Monthly Archives: February 2015

Happiness

I’m happy.

Life has arranged itself into what I want it to be; and I feel like I manipulated a good chunk of my life in the right ways these past few years. I must admit, however, I didn’t know I would be here… where ever here is.

I think about death a lot, too. I feel like death is this gift I keep in my pocket to keep my perspective aligned because there is this world outside of myself that pulls on perspective. I’m fortunate that I don’t have to be punctual at work (as long as I get my work done), because it allows me time to bond with my partner… those extra minutes are important. Why should I have to wait to say what I want to say before seeing her again?

I don’t have a lot: I would rather have less than more, and I would rather be homeless and working odd jobs than find myself tethered to the acquizition of things, or be in a position where I could acquire a bunch of things. The thought of homelessness scares the shift out of me, but it also has an appeal… I could be the quintisential dirtbag like Fred Beckey, except it would be in my craft.

And can’t help but think of the misguided dreams fostered by people that have “made-it” as they’re talking to a crowd dreaming of fame and wealth. I think the true success stories are of those that are doing what they want to do. If the fame and wealth overlaps, then that is fine, but I think fame and wealth as a goal is a miserable goal.

I have a happy little life. And though I sit on my chair and think and write, I feel like I have come to understand the language of the birds anyway…

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Depression: part 2 (thoughts expanded)

There was a thought that crawled about in the mental closet during my minor essay on depression the other day. At one point, I likened depression to something that, when you come out of it, makes you wonder what was wrong in the first place. I would like to explore that thought and take it a little further: you have no idea how much you are dependent on your mind as a well functioning machine until something breaks the consistency of the brain, and changes perceptions and personality.

Sanity is precious, but I think we rarely look at sanity deeply because our internal egos want to dismiss it as something simple with the statement “I’m right,” which is the exception that proves the rule “you’re wrong.” It’s a shit rule, obviously. Most people have accepted the concept of relativity, that there is a continuum of acceptable perceptions. The problem is that we know how to behave… in theory. But when truly tested, we find ourselves failing a lot more than we would like to admit. Furthermore, there is the terrible notion that when confronted with the truth, we tend to sink ourselves further into our own biases that oppose truth. And the problem of sanity is compounded further because we don’t acknowledge it until someone has outright fucking lost reason and rationality and can’t come back, or we dismiss the experiences unlike our own.

It seems that in between the extremes of sanity and insanity is a vast expanse made of varying degrees of micro-psychoses that we engage in and then come back from, like entering into a dream before waking up. Some of these experiences indelibly mark behavior; and some are called spiritual experiences, which affect behavior in the most extreme ways. But, if we can be so easily affected by external stimuli, then what is the basis of who we are? If a depressed person takes a psychiatric drug, they are subject to a redefinition of character because the functioning of their mental machine is changed. And what about the other external stimuluses that are aspects of societal structures? How much are we truly changed by our circumstance and privileges or lack thereof?

Who we are is an emptiness that perceives reality through the filters of body and mind in a feedback loop system. Who we are is who we are in the moment.

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Depression

Depression is a tar pit. You wander around, and by the sheer chance, weighted by genetics,
you find yourself in the sticky stuff. Not only is it harder to move, but it is also harder to think
as you are subjected to a different kind of agony that can only be known by the people that
have been there… repeatedly. And I say repeatedly because it’s easy to forget how terrible it
is when you aren’t stuck. Even coming out of the goo, you wonder what exactly was wrong in
the first place — what exactly was it that made suicide the seductive option? The answer,
unfortunately, is an unmitigated and hollow nothing. There is no answer that will suffice for the
rational mind that demands a linear story. Depression is and nothing more than present
misery.

I’ve found myself hunkered down while a war rages on. I’ve grown accustomed to the bits of
dirt shaken loose from the bombs as I wait out the invader. Yet, as I am here, I realize I am
only delaying what will inevitably happen. The war will take me or i will die of something else,
but the end is the same. And pro-lifers argue fighting for fighting’s sake with little regard to
rebuilding since quality of life isn’t important so long as you live until death takes you naturally.
Their reason ends at life because it is easier to triage those on the brink than juggle the
millions more with a myriad of diagnoses still not understood. Their fight is simple because
they are pushed by their survival instinct on the battlefield, and when their tour is done, they
go home, and I stay here and wait for the next invasion.

I’m aware of the cycle and the nuances specific to me, and I have chosen to divorce myself
from those that try to engage me on the subject. No-one is more an expert than I am at this
point and the unwanted interaction from those that care does violence to the process and
keeps me stuck in the pit. I have my time and I eventually come out clean. I don’t turn around
anymore to see it because I know it’s not there. It disappeared, somewhere, and I won’t find it
again until I’m in it.

As for the reason as to why I’m still here… I don’t know. But it is something I get to determine for myself.

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