The Story of the Johnny Rotten

For some reason today I’ve had this song in my head and it won’t go away.

It reminds me that “once you’re gone, you can’t come back.”  And it’s accompanied by lovely waves and people having fun. And with that in mind, I’m praying for all my friends who share episodes of depression and waves going up and down, and aren’t having any fun.  Mine really really suck, but a lot of others I think have it even worse than me. FUCK depression, FUCK bipolar, FUCK YOU FUCKYOU FUUUUUCCCKYOOUUUUU! I hate the way this thing beats everyone up, and it’s literally all inside our heads but it takes our energy and throws us around like helpless rag dolls in a muddy washing machine. It’s no wonder some people try to escape in any way they can.  I just pray you won’t give up like so many do.  But we’re drowning and we can’t escape until it lets go for a second, and that’s never long enough. What do you do when you don’t know what to do? Well, I panic, I rage, I cry at random, I clean, I become a zombie all except the “braaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnsss!” part (because I don’t have those).  And I write, in spite of my lack of “braaaaiiiiiiiinnnnnnnssss.”  Sorry, readers.

I love this:

for a couple of reasons:

First, it should remind people who don’t understand that “there’s more to the picture than meets the eye.” Develop some fucking empathy, ass holes. We already feel like shit, and we don’t need people telling us more about how we should feel like shit, and giving us more reasons to feel like shit.  We need encouragement and support and love, and ice cream and chocolate, and rock and roll music, and a hot bath or shower, and time and grace, and hugs and sometimes a friend who will just be there, show up and shut the fuck up and just be there for us.  I want to be that friend, only I never learned how to shut the fuck up.  So if that’s what you need, I’m sorry.

I heard my daughter really struggling last night through an episode. She really needs a day off, and so do I. Or three. Thank God she has my work ethic, it’s another thing that makes me REALLY just DAMNED proud of her. Both of my teen kids might have this too? FUUUCKKK ME! So I’ve started to just let them scream and cry and monitor for self-harm. I know in my head this thing sucks dirt and I know what I feel like, so I get that my kids just need to do themselves and vent it, with my support and encouragement. I just hugged them both last night.  I don’t KNOW whether they have it or if it’s normal teen angst, or if this was a consequence of her particular frequency and arrival of “shark week.”  But I’ve watched them both deal with signs of depression, so I pray.  And hug.  And pray again.  And hug some more.  I don’t see a regular, repeating cycle in them yet, and I hope I don’t.  I hope they don’t inherit this thing.  I’m sorry, to everyone in my life, that I have traits that affect them and the people around them, and I affect everyone around me, in ways that aren’t always positive.  And I’m sorry if I’m passing it on.

Secondly, it reminds me that even though someone might look, or feel, like they were “rode hard and put away wet,” as the saying goes, they can still BE FUCKING AWESOME.  I wish I could know this of myself, but I know it of all my friends here.  I pray for all of you to take care of yourselves and try to get into a habit of finding one way every day to love yourself in spite of all the confusing communication, from the world and from inside your head.  “Hey, Hey, My, My” this has been a moment of civility and compassion amid my own shit.

Thirdly, it reminds me that “You paid for this and they give you that.”  And then there’s a harmonica for emphasis.  It reminds me that I’m not alone in my disappointment with life, the universe and everything.  Sometimes it sucks and I don’t have the energy to fight it, and sometimes it sucks and I fight with all my might.  And I don’t “win,” Charlie Sheen, I still lose.  But I lose less when I have the energy to keep trying.  There’s a community of us fighters and when I have the energy and whether I do or don’t actually start “winning,” I’m going to fight for all of you too.  It’s a promise.

Fourth, “It’s better to burn out, than it is to rust” means I need to try to do something, not just sit.  In spite of my personal lack of motivation.  The first time I tried to type the word “lack,” I typed a more fitting “ack.”  Went back and fixed it and then thought, well, maybe the reader will find it amusing or encouraging.  ACK!!!  The disciplines are a coping mechanism.  If I pass it on to them, if I encourage others to fight hard to self-love and self-discipline, then I’m doing well.

And last, the faithfulness of rock and roll.  Whether it’s “rock and roll is here to stay,” or “rock and roll can never die,” I love it because it’s faithful.  Whether life is faithful to me or not, I want to be faithful.  In fact, especially when life isn’t faithful to me, I want to be a faithful friend, husband, father, son, if for no other benefit than being able to say a giant, enormous, enlarged, boldface, fat “FUCK YOU!” to all the things in life that disappoint me.

My word for the year, because Mrs. M made me pick one, is “care.”  To me it’ll mean I look for ways to show other people I care, and also remind myself to care for me too, because “love your neighbor as yourself” means exactly that.  If I love my neighbor as I love myself, and I don’t love myself, my neighbor is fucked.  And so am I.  But if I figure out how to do this, and learn I can love myself, then my neighbor might be better off.  I tried this last year and had to lean hard on everyone who was busy loving me better than I did myself and all I can say is thank you.

Be good to yourself.  And thank you for being good to me.  There’s a reason I love you back.  (Even if I sometimes hate you.  Or if you sometimes hate me.)

I’m moving on now, time for some Led Zeppelin I think.  Maybe some Metallica.

What word or expression would you choose for the year, that makes you strive harder for positive habits when life is anything but positive?  I’d love to read your responses.



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