I’m back, Motherfleckers.

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.”
Robert Frost.

Apparently now, its almost a year since I wrote anything in here. Barf. Do you know when life ultimately treats you like shit? And you’re like, “why tf do I deserve this ugh, why do I deserve this” blah blah, shut up. Stop pitying yourself. Empathize with yourself. But don’t ever pity, you’re not weak. Admit you’re not okay, ask for help, cry, cry, cry, until it makes you feel better, even if you didn’t know what made you upset in the first place. But don’t pity yourself when you feel like you’re done and give up trying. Don’t ever give up on yourself. I know its easier to say than be done, but I’m not asking you to do it. Try. Try is all. With just the meekest effort. But try.

It might suck. And you might need a lotttttt of time. And you might still be not okay. But when has anything been perfect anyway?

To all those random, nice people who’ve emailed saying this blog is amazing and shit, thanks man. And to all those random *types and erases assholes* who’ve emailed saying this shit is depressing, okay look: Firstly, change your perspective. This is what I’m doing for myself to combat with depression. This is supposed to be against depression and all that crap. And I’m doing it for me. I suck at telling how I feel to someone I know and I bet there are others like this too, and it feels better when taking some effort to understand or to be understood. Secondly, don’t spread hate man, c’mon. Because let me tell you this:

This blog is my truth. And I just want to be honest here. There’s no way I’m changing my truth and what I believe. Also notice, I say this is my truth. Not THE truth. Our faith differs. Our truth differs. But is it really the truth when we all imbibe myriad comprehensions of a story that might not even be singular or plural or universal? Fuck, it might not even exist. But we all like to blind ourselves with this pure, deity, celestial bright white light called “truth,” when it is just another possibility. If truth isn’t truth, then wouldn’t lies not be lies? If what is true to you, is a lie to me; if what I believe is something you reject or dismiss, then who is right and who is wrong, how do we win this tug of war? Or would be sane enough to agree that there isn’t no universal truth or there isn’t a lie? Or is that exactly what insanity is? If everything is a possibility then.. if everything can happen, why the fuck are we all so scared to hope? Why do we give up already?

Pew pew.

(I randomly began to type this out with no idea where it is headed, I’ll read thru it again and perfect it sometime later maybe, but as for now: I’m back, Motherfleckers #suits)

Feels so good to have typed this bruh.

Losing and striving to find yourself

“Dismantle your wounds so you stop living your life by them”
Nikki Rowe

(Note: This blog would suck. Cuz I’ve lost it within that me that makes me write. My other blogs are good tho.)

I feel blank right now. I’ve lost my will to write. Or more likely, I feel there is nothing to write about for me. That is scary, very scary. I haven’t felt that before. I generally read over a dozen books a month, I haven’t been able to finish a single book this month tho. I’ve lost all motivation, I’ve lost all desire. You know one of those moments, when all you feel is that you’re a pit? You feel empty. You tell you are lazy, exhausted, that you are tired. You have no interest to do anything. This apparently is a side effect of depression. Alas, depression itself is a side effect of dying. Almost everything is, really. (JG ref#1047939)

Don’t let yourself fall into that trap. You are stronger than that. I’m forcing myself to try and to write. There was a time when my pen would just keep scratching the paper. I would think and feel that much. When I was at class, when I was eating lunch, when I was out shopping. There would always be something for me to write about. There would always be me reading twice as much as I write. And now I’ve gotta force myself to sit down and jot something. Thats how much I’ve lost myself. But its okay. I’m working on myself.

You could too. Make an oath to differ. To cause a change. Make yourself obedient enough to follow it. Discipline your mind. You are lost only to be found again, anew and awesomer. And the only person who can find you back is you. Don’t give up on the things you love doing. Don’t give up on yourself, ever. I love you, this blog sucks compared to the previous ones but whatever. (Please do take a minute to scroll down and read tho) I’m not giving up. I wrote that. I can still write that. Or better. All we need is ourselves; we’ll be okay:)

P.S. Rereading this, I realize how much a shitty writer I’ve become but I’m feeling so much better after taking effort to write this down.

Pain and Metaphor

“There are times when you just have to let it all out. All the anger, all the pain.”
Will Grayson, Will Grayson. JG.

Hope, love, change. These are very significant terms, they have power. You can’t deny the acute shortness of breath that you feel when you say out those words aloud. These are things that we fear (we refer to them as “things” and not just “words,” like they are real. And real things can kill us.) Why? Because of the precedented loss. Pain. It is the only word that is so hard to express. Language at once runs dry when you try to express pain, be it physical or psychic. You can easily tell what it was like, but it is impossible to tell what is was. (TATWD, my friends, yes.) We seek to use metaphor to try to describe it. The “it” being so vast but also nothing at all, being some unnameable object? feeling? …some unnameable, inexplicable something that terrorizes all of us. Its like ten fat men wearing stilettos standing on my head, like someone choking my throat, its like a knife piercing my heart, again and again. These metaphors, our language; it does so little to communicate, the ache, the longing, the strength of the people bearing this, the emotional tug of war, the exhaustion in your limbs, the physical and psychic pain. Nothing connotes the surge of hurricanes inside of you, but this too is a metaphor; the riot of emotions inside of yourself, like two kingdoms fighting for dominance, but that is too. The abundant language, that allows for everything, does not give us freedom enough to convey how we feel and perceive what we feel. The thing is, crossing all these boundaries, setting aside your insecurities, when you let others know how you truly feel within, they judge you. Crazy, dramaqueen, mess, attention-seeker, mental.

You’re seeking for encouragements, aren’t you? But we both know it. Nothing I could possibly say would make it hurt less, or show how dauntless you are that you still go on. But I can tell and mean this: I hope you find help if you are suffering, I hope you find the right people, I hope you are cared for and loved, I hope you are understood.