Tag Archives: depression


2017 was looking to be the year to start afresh, to be determined to get somewhere in life.  Or have a life.  But I’m less than what I was before.  And it’s more than just my left arm (which is in more pain now); and it’s more than having real-life relationships with people outside of family.

It’s what’s required to make it all work, and I don’t have it.  I’m seeing myself with nothing to my name, and I have nothing going for me.  I have to care for myself, but I’m just too tired.  I’m not connected— not sincerely, and I know, deep down I’m a sad individual.  And the more I pass the time, the worse it gets.  I spit out words, and entertained instead of lived, until all I could do was post photographs.

I’m empty and aching, and I do know why.

I imitate.  Imitation is easier, versus the impossible of creating in a void.  I live in isolation and neglect, where usefulness often fails to connect.

The upside to creating things while borrowing from others, is that I’ve enabled myself, and made progress.  Dreams and experiments, explored and complemented.  But I’m tired.

It’s that dilemma where you need help from others to take the next step, but the connection is never enough, or you’re too much of a drain on the connections you have.  Inadequacy and lack of history (not to mention: filth)… lack of being makes what’s difficult for others impossible for me.  They struggle; I merely exist.

And now I’m once again angered because I have to prepare myself without any help and I just don’t have time.  In fact, I’m going to be late to the Saturday group meeting… if I show up at all, because I don’t have a ride as I’m editing this.

The anger makes me think I’m grieving the loss of my life.  And maybe I’ve already said that before. …I’m not tired of life.  But living with what I have is not living, that’s for sure.

the living lie

Yeah, so I’m insane.

But insane like some writers.  Only I’m not talented in creative writing…  Turns out F-social was still about not fitting in anywhere… but an asylum.  Like many poets.  I know, I know, saying that denigrates poetry a little.

I represent no group.

But there’s also this:

But we’re never gonna survive, unless… we get a little  craaazy…

But how to measure one’s level of crazy?  Is there, like, some ‘crazy’ equivalent to those Newtons or Fruitons or whatever it is that Scientology ‘measures’ in a person?

Anyway, this long poem… though based in truth, should also not see the light of day.
Not bad, maybe good, but horribly, inescapably depressing
You have been warned. Continue reading the living lie

Forgetting, Forgotten

As my right hand is busy doing “paperwork,” I might as well type with my left this post.  I’m a multitasker.  And an idiot.  Too bad I can’t Alt-0146 those curly quotes.

Anyway, this is a story of how I may be getting dementia.  Either from the sleep-deprivation or…something—I’m currently forgoing (back to) sleep typing this because of how long it takes me to write; I’m an actual Slow-Man (not to be confused with Slo-Man, who wrote a pretty funny post in May)…

I’ll take you back, all the way back—way, way back to when you were in diapers.  It was 2010, and the standard kerosene heater was no longer working.  It would be an expensive job, getting parts for a model no longer sold.  And so, the thing wouldn’t be effectively fixed.  It didn’t used to plume out a big puff of smoke into the living room, but at this point it did.  Over $1,300 to get it working again?  And I would have to hold my breath, or go to another room or the window?

Your traditional electric heater—or, a couple of them would replace the K1 heater.  Well, actually, there are two K1 heaters—the other one purchased during a black-out, and hadn’t worked at all in the house, only posing a forever-fire hazard and smell of kerosene in the house, just sitting there…the electric K1 heater is the one out of service.

Continue reading Forgetting, Forgotten

Second Punch

(fist punch)
©2012 adamjasonp

High pressures, low pressures—some winter weather follows Sandy, retracing some of the hurricane’s path.  After the deaths of over four score, the destruction of homes, and how cars were swept away like toy cars, reminding me of the Japanese tsunami, snow/sleet and rain would again cause the lights to flicker for the people who had power, while half a million across New York and New Jersey are still in the dark.

But there is some good news here.  Writer/editor/wanderer Brigitte, home of “Brigitte’s Banter” and the one responsible for A Gracious Guide to Benevolent Blogging (743 Likes and over 1 MB in generated HTML due to the 830+ comments since Apr. 6) lived to tell about her experience yesterday two days ago.

(I had to cross out ‘yesterday’ ’cause I was ditched again; but out of that, the opportunity to improve some other text and illustrate the graphic above.  ’Took me seven hours, and it may be the last, since I’m going blind.)

I never heard of doggysstyle before today, but this guy is donatin’ fitty cents (50¢) to Movember for every comment made on his 11.08 post.  Comment away!

Uppers and Downers

Another second punch (and take it as you see fit, good or bad): Obama was reelected.  Mitt Romney lost the win for the White House in 2012 in part because people didn’t know what a Romney administration would look like.  (And some approached the thought that he cares nothing of human beings, eats babies—or whatever nonsense from the “left.”)  Evangelicals didn’t turn out in part because he’s a Mormon.  Either way, the conservative turnout was low, and Obama won with fewer votes than McCain in 2008.  The biggest discouragement for turn out: people acknowledge the impending economic collapse.

Desperate w. standards

And on a personal note, I was punched in the heart again.  Fool me too many times, shame on me—plans, scrapped.  I already knew the ins & outs but don’t know where to go.  I’m sick of politely being called stupid, with all of the unnecessary sympathy.  Asking around sounds stupid; humiliating or deadly, take my pick.

Yes, yes. Already, I think I’ve already called myself pathetic a million times already. Already.

A complete outsider, disorganized, sometimes cryptic, telling you what I might do and see, I discover MySoulsOnIce: becoming an adult-David Lynch (what we really experience is a narrowing of the imagination), and Memories-Haruki Murakami with Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (a movie I recommend).  And then, the cold-blooded killer Ernesto “Che” Guevara and Al Jezeera news pop up.

Seeing Rick’s about page just reminded me of my giving up in coming here.  Unnecessary sympathy… To hell, co-dependency.  To hell.

At least Ido Lanuel seems to care.  I’d have a BS.c in Computer Science too (or better) if I had the money or discipline to work a horrible job to pay for the college B.S. (in both senses of ‘B.S.’).

I give up.

Bipolar mess: just sayin’

Copyright 2012 Stephan Pastis

I had two potentially “funny” posts mostly prepared, but screw it.  I hate myself, my presence again.

After making another ill-timed comment (and wanted it deleted—not something you can do here), beating myself up over it…

…Being put off for a day in seeing the Golden Shower post at A Clown on Fire (and missing the “meme/spoof” point of Monica Balucci doing that before in an ad), laughing my ass off in nonsense, editing like hell…

…Seeing that Starz movie with Nick Stahl and Olivia Wilde—I forget the name…

…Googling my name, seeing how awful, illegitimate my presence is…
(Do I need the thesaurus for ‘awful’?)

At least I’m saying something that hasn’t been prepared (live).  And that probably makes this whole thing a mistake too.  Etc.  Whatever.  I’ve not understood the attention so far—I don’t want more.  If you’re not sure if you should be following, go away.  A rare sight for that expression at WP….Maybe.

Addendum: the name of the Starz movie is On the Inside.

A Wallflower In Darkness

This one is not for the faint of heart.
I tried to improve it as much as I could.
It was previously titled, “To ‘Last’ Forever Alone”.
Hide the children.

becoming of you, of I, of soap—
in sink, in drainer, in tub,
make bathing unthinkable, disgusting, or
oneself ’come disgusting.
Such growths,
life—always coming to be,
from water to surface, then ’to, ’fore on
Such choices
made—stuck in sloth,
‘bad’ or ‘worse.’
So in this life,
“no time or reason” for this discipline.
Continue reading A Wallflower In Darkness

Sunday: Existence Disorder

“Quite evil, the perceived reality — nothing real cooperates.”

I feel it hard.  Very hard.  I woke up this morning, imagining a different scenario of being approached by a woman for conversation, since I usually don’t start them myself.  After failing to get a ride for something, there I was, with a pit of emptiness.  I couldn’t take a score of sleeping pills or jump off a bridge, but my heart could stop.  I struggle this year to survive the core illness.  (You know I’m alive if you’re reading this.)
On Friday, the library was closed, but I couldn’t stay in the mold-riddled, smart meter-saddled house.  The day went nowhere, and certain pressures that shouldn’t go public were building, so I went back home.  The emptiness and pointlessness came over, and I ate the remainder of the snack box and the thin spaghetti.  For Handcuffed, I could swear I’d clicked ‘Publish’ the day before, but the post didn’t go up.
The ‘approachment’ sounds like the “invisible man” story because the first paragraph in Background to Fore has basis on my past. That’s what made it so easy to start, that Saturday, left on break to finish the next day, only adding one paragraph, rewriting the last and tweaking the whole for flow.

How do you maintain willpower seven days a week?

“With a hole in one’s heart left unfilled, how does one’s heart continue?  Do you suffer alone the consequences of decisions made forgotten?” 
I’m too conscious a person, observing everything I can see, wondering why others don’t.  Of course, I realized they were busy, especially busy rising and maintaining social and work status.

I still believe in freedom of mind — to remain open-minded, but I lose the ability to socially move in my broken expectations.  I could talk about anything to the best of my abilities.  In being quick to critique, I could spoof just about anything.  In a good mood, I can still do it.  I could come up with all sorts of fantastical stories.  But, “He works to no avail.”
It’s the exception that no one talks about.  To be ignored to death.  Other than enthused Facebook members, you primarily hear success stories, or the marketable, “whatever helps the economy” whatever.  And don’t forget the walking advertisements.  It’s a “joke” today, a game to big brother government and illegal institutions, giving the bigger criminals a slap on the wrist.  Whoa— got political there.
As if pretty images and emotionless text can really describe life.  In this ‘blogosphere’ the popularity, of course all goes to the adventures, the relatable ups and downs, the forgettable entertainment, the brilliant guides and the bottomless well of comments that follow.  More views go to cute animals and…guys in Spandex™?  “Poop Adventures!”??
Well, on a lighter note, Heather Atkins won the Bucket List Travel Photo of the Year—the lions pic.  And an…organic T-shirt company for turtle conservation is now following.  Okay

Expansion of intelligence requires effort.  I have some obsessive-compulsive qualities that make that IQ growth happen.  It becomes a waste when no one utilizes it.  I do know of one blogger that will visit with the mere ‘humor’ tag…I’m not doing that.
Hopefully, the sh*t will change. But, so far, hope is rendered meaningless; anything good gets contaminated.

Related Geico® commercial:
Does a former drill sergeant make for a bad psychiatrist?
“’You know what makes me sad?

[Lee throws tissue box over patient.]
“Cry baby.”