It’s as though my feelings of despair and hopelessness exist in a secret vault that isn’t accessible at all. All around that vault are littler, less secure vaults that I’ve learned to open so I can wrangle with their contents, bending and twisting them into submission, if only for a while. But THIS vault, where despair resides with its dark friend hopelessness, is locked. I have no key.
Yesterday, I read a story of an ICU nurse who was shot to death as she was driving to work on a freeway. 26 years old, a career based on giving, and her life ended at what may turn out to be random violence.
And yet my stupid ass still exists. Waking up to one’s own reality is tiring. Waking up to the same process of reciting the same mantras: “Let’s get through today. Just today.” Gee, that’s empowering. How full of hope for a brighter future that useless mantra fills me. “I’m blessed beyond my ability to understand why.” Really? Why? WHY? A blessing would be in the form of my accidental death, since I don’t have the balls necessary to do it my fucking self. “Who would take care of my cats?” LOVE that line of stupidity. Might as well follow it up with “Who would wear my underwear?” It makes as much sense. Do your cats a favor. Do the world a favor. Just fucking die, you stupid idiot. It is so unbelievably beyond time to leave. Every stupid ass plan I’ve embarked upon to defeat depression has failed. It isn’t a curable disease, and anyone who says it is full of it. This condition is manageable, which isn’t to imply it’s “sometimes ok.” Its never “sometimes ok.” Its either attacking at full strength or biding it’s time…depression is manageable like sitting in a burning house is manageable – at some point you’re going to run out of breathable air, and flames or asphyxia will kill you. Or the ceiling will crush you. It’s not a question of “if.” Depression is an incurable, “manageable” question of MOTHER FUCKING “WHEN.” It will kill you, if not by bullet, bag, or noose, then by slicing up your soul with crushed dream after obliterated aspiration. It will beat you like a ***** and stand over you, laughing as you cry. It is not a fixable condition, it comes with an expiration date and chips away at you, day after futile, useless day, watching as your strength ebbs. It takes notes. It knows what works.
This is “living?” This waking to panic and self loathing? Waking to a mindset of trudging through an hour, or maybe only half of one, breathing deeply and focusing on the positives. This is living? This curtain of lies I am obligated to pull before my eyes so I can tolerate the next hour followed by more lies to get me through the next one? And the hours after that one, all my bases covered as I continue feeding myself all the bullshit the experts say I need to say to overcome this nasty yet oddly inviting desire to pick up my g*n and aim for the brainstem…insert, angle slightly up, pull…face an asshole of a god, middle finger raised.
I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. My whole body is shaking with rage, desire…desire to just freaking die.
The rewards of this useless life no longer outweigh the disadvantages. The fairytale of a caring god is the ultimate act of cruelty. “Pray, child, and he will come to you…in a still, small voice….pray, child, that you will discern this voice, and god will help you…”
WRONG. I say “Simply exist, and the fairytale of a loving god will accompany you into your own personal pit where it will sit with you as you suffer.” All our pathetic stories of a caring deity…what children we are, always needing the universe to spin around us.
Depression will take me. One day. And I’ll happily wipe the shit damn stink of this sewer off my sandals and march into the dark unknown. It has to be better than this crap pile, and to the god that may greet me I raise a middle finger and say “FUCK YOURSELF.”
This morning is a close the drapes morning. Keep out the sunshine, shun any hint of a shitless world. Today I’m reveling in my eternal indefatigable sense of self hate. The world can go on…I can’t stop it, so since I’m at least tall enough to reach the bottom of the sign, I’m gonna ride the ride of self pity today. Strap me in, ring the bell, flip the switch. “Remember to keep your arms and legs inside the ride so as to avoid having them torn off by shit…”
My prayer for today is that a random bullet ends my uselessness. An ICU nurse…the ones who assist us as we toe the line between “he certainly dodged a bullet” and “doctors say its only a matter of time”, randomly executed in her car, on her way to work…f*ck humanity. We’re a piss stain on a beautiful planet. We are a stain.
It will be my prayer from now on, but looks like it’s time to toss back the covers and be “sad”, in all of its connotations. Tomorrow will be another useless day of meaningless distractions, futile attempts to add meaning to the passing of time as my biological clock ticks, one, and now two seconds closer to expiration. Tomorrow I’ll summon the energy of the mindlessly distracted and fumble through a day of nothing, conning myself into believing that my efforts mean something, that they “effect change.” For today, my friend Jack Herer is coming to my rescue, and today can just jump off a cliff.
I’m going to eat hot dogs today. I ordered one years ago in Boston, at a Red Sox game. It cost one dollar, and it came in a piece of bread…not a bun. On a flat piece of bread, gently wrapped around the dog…I was shocked. It was fan-flippin’-tastic, and today, I will eat at least six, similarly served, with mustard and sliced jalapenos. Perhaps one will slide down my gullet and get stuck on my shmullet, closing my frullet and making me snuff it. Wouldn’t that just be grand? Dessert, because who in their right mind skips dessert after eating tubes of abattoir floor scrapings, (everyone knows hot dogs are made of lips ‘n assholes) will be as many lemon creme sandwich cookies as I want. My cat is asleep in my lap. Outside, a maniac won’t concede, a virus rages, a species rails against global warming while subconsciously reveling in its perceived power to destroy a planet that will live for millenia once we destroy ourselves, and the sun is crawling towards sunset this day…but I’m inside. I close my drapes and pet my cat, and “nothing else matters”, as Mr. Hetfield screams.
Don’t bogart that joint, my friend…