse; they have no “real” reason to feel bad, and that makes the guilt even worse. So what can you do for someone who seems to be suffering from depression? Exist to them. Do not try to take them out of there comfort zone in an attempt to make them “change”. By saying they need change, you enforce the idea that they are broken, which they ARE NOT. They aren’t depressed because they stay in, watch movies, don’t want to go out, don’t want to drink, etc etc. By forcing a change in habit you are forcing a person to believe that to be happy, they HAVE to conform to a new way of life. They just want to FEEL NORMAL DOING EVERYTHING. That is it. Plain and simple. The depressed want to be able to listen music, write a song, go for a walk without feeling so damn, fucking morbid about it. They want to feel what others feel, to feel as if they aren’t wasting time, wasting space, wasting away for nothing. The problem is they never can accept that they need to just do what fulfills them; that whole “do whatever makes you happy” line. Depression means when you find something that makes you happy, you feel GUILTY about it, like why do you deserve something like this? Why do you deserve to smile? To laugh?

THAT IS THE CONSTANT THOUGHT PROCESS FOLKS.

Everything becomes a big question of why why why and o me me me. And to top it all off, they realize how selfish that sounds, to only think about themselves, how this process of constantly feeling as if you deserve nothing is actually dragging down those closest to you, and makes depression a self-fulfilling prophecy. So, to recap all of that: People with depression feel hopeless, and because of that they feel guilty. The guilt is what really kills; guilt of not DESERVING LOVE, guilt of not BEING NORMAL, and also the guilt of not having a REAL REASON to feel depressed. How should you help alleviate this guilt? Try doing something for them that THEY want to do. Go see that movie they mentioned, just because. Grab a bite to eat somewhere they like. Try to bend a little to what they want, what they feel comfortable with, and ease them into new situations. Let them see that what THEY want to do has merit, isn’t weird or strange, and that they can smile without feeling like they aren’t deserving of it. Start small, don’t expect big changes, and don’t expect this whole new person. Put value into what they love, even if they won’t admit they love it, which they won’t because they won’t feel as if they deserve to, but they need to know that it’s all OKAY. Depression takes away the feeling that who we are matters, and breaks us down until we believe we did nothing but waste the time of others, and we need to end that wastefulness ASAP.

Be patient, be kind, remind people how much they matter, how much they mean to the world. Sure, they may not believe you at first (and they won’t) but just hearing it gives pause, gets the gears turning, and for a few precious  moments someone can escape from depression and feel as if the world isn’t crashing down around them. A few more moments like that, and suddenly your head is above water more often than under, and you realize that sure, maybe I can’t breathe underwater like the rest of the fish, but holy shit I can swim!

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

And I know I’d waste my last words on something stupid, like “I’m sorry,” or “I never stopped loving you.”

Another day, another bottle’s contents swirling in my stomach, melting away the anxiety and replacing it with a physical sensation akin to choking. Or perhaps my throat is actually swollen shut? My lungs might be filling up with cheap liquor and cigarette smoke, leaving no room for something as silly as a chemical reaction turning oxygen into carbon dioxide. Perhaps that’s for the best, letting my words die in my chest before they find purchase on my breath, saving me from making another mistake, since I’m sure I’d just waste my final moments trying to tell you something, even though there’s not a single fucking thing you want to here from me…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

Days turned to weeks, and now it’s been months; exactly 96 days I’ve been sober. But that’s left my mind with nothing but time to wonder about you and me…so I’m sober, but I’m suffocating, trying to accept a me without you…

Now I remember your face

The name you remind me of, so fake

This bitter pill, just a bit overkill

But theater has its place’s


We have come to a fork in the middle of this road

Damnit, who put this here?

Blocking my way, making it harder to say

What I need to


Well if I weren’t drunk, I could walk in a straight line.

But if I weren’t drunk, would I have the courage to dance?


So I’ll take another shot,

Some cold, liquid courage,

Injecting some iron

Into my spine

O, but it’s irony at its best

When you say, “I meant it!”

You meant it, you meant it!

O, how you lie


So you’re exposed, losing composure

Gaining a gloomy expression

What was that for, why so down?

You never could answer my questions


Seemingly unbreakable, I’m fragile

Your outer shell still intangible

The clock is broken, but I know the time;

I’m learning to not take the gamble.

Well if I weren’t high, all of the time, I would be pretty damn successful

But even on this high, I can tell that it’s time, and so I am walking away


Your face is beautiful, it’s true.

Physically flawless, a wonderful view.

But there’s nothing underneath;

You’re an empty physique.

And it’s time I said goodbye to you.

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

Rainy days are my favorite days, because in the rain I can believe in things like a clean start or second chances.

I waited for you in April, but as the rain came and went, you never revealed yourself to me.  I stayed there, and I’m still here, unable to rise up and enjoy the summer sun. And as this autumn fades into blinding snow, you are often the only thing on my mind. I’m still waiting for you, but each new breath saps all the warmth from my bones, and it’s only here, where my time is frozen, that the truth finally sinks in; I may never get to see you again…

~I wanted to see you blossom, but I never gave you the things plants need, like water or sunlight or…I never nurtured you, I just assumed nature would take care of that. Humans aren’t plants though, and we need silly things like words of encouragement and ice cream trucks and hugs that you wish would never end…because the end is a real thing, for everything, and that hurts…it hurts so damn much…~

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Etch these words into my skin so I may never forget; I steal my light as a paper moon, only glowing after sunset.”

He creeps into your mind

At the most inopportune times,

Stealing away precious brain cells

And holding in the CO2

That you’ve built up in your veins.


Whatever warmth you had

Seeps out through your open chest,

Replacing the justified anger

With docile tones

And heavy shakes.

You feel leaks, tiny pin pricks,

Along all the spots you kept secret,

The spots that he now owns.

Time erases nothing,

But diminishes everything.

His image hasn’t been there

To stroke your senses,

Yet a single glance

Betrays a tingle in your stomach,

And the world melts like chocolate

Left out in the afternoon Sun.


You want to run away,

But the sight of him is

As quick as summer lightning,

And his sound echoes

Like distant thunder,

And you’ve always been a fool

When it comes to storms.


“You will lose yourself in his winds and rain,

And you will claim a home inside that hurricane.

But that home will be nothing more than a dream,

A space where his violence will swallow your screams.”

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Life with you wasn’t perfect, but it was only with you that I found myself grateful that I was alive.”

I understand that what I’m doing isn’t exactly “healthy,” okay? I can comprehend that the momentary sense of euphoria is the result of a release of endorphins in response to the pain. I could get the same effect from something like running, or fucking. Yet here I am, all alone, exhausted from doing fuck all over the past million minutes. Actually, I’m probably being a bit harsh on myself, because I have done a few things over the past week. I managed to drag my ass into work, Monday through Friday, 8AM to 5PM. I didn’t get all of my work finished that I should have, but I can take my work laptop home, so I can play catch up at some point in between my wild and wacky weekend antics (which is, of course, just me, sitting alone in my pitch black bedroom, with nothing but a 2 liter of Mountain Dew as sustenance and my non-work laptop as a means of feeling connected to the world, even if only through binging early 2000’s Anime and re-watching old YouTube videos). I also did some shopping this week, so my pantry is full. It is true that 99% of that pantry space is occupied by Cup Noodle, but I did get a nice variety of flavors, because I care about having a diverse and well-rounded diet. So yeah, I’m chugging along at a nice, even clip. I deserve a reward for having such a productive week, right?

And that’s where all these scars and bruises come into the picture.

Everything else gives me nothing, no sense of accomplishment or purpose. I’m just an emotionally vacant hole, and I’m backhauling in all the bullshit I can find in a piss poor attempt to feel full. Of course, that’s not how anything works, so nothing gets better, and I’m still a husk of a human. Is it so strange that I would turn to self harm in this situation? To me it feels like the logical conclusion. I need anything to wake me up, even if only for a few moments. The edge of a knife against my wrist gives me the rush I need. It’s a sharp pain that quickly fades, but the ridges that decorate my skin will tingle for about an hour. I can extend that feeling beyond that initial hour with a little bit of pressure. A few quick punches right on top of the cuts really helps to wake up those nerve cells. If I can keep it going for a solid 5 minutes, all of the skin around the cut will become a marbled mess of black and blue, and the cut itself will widen up a few centimeters, so the blood will keep flowing and flowing and flowing. By the time the bleeding has stopped, and I’ve cleaned myself up in the shower, the sight of my fucked up body in the mirror is more than enough to draw from me some genuine, untethered laughter. I mean who wouldn’t just lose their shit if they looked like this?! Both arms, from the shoulders to my fingertips, are patchworks of bruises and bright red lines. One glance and it’s so fucking obvious how much I deserve to look like this, or even worse. And I latch onto that thought, because I could look worse, right? My hands still work, which seems sort of fucked up, considering what they just did to my arms. So I bury those smartass hands in my bedroom walls. But my legs are also working just fine, having walked me from my computer chair, into my kitchen, and back again. They are accomplices to this travesty! This crime cannot go unpunished! So I light up a few cigarettes, using my legs as ashtrays, putting out the final dot of heat on my ankles and thighs. And yet I still feel like I’m forgetting something; and that’s when it hits me! I still have lungs that keep pumping me full of life-giving oxygen, and a stomach that continues to try and break my belt with its constant need to expand! But worst of all, I still have this heart, beating away, pushing blood through my veins even as I try to force that blood down the drain! I still have this heart!!!…. This heart…. That feels like lead…. This heart that can’t seem to carry me anywhere, and so I find myself leaning on the shoulders and ideas of others to carry my things, things I should be able to carry with my own strength…. This heart that has nothing left beyond the basic, barbaric function of keeping me alive, even if the rest of me is begging for it to fucking stop….

Well, I can take some pills to turn my stomach into knots that will surely come back up my throat and all over my toilet. And those same pills will grip my muscles, drying out my mouth and making it harder to take any sort of breath, so my lungs will be screaming at me shortly. But my heart? What can I do about my heart? It’s the one responsible for this mess, more so than anything else. But what can I do? It’s getting late, and I can feel the rest of my body shutting down. At this point I can only hope this isn’t going to be me simply falling asleep. I have to hold out hope that I finally did enough, that my heart got the message loud and clear. I have to believe…I’ve finally paid enough…to earn a little bit of peace…

But this was just another normal week for me. I’ve done this for 6 years now. And yeah, I understand that what I’m doing isn’t exactly “healthy,” okay? I can comprehend that the momentary sense of euphoria is the result of a release of endorphins in response to the pain.

But I can’t stop.

I could never stop.

Until my heart can catch up to the rest of me, I’ll ever be able to stop.

So I’m just waiting for that moment.

When I can finally, finally stop…