“Six Days Shalt Thou Labor…”

Where in the Bible does it say “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and work thine unholy ass off?”  Because all I’m doing is working.  I wish these success preachers would make good on their promise that if I “trust in the Lord,” “Ask and it shall be given,” “Seek and [I] will find,” “Knock and the door will be opened unto [me].”

My weekend was full of work, and tonight after “work” “there’s no rest for the wicked (and the righteous don’t need any).”  Implying I’m wicked, or confessing.  I’ll leave that for the reader to decide.  (psst!  I’m wicked!)

When last I read the book, I thought it said “Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work and on the seventh, rest.”  I’d love to.  But the seventh is booked with catching up with and doing extra labor.  I’m just tired.  But I have things I have to do, and rest is one of them but not this past weekend, nor today.  On the plus side, it’s a nice distraction from being depressed, which my wife told me Sunday has been my emotional state for way too long now.  She wants me to “just” stop being depressed.  Well la, di, da, and fuck me.  Please.  Twice.  THAT would be another pleasant diversion from being depressed.  Plus, it’s nicer than saying “fuck you” to one’s wife.

So I spent the weekend moving furniture (lots of big tables and lots and lots of chairs) twice – once in, and once out, and doing yard work in two yards (mine and mum’s) and other miscellaneous nonsense labour that had to be done.  In my yard, I realized there are patches that apparently aren’t mine, because someone’s dog has laid claim to those areas and shit on them.  They must not be in my yard, since I don’t have a fucking dog.  I think the neighbors need sick dogs who are too weak to get from their own damn yards into mine.  But I don’t know who sells dog poison.  Not to mention the rodents because I don’t have a cat.

Just when you thought it was safe to come out from under the blankets, someone wants to lay extra work onto you and off their to do lists.  In that spirit of not knowing what the hell I should do vs what I shouldn’t, I’m trying to do it all and I can’t.  I’ve got plates spinning over here, and over there, and then there’s the whole juggling act going on in between.  So chuck everything back into the air, keep the plates spinning over there, back into the air, spinning over here, back into the air.  Please.  FML.

I still have those goals to set and projects to complete for my “spirit guides” for lack of a better description, and that’s basically me flying blind and figuring out what I can do that’s a qualifying goal that isn’t already being done by someone else in the volunteer organization.  I don’t think this shit train ever slows down, but I need it to.

I fell asleep on the couch last night, woke up about 4:30AM and realized the dishes still needed washing so I washed them.  Not that it makes any difference.  I want that 7th day.  But instead it’s more like a 14th or 15th day.  Or never.

I didn’t think a journey off into the wilderness to dream would turn into more work, but that’s all it ever is, when there’s a committee involved.  I felt obligated, but now I’m second guessing myself about that too.  When they give me a few hours worth of money and expect me to turn in a month’s worth of work, or more…  Remind me to never say “yes” to another damned committee, ever again.  They’ll take up the 14th AND the 15th day if you let them.  And every day in between.

Yrtaihcysp Ni Sdnert Dna Hcraeser: New Study Results are Interpreted Ass Backwards

Yrtaihcysp Ni Sdnert Dna Hcraeser: New Study Is Interpreted Ass Backwards

Why does a child gravitate toward a particular social group?  A new psychiatric study suggests that people who choose the “goth” subculture are at an increased risk of being subjected to bullying, experiencing depression and acting out in self harming ways.  This from the doctors at the Journal Lancet Psychiatry.  It couldn’t possibly be that depression, being bullied, and the propensity to self harm increases the probability that the person will feel a connection to the subculture.  No, not at all.  What the sunshine fuck drugs are you taking, doctors?  You’ve got all the symptoms right, but you’ve got the connections completely ass backward.  And I’d bet a lot of people who really do experience depressive symptoms and feel an affinity for the goth social group will confirm it.

I identify with the goth subculture a lot of the time.  I wanted to be goth 35 years before goth was goth.  When my parents tried to dress me funny, by which I mean goofy looking clothes, bright colours, I objected.  I objected because those kinds of clothes drew attention to me, from people I wanted to ignore me.  Except I didn’t know how to express it so my parents could understand.  The bullies were laser-focused in on my insecurity already, the stupid clothes just drew additional unwanted attention.  The only “bright” color I wanted to wear was a sort of dark purple, as an accent to the black I wanted to predominantly wear.  So what did my parents make me wear?  Brown or white shoes, blue jeans or tan or t00-blue dress slacks, all with goofy looking sharp creases… horrible white or some other bright colour dress shirts.  Yellow?  Powder blue?  Really?  Ugh.  Only by my strenuous objection I didn’t have a damned pocket protector which I swear could have killed me of embarrassment without any bully required to deal the death blow.  And I had a brown shirt or two but they were tan, nothing dark or black like I wanted.

When my parents took me to the city, I loved the buildings with Gothic architecture.  I never went inside any, but I wanted to.  We would drive past the buildings and I would look up in silent awe at how beautiful they were.  There was a church that was made of black stones with pointed spires, and I always thought that was the most beautiful building, but I can’t find a picture.  My wife likes the Art Deco movement, art, architecture, etc.  It’s OK, but it’s not as beautiful to me.  And looking at American culture (by which I mean the United States), most people think the buildings I think are beautiful works of art are just creepy.  When the other kids dreamed of living in castles, I dreamed of this:  If I had my way, and enough money, I’d buy a dark old Gothic church and live there.   I’d still do it.

When my parents took me to the city, it was to go to the doctor to get treatment for certain developmental issues.  I had a stroke as a fairly young person.  The treatment and exercise plan was so well executed that as an adult, no one notices until they see me walking or see me when I’m tired.  But as a young child, it was too obvious.

When I read through my dad’s books the characters I loved were the solitary, brooding, quiet but intelligent pulp fiction heroes.  Conan.  Tarzan.  Batman. Kull.  And apparently he likes them too.  They lived in, some even blended into, a society of sorts, but underneath they had a darkness that fed them and made them strong and independent of that society.  When my family watched musicals, because my mum loves them, I’d watch Oklahoma and the character I most identified with was Judd Fry.  When it came out, I strongly identified with the Phantom of the Opera.  I wanted to be the hero, but I was the ogre, the monster, before being a relatively friendly monster was celebrated.  I wanted to be the winner, but I was not physically capable of it.  These characters I most strongly identified with are goth.

Hereditary factors.  Subjected to major life crises, subjected to bullying, socially outcast, awkward, feelings of inadequacy…  sound familiar?  That was my whole fucking childhood, doctors.  So I like Vampires and wolves (but not werewolves) and witches and Wolverine, Punisher and Panic! At The Disco and Pierce the Veil, and Batman and Bach, Mozart, Metallica and even some Maroon 5, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, and I feel a deep connection to younger souls who’ve lived through it and suffer chronic depression or depressive episodes.  The end is not the origin, doctors.  The origin is the origin.  The subculture developed because we didn’t fit in to the popular crowd we envied and watched from the dark shadows.  Because I can’t escape the darkness, I embrace it. There’s something about decorations for Halloween that could feature just a little more black, a candle, a simple skull without all the stupid lights and sounds.  And a door, painted black.

Wilderness Spirit Quest II

Monday night:  OK, I’m back and the weekend was packed with information.  It was way too much to process.  But it was mostly good.  Now I have a few short weeks to sort it all out and figure out what this means for me.

Tuesday afternoon:  And then I come home and immediately feel all the stress of having to figure out, set, and meet the goals I want to set and meet .  How am I going to do something when I have no idea what it is or even where to start.  And go back to work.

Wednesday afternoon:  Add on top of the stress of working the job, and the disrespect of my family. I wish they gave a shit about me, but I’m a third class passenger and they couldn’t give a rats ass if I fell overboard and died. I wish I could describe it differently, but that’s exactly what it is.  They make me want to quit it all.  It’s like when you go to church and hear a really inspirational message and then through the week you feel the pull of all the negative dragging your soul back to its’ cage somewhere in the darkest pit of hell.  It’s exactly that. Nothing I’ve done matters and I feel like nothing I ever do will.

stole this from http://tpmdesigns.deviantart.com/art/Fuckitol-175131603 or pinterest https://www.pinterest.com/pin/66850375691806764/

Clearly I care too much, and I need to stop that.  And clearly my ambitions are too high and I need to stop that too.

Wilderness Spirit QuestI

I’m off on what I can only describe as a Spirit Quest for the next few days.  I’m leaving at 04:30 this morning, it’s 12:04 and I’m going to bed.  I’ve needed this “escape” for a long time.  I have a direction to start, but where I’ll end up is anyone’s guess.  And what I’ll learn is anyone’s guess.  And what I’ll decide to do with the information I bring back is anyone’s guess too.

I’m going on a grant,  the whole thing is bought and paid for by the kindness of friends and strangers basically.  Nobody who is paying to send me, and nobody who’ll work with me through the testing reads my blog, so they’ll never read how grateful I am for the opportunity.  Maybe to some of them it’s no big deal, but to me it feels monumental.  I’ll be back Tuesday.  I already miss all of you writers and your wonderful blogs.

I hope to come back as more than I am now.  It’s a time of self-assessment, dreaming out loud and on paper, challenging myself physically, starting and enriching a few friendships I expect,  and goal-setting.  I’ll let you know how it turns out.

I Want Frosted Oatmeal Raisin Cookies and Milk for Lunch

This goes in the category “weird food cravings.”  I’ll randomly crave things that are not appropriate.  I think I single-handedly started the “breakfast available all day” fad where restaurants serve salmonella and e. coli laced gravy with their sausage and biscuits because I order it in the late evening and they don’t heat it quite enough to kill all the bacteria in it from the chef not washing his hands and sneezing at 10:30 AM.  If I had done that any time in the last 2 weeks it might explain why my stomach started randomly hurting and cramping at irregular intervals for the past two weeks, but no.  My stomach just randomly decided it wants to hurt and cramp.  Thank God the rest of my digestion is clockwork.  And maybe it’s because of what I crave.  I’m practically a slave to foods I crave.  Must.  Have.  Frosted oatmeal cookies and milk.  I want the soft oatmeal cookies. mmm.

That whole food poisoning thing only happened to me once.  After that I was shy about ordering random, oddly-timed foods from greasy spoon “restaurants.”  Places that specialize in breakfast foods and serve them all day are usually ok, but then I’ve moved far away from that place that once gave me symptoms I sha’n’t describe in pleasant (or present) company.  It wasn’t good, the whole digestive process appeared to suddenly reverse, and then, just as bad, reverse again, both at high velocity.

It’s better than my initial craving.  Around brunch I craved Taco Bell, but being stuck in my office I couldn’t go out for that delicacy-of-dubious-origin.  Normally I think I crave normal things, like fried chicken or Belgian waffles with maple syrup, or late at night it’s peanut butter or toast or instant mashed potatoes.  Or maybe that second helping of left-overs I didn’t really want at supper.

But I really love breakfast.  Just not at the ass-crack of dawn.  Let me wake up, slowly, get things done, get a little hungry, and then decide what I want, and fairly often I dream big.  My idea of breakfast, after I get hungry, doesn’t fit on one plate.  And then, when all is said and done, I eat small.  It’s coffee, maybe a breakfast bar.  Or just coffee.  Sucks to be on a ramen budget with steak and potatoes, scrambles, pancakes and a screwdriver on the mental menu.  But thank God, I like ramen noodles.

When I get home tonight, maybe we’ll have breakfast.  Oatmeal cookies are made from oatmeal… That’s “breakfast,” right?

It’s Probably My Fault

We ran around like headless chickens yesterday, because for back-to-school they make us follow the kids’ schedule, but attend classes at 10 minute intervals.  I didn’t get a chance to ask any questions, and at the end I was breathless and my feet hurt.  Regular readers will know,  I hated my own education experience, at least for the first two weeks of a new school term.  Perceptive regular readers will know I found my brilliant education worthless with respect to life skills including but not limited to:

__a) figuring out life skills inventories and how they fit toward
__b) getting a good job, I’ll enjoy
__c) earning a decent living-standard income,
__d) knowing who to trust and what to do when my trust has been violated,
__e) how to be my own best advocate for career advancement, (wtf is a “career” any more anyway?)
__f) how to reach a positive resolution when dealing with change,
__g) time management, and
__h) motivation to get shit done.

That’s right, my masters degree level “education” ain’t worth shit because they didn’t offer these practical life-skills.  It’s probably my fault.  I should have figured out I needed these skills when I was, say, 12, and picked them up along the way.

It’s probably my fault.  I was born in a time before GPS systems and cell phones; I don’t adapt well to technological advance.  I’ve never been particularly motivated.  I’ve been altogether too trusting, especially in “Christian” circles.  I hate change, it upsets my head and my stomach.  And I haven’t got a clue what I want to be when I grow up.  Actually, I have a clue, I just don’t know how to get there from here, at my age people expect me to be Jesus incarnate to get in the doors of doing what I want.  Or an alcoholic, drug-addicted, suicidal, homeless, un-divorced guy who has a life changing experience and then decides to work his ass off to prove he really changed.  In short, that guy becomes Jesus and then they let him do what I think I want to do.  And then they viciously underpay him for his work, he gets a divorce because his wife has a fling with someone who actually earns enough money, or he has a fling in a fit of depression because his wife turns him down because she wants to motivate him to change, he turns back to the bottle, and they drum him out of the profession.

How do people make money, anyway?  Well, Deon, first they make linen-fiber “paper,” with special security features, and then they print the proper designs on it, and then they cut it.

That’s not what I meant, Deon-Brain.  But thanks.

It’s probably my fault.  I’m not Jesus.  But if I were, they’d crucify me.  They don’t teach crucifixion in schools.  They don’t teach anything about Jesus in schools.  It would terrify the kids.  The lab experiments would be torture, literally.

I survived the school tour, but don’t ask me where any of those classrooms are. And please don’t make me go back, the swarming crowds was terrifying, not to mention those tiny desks.  They call fear of crowds enochlophobia, I suspect it’s because legend has it Enoch just fucking disappeared  one day.  That would be cool to figure out how to do that.  [Enoch:  This crowd’s too big!  Buh bye! **Poof!**]  The teachers all seemed pretty nice though, so I have high hopes my kids will emerge mostly unscathed from the new term.  I’m still a little worried though:  the teachers still use a bloody cross mark on mistakes on homework and tests.

Good luck, kids!

And maybe, while you kids are busy developing those life skills, someone will have a heart and teach what you really need to know to succeed in life.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll figure it out too.

It’d be cool to find a church that would let me, probably the person most would judge as the farthest distance away from Jesus EVER, to teach what the Bible really says.  Faithful (ha!) readers would affirm, I wouldn’t pull any punches.  I wouldn’t claim to have all the answers.  I’d call it what it is, because what’s the point of hiding the truth behind flowery language and assorted bullshit?

Maybe they’d pay me a decent, living wage.  And then we might be able to afford the expense of you kids going to college.

“Haven’t We Met Before?”

I flirt.  People misconstrue.  I make eye contact.  People misconstrue.  I even check people out sometimes, and I have only been dressed down for it once.  By a guy.  I’m a straight guy, and honestly, I wasn’t staring.  Or I wasn’t trying to stare.  He just thought I was odd, I guess, and his narcissistic soul thought I found his animal magnetism too attractive.  I was in college, undergrad, studying communications and proxemics, and it was kind of hilarious after the confrontation, we actually became “friends.”  Or at least exchanged a cheery hello when we saw one another.

But even now, years later, I absent-mindedly look at people without saying anything, and the guys give a smile like we’re old friends, some even wave, with an expression that asks “Haven’t we met before?”  I don’t know you from Adam’s housecat.  But I smile and wave back.  Thinking, “who the fuck are you?”  And I see the soccer moms smile as if they know I’ve admired their earrings or …something.  What’s in my look, and what are they thinking?  If I looked at anything, it was the way you let that hot, single curl of hair drape carelessly from your forehead or your neckline.  You brushed it aside to draw my attention, as if it were annoying you by being out of place.  But no, I’m not thinking anything, just taking schematics and performing vector analysis.  It’s all very practical and scientific.  I want to know you’re out of my way and not going to hit me or my car or my shopping cart.  I don’t know what color your dress is, much less how it’s cut, though I might have noticed very quickly if it’s obvious, how well you fill it in, unless you’re hanging out from somewhere, which makes me look away faster.  Yikes.

I’m married.  Don’t misconstrue.  Make no mistake.  I love her more than any other, but I love everyone, if I don’t hate you.  And it doesn’t matter to me what you look like.  I think you’re beautiful, unless I find out your soul is ugly, and then fuck you.  I have road rage, but I love you while driving, until you do something stupid or selfish or get in my way, and then, fuck you, turn in your license at the nearest branch and get the fuck out of my fucking way, by which I mean if I weren’t a nicer warlock I’d make you disappear off the fucking road in a blaze of hellfire, burning rubber and gasoline.  I just want the cars to spontaneously part before me, a la that scene in Bruce Almighty.

And if I do love you and tell you I love you, believe it.  It’ll be true forever.  It’s not a line, I mean it.  And no, I don’t want anything from you.  I will only hate you even though I love you if you do one of a few things:  1)  try to call me.  Fuck off, I don’t want to talk, even when I’m feeling an up-swing of mood.  come over or leave a message, inviting me to come over, and I’ll let you know if I want to.  2) ask me to find something either you or I  lost somewhere.  I can’t.  or 3),  try to talk to me about anything, especially money.  Fuck off, I don’t have any money and I’m not interested in looking for a job.  If you want to offer me a high paying job with benefits, then by all means, what have you got, and where do you and I both sign and date the forms?  Because fuck not getting it in writing, any more, ever.  And then after I hate you, I will forgive you and love you again, unless you continue to harass me on the phone or continue to try to push my buttons about money. Those buttons are all on “instant blind rage” setting, so please… just… don’t.

Right now, I hate you all equally, and I mean everybody, but I might check my email later and be more “(love is) patient and kind” and shit.  Or maybe I’ll get some rest and be able to deal with you and your issues.  I can’t even deal with mine right now, so I’m so very sorry.  I’ll catch you later, if you catch me in the mood to catch you.  Until I catch you later, adios.

***TW***- Trend Line Partially Mapped

OK so I’ve looked at my previous blog entries and it looks like on about June 20 I started feeling downward.  I’ll have to keep checking back, but it confirms that I’ve officially been at less-than-zero emotionally for almost 2 months.  Has it really been that short, because it feels like longer?  Ugh.  Well, maybe we’ll see when my soul successfully climbs out of the dark, cold rabbit hole and into the tree house.  I feel like some sick twisted groundhog peeking out to see if winter and depression are going to linger a few more weeks.  Fuck.

Today I had the morning sickness, which is really stupid because I’m not pregnant and I’m a guy.  It’s stress and shit.  I tried really hard either to vomit or not, I didn’t really care which.  I ended up not.  But when I was a kid I had a really evil teacher who genuinely hated me, back before they diagnosed PTSD, and so it was that in the beginning of the school year I’d puke every morning for about 2 weeks, settle into the changes and the new schedule, and the symptoms would stop.  Fuck me.  Did the trauma of moving from the classroom of the nicest, prettiest teacher I ever had to the classroom of the meanest ugliest bitch the world has ever seen start my cyclothymia?  Anyone?  Does trauma induce lifelong shit like that?  Another damn thing to research.

Fuck her anyway.  I was little, young, naive and stupid and in my innocence I didn’t know there were people who were hateful bitches.  I was too young to understand why anyone would be so mean, nor wise enough to respond with any of the brilliantly sardonic vitriol you see lurking in my heart today, to tell her just where she could shove a cactus.  I was too young to understand there were a variety of places she could have put it, even.  I swear to you, I did nothing to deserve her shit.  She said a bunch of mean things to me personally because I was the one who needed special treatment due to medical issues, she had me all alone in the classroom while others went out for recess, and just treated me like you’d expect a mean, hateful crone to treat a small, trusting child: abusively.  Fucking ugly bitch.  My consolation is, she’s dead and rotting in hell now.

The native psychobabble involved “just” toughening up, and if I needed some help with my nausea they offered an acid blocker, maybe Tagamet, at first, and then recommended antacids.  This psych-le continued through the remaining years of high school, college, and graduate school.  It hits me anytime there is trauma or change, and there appears to be no permanent cure.  Except stability, which life doesn’t offer until I win the mega-lottery jackpot and stabilize from the shock of not having to endure work bullshit, commuter bullshit, bank and bill paying bullshit.

A guy could get used to sleeping in with his happy, secure wife, home-schooling his happy (or spoiled) kids, not feeling deprived, not having to wait for things I need, donning the disguises, and going out somewhere for a late brunch.  Like fucking London, where they get the concept that breakfast should include lots of different food types and not a cup of coffee and get the hell out unless you have more money.  Or the southern United States, where one can find in certain establishments, copious breakfasts including American biscuits, grits, and other delicacies.  Brunch there might even include ridiculously sweet iced tea.  “Why, yes, Ma’am, I would like a spot of tea with my cup of sugar!”  Maybe, on a whim, what the hell, have a mimosa or a screwdriver.

If I’m on some kind of fucked calendar cycle, since the kiddies are back in school maybe it’s that grade school adjusting shit again.  We’re not up to two weeks yet.  I still feel the nausea (physical), and the worthlessness and stupidity (emotional)  wolves nagging and biting my soul, which really sucks.  I don’t remember what Mrs. Crone deCruelle Cabot-eur even said to me (Cabot femelle, see your French dictionaries, you might learn something new unless you’re already smarter than I was a minute ago, but you probably are), but I can speculate she called me what these FUCKING voices in my head are still saying to me.

God, I just had a flashback to a much later high school creative writing episode, in which I expressed some of this and then wrote a suicide note in my sophomore year, oh, so long ago.  Have I really been dealing with this that long?  Obviously, the will to live was stronger, and remains a motivator as I have no desire to end it.  I never shared the suicide note with anyone and don’t remember the contents.  At the time, I re-read what I had written, on a kind of autopilot writing what-I-feel-right-now setting, realized what it actually meant, made a firm decision, and burned it.  In retrospect, I wish I had saved the note just for the purpose of having it for the record.

Anyway, bitch, I’m still here and you’re not, so your demons win and mine lose, so fuck you.  There’s that rage.  Hmm.  On second thought, don’t fuck you; I think you’d be more miserable being ignored, and left alone.  Yeah I’ve never felt that depressed again, but sometimes close.  I just hope it is your fault, and not hereditary so my kids never feel that way.

I still have an upset stomach.  But I’m stronger than that, and a lot more.  I think I’ll buy a lottery ticket again.  They haven’t won in the past but all I need is one winning ticket to be a winner.  Ha, apparently “cabot” is derogatory slang, not to be found in a proper dictionary…

And now you’ve peeked into one of those dark windows of my soul that explain why I’m completely fucked up.  I admire your courage (from “coeur,” that’s another French thing).  And I’m sorry.  But hey, if I can’t vent in a blog, it has to go back inside, to rot my heart, through my stomach.  Fuck that.  My stomach is upset enough already, and I didn’t have time for a proper breakfast.

100-ish Blog Entries

Fuck.  “Missed it by THAT MUCH.”

So it’s come to my attention that I’ve written just over 100 blogs, and I forgot to say anything on # 100.  I meant to, just can’t do shit right when I’m feeling less than zero.  So I’ll say something now, to all 6 of my remaining followers who either just started following or haven’t abandoned me yet:  thank you for your support, your encouragement, your sharing about shared experiences, I’m learning a lot and although I might say I hate you all equally, I secretly might actually admire you and respect your courage to write.

To those who just started following, I admire your stamina because it’s not always uplifting and I’ll understand when you quit.  To those who still follow because they think they actually like my writing, Jeremiah’s Lamentations!  What drugs are you on?  And if I am following you, I think the feeling might be mutual- I think I actually might like you and/or your writing.  Keep doing that.

Thanks for joining me on my journey.  All six of you are fucking awesome and  I appreciate the vote of confidence, however fleeting or misbegotten it may be.  I wish I was worthy.

Torn Down

If you could see the demon claws
Shredding my soul, the way I know,
Exposing the real me, all my flaws,
Everything I try to hide, out for a public show,

They are just her innocent words,
Attacking me without intent.
She speaks them, not feeling how it hurts,
I misinterpret words she says, it’s not what she meant.

But my soul is torn down, bleeding,
I love her heart, her true purpose,
I hate her words, her tone,  its’ meaning,
I hate my feelings more:  me, the freak in hell’s circus.