Blank

I woke up in a black cloud this morning. No, that's not entirely accurate. I woke up as I always do, with the alarm rousing me into a stumbling haze of limbs as I get up and dressed for work. But I felt blank. I know that kinda goes against the black cloud metaphor. You'd think I was in more of a white void. Oh crap, there I go again mixing metaphors. And yet, it works in my mind, so fuck it. Rolling with it and all that.

I never intended for this blog to be so similar to my last blog, but here I am, documenting my latest bout of depression. I have to admit that there have been many bouts since the last time I blogged about a bout. (ha ha...) Last weekend, I archived my old blog onto my external hard drive, and I glanced at a couple of blogs in the process. Seeing the spaces between bouts gave me a real sense of... well, reality. Sometimes, I think I'm over-exaggerating my depression, but when I look back at what I've documented, I see that there has certainly been many ups and downs. And I documented them all. I stopped when I found more happiness doing something else than blogging. That is to say, I found things that made me happy, and my bouts of depression began decreasing in frequency to the point that I no longer felt like "wasting" my time documenting them. I was wrong to do that. I realize that now. I need to document. Not only that, but I need to document online. Not for any sort of attention-seeking, woe is me crap, but for anyone to put their two cents in. Call it cheap therapy. It certainly worked the first time around, and I'm certainly much better for it than when I was PAYING someone to do the same. I need to do it for the same reasons I did the last blog:

1) Document the frequency
2) Free advice
3) For anyone who happens upon this blog, maybe they have the same problems, and now they'll see they're not alone. I'm not wanting to make myself out to be a savior, but if someone gains some hope from my blogs, I'm happy.

What I won't do this time around is go into such specific detail that people know the how often I take a crap and what color and consistency it was. That sort of thing. Instead, I'm going to focus on the feelings and the images. Hence the hack n slashed metaphors.

Fuck all, if that wasn't a major diversion...okay, not a MAJOR diversion, but certainly a diversion nonetheless.

Black cloud, white void. Check.

At work today, I saw things, and I just didn't care. Nothing special happened. But I felt.... a distinct (or indistinct, if you wanna get picky) lack of feeling. Apparently, I freaked a lot of people out. I guess I'm normally a lot louder than I thought possible. When I'm not loud, people notice. I know this now. I told them it was because I was tired, and I'm pretty sure no one bought that, but no one pressed further, thankfully. After all, how do you describe blankness? It's not there, so you can't. Or if you can, then you're a far better writer than me, and that's just fine with me. I can't do it, and that, too, is fine with me. I know it's depression, even if I don't have that usual aching feeling in my chest. I'd say it's a mild case of depression, but that's not true. It's just a different kind. I'm here, and I am existing. That's about all that there is to it.

Now, it might be indicative of an end of the depression by my having the (for lack of a better word) desire to blog about it. That's certainly not a neutral or blank feeling. So maybe things are looking up. In either case, here I am, I'm documenting another bout. Fuck yeah...

The Boobs & Batman Intrusion

Fuck, I hate myself sometimes. Okay, that sounds a bit more emo than even I can stand. What I mean is, I have these sort of episodes or phases or whatever where the itch and desire to write becomes so strong, I have to talk/write about the strength of the urge, and then....nothing. I get all of these ideas floating around, and nothing happens. Then a buddy of mine starts in, rattling off all these ideas that he has that he thinks he'll do nothing with himself, and so he gives them to me, knowing that I'll probably not do anything with them except kick them around in my head for 5 minutes before I start to think about boobs or Batman again.

Sometimes, I just get the urge to write. What do I want to write? Fuck if I know, but I just want to write. So I blog. And I bitch. I make up any excuse NOT to write. The most common stumbling block is I worry about form. How should I write this line, how should I write that line? What should this guy do next? What should he say next?

Fuck it. I've got to write something, even if it kills me. This itch always comes back for more. It never goes away. I'm not going to make a resolution that I know I'm not going to keep. I just need to write and shut the fuck up. I need to say to myself, yeah, I have these excuses, but I'm going to ignore them because they aren't helping. They only make matters worse. So, fuck it. I'm gonna write whether it kills me or not.