Showing posts with label mental health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental health. Show all posts

Saturday, 16 September 2017

not broken; a poem

i am not broken
i am not broken
i am not broken
 i am not broken
i am not broken
i am not broken
i am not bronen
i am not bkoken
i am not broken
i am not  broekn
i am not broek n
i am not btoken
i am not broken
i am not brroken
i am not brtoken
i am not broken
i am not btoken
i am not broken
i am not btroken
i am not broken
i am not broken



maybe if i tell myself that enough
i;ll believe it
but
i am not broken
i am not broken i am not broken
i am
not broken
i am not broken
i am not beoken
 i am not broken




maybe if i tell mysel that enough
i[ll believe that
i am not broken
i am not broekn
i am whole
i am whole
i am whole
i am good
i am good
i dont need fixed
i am good
i dont need fixed
i am enough
i am not broken
i am good
maybe if i tell myself that enough
i'll believe that
bit
bit
bit
but
maybe i am
whole?

Friday, 15 September 2017

The BoJack Horseman Show

It's been awhile since I've posted anything, as I'm sure you've noticed. I've been working on a new project and it has been taking most of my focus. However, Netflix dropped season 4 of the outstanding BoJack Horseman last week, so I thought I would talk about it. Honestly, this whole post was birthed from the idea for a tweet, but the show deserves more than just a moderately clever tweet. There have been many articles and reviews written about BoJack, and mine will probably skew fairly close to the rest of them. According to Rotten Tomatoes, the last 3 seasons of Bojack have averaged a 98% rating, and it honestly deserves it. The show is, ostensibly, about an anthropomorphic horse trying to revitalize his acting career in a Hollywood, sorry--Hollywoo full of other anthropomorphic animals and humans. In reality, the show is an unflinching look at the affects of mental illness, drug use, and the societal state of North America. The tweet that sparked this post was about this, something along the lines of: "Five years ago, I would've never believe that the most accurate portrayal of  depression on TV came from an animated horse."


We live in a time where adult focused cartoons allow themselves to focus on dark topics instead of just dick jokes. A few years ago all the adult focused cartoons were in the same vein of Family Guy--crass and shallow. Now we have shows like BoJack Horseman, Archer, and, yeah, Rick and Morty. I would like to go on permanent record to say that BoJack is, by far, the best written and acted of all of those. I could be biased by the fact that I relate more to the characters in BoJack than the others, but I don't care. The writers and cast of the show aren't afraid to show the deep flaws that all the characters have: BoJack is clinically depressed, narcissistic, and an alcoholic, Princess Caroline is so afraid of failure that she pushes everyone away at the slightest hint that she might screw up and has always put her job before everything, Mr Peanut Butter has never had to work for anything but has a crippling need for people to like him, Diane is neurotic and hates when people do things for her--even when they're just trying to be nice, and Todd has no path in life and doesn't know who he is so he tries to be everyone. And those are just the main characters, never mind the lives of the supporting cast (like BoJack's mother, who's past is a major part of season 4 and is incredibly distressing).



The thing that BoJack gets so right about mental illness is that it never really goes away: it's always there, just waiting to make a comeback. Over the course of season 2 and 3, Bojack starts to redeem himself in his eyes. He gets to make the movie that he has always wanted, and he's a big star again. He even starts to like himself, just a little. Then, it goes away. He starts to hate himself again, and he doesn't know why. He has everything that he has ever wanted, and he has a feeling of fulfillment, yet it's not enough. And because BoJack doesn't handle his illness in a healthy way, things go from bad to worse. He puts all of his happiness on getting an Oscar nomination, and when that doesn't happen, he goes on a major, months long drug bender with a former co-star who ends up dying in his arms in some shitty hotel room. Following that, he decides that he doesn't deserve to live anymore. He takes off in his car, and when he's all alone, he floors it and takes his hands off the wheel. But before he crashes, he sees some horses running through the desert, and for a second, he sees what life could be and he stops.


In less depressing praise for the show, it also has the single greatest representation of an asexual character on television: Todd. At the end of season 3, Todd begins to realize that he's not straight, and in a heartbreaking moment he says: "maybe I'm nothing," which is something many aces could relate to. And, during season 4, Todd comes to fully embrace and accepts his asexuality, and even comes out about it to BoJack, who is supportive of Todd. The show even showcased an Ace Meet Up and had Todd hang out with fellow aces. In a television climate where we barely have any queer rep, let alone asexual rep, BoJack Horseman has given an asexual main character, and several ace secondary characters.


I love this show. It has some of the best puns on TV, and deals with important issues in a way that doesn't try to hide the dark side of humanity. Seriously, I cannot overstate how amazing, and important this show is. Which is a weird thing to say about a show about a talking horse and animal pals, but here we are. In 2017, the most human show of all barely has any human characters. Which is probably what makes it watchable.


I'm just gonna throw in some more gifs that I had considered using now.






Wednesday, 5 July 2017

Disjointed masks

Being a writer is hard when you're scared to write. I mean, it's hard for a lot of reasons, but when you're too scared to even touch a keyboard, it's really hard. That's where I'm at right now. Most of me feels like I'm in a good place mentally, but whenever I go to write, I freeze. Maybe I'm not in as good of a place as I thought. Mostly I feel okay, but there have been a few moments where I've definitely been not okay.

(I've been staring at this for a good ten minutes now, with no clue of how to continue, and, really, no want to do so)

Fuck, maybe I'm not meant to do what I want to do. Maybe I'm not meant to be a writer. Maybe I'm just meant to be a failure, forever fucking up and hurting the ones I care about. Maybe I'm not meant to be me, even though I have no idea who that person could be. Fuck.

Maybe I'm just lost inside my own headspace. That's never a good place for me to visit alone; it always breaks me. Maybe it stems from always being told that I wasn't good enough. Always it would be: "That person did better than you. Why can't you do better?" "You're so lazy." "What's your problem?" "Why can't you be like them?". Because I'm not them. I'm barely me. Never good enough. I'm never good enough. To this day, I fight (and lose to) the demons inside of me, itching to feel some modicum of self-worth. Every time that I lose, I feel more and more worthless. Slowly, that feeling of worthlessness came to be my defining feature. I'm never good enough. Even in my own mind, I'm never good enough. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will crush my soul and break my spirit.

The broken person, especially the broken man, has become romanticized in our culture. The dark, brooding guy sitting in the corner nursing a drink. The sullen and silent man. Being 'broken' isn't something romantic. Trust me, it is super hard being romantic while you're second guessing every decision you've ever made, and low-key hating yourself for even trying to make a connection with another human. Hell, I second guess myself when I'm just talking to a friend about the fricking weather. Single file, people of all genders, and please stay calm while waiting your turn. I promise, I have enough insecurities and tears for all of you.

This is really disjointed. And this transitions? Heckin' terrible.

Who am I? They say that a person who has struggled with depression their entire lives (from childhood to present) can struggle with self-identity forever. It's hard to know who one is, when one changes on a regular basis. I wrote a poem once about all the masks I've worn, and how I have lost my true face in the dreck left behind. Maybe I threw that mask, my true face, out. Maybe I haven't gotten to it. Maybe I've never had it. Or maybe, and this is the scary one, maybe this mess of a fucked up human is my true face. How horrible would that be? I don't like this person very much. They're kinda terrible at...everything.

Well, this was much more depressing than I had planned. Guess that's what happens when you're scared to write. You start spouting truths that you don't wanna deal with.

I need a drink

Of water. It's super hot out.  

Wednesday, 21 June 2017

happy places

go to your happy place
calm down
focus on the good
words used to--what?
happy places are happy thoughts
happy dreams and images
lies we perpetuate to give empty guidance 
empty rooms filled with empty li--promises
if i had a happy place wouldn't i stay?
things without meaning said with meaning 
still things without meaning
lost in thought
lost in translation
lost in asinine people
where once happy places may stood
now barren thoughts collide 
happy places don't exist
only happy thoughts
happy memories
happy people
going to a falsehood doesn't fix
it only delays 
happy places don't exist
those that make us happy do
to them should we go
not to lies, but to the eyes
that give us meaning and hope
let them fill us up
let them give us life
let them let us live again. 

Monday, 5 June 2017

loss and lost

staring at this blank page
its arrogance taunting me and mocking me
words flitting and fleeting
mind grasping at nothing
not even air
suffocating in the inexplicable drought
drowning in the insurmountable fears
why
why am i like this
why cant i write
why cant i breathe
the blankness drilling in
my soul
lost
dead
gone
why
the taunting and mocking driving me to the edge
lost causes
lost coasts
forever going
never arriving
circles upon circles circling in
crushing me in my own
why
what am i
who am i
crushed by the thoughts
crushed by the lies
crushed by own hubris
hubris that shouldnt be
why
lines fill up the page
lines filled up with lies
lines lying to hide the lies within the lines
why
why
why
why
god why
when will i become i
when will i like i
when will the pain stop
the pain stopped for a moment
a brief time in my existence
but it came back
always coming back
the pain never ceasing
but for moments
why
faltering strength
failing mind
creativity slowing dying
a former husk
a one time being
now
gone
why
fuck
why do the words hurt
why do the words not come
why do the words break
me
why do the words break me
why do the words always break me
why do the words break me
why does life hurt
why doe the sun not shine through
darkness enveloping
slowly choking out all vestiges of what was
the words like blood ever flowing wrong
the mind clotting blocking the words
the veins closed
why
where once was life
now is darkness
where once words sprang
now words die
the blankness taunting me and mocking me
i cant
i cant
i cant
cant what
live
i can
just
barely wanting to hold on
the weight pulling down
the depths calling up
eyes closing
grip relaxing
sliding down
you
you save me
you pull me out
you force me to live
to breathe
to be
but the blankness is still there
always taunting and mocking
never ceasing
never relenting
the pain is still there
never ceasing
never relenting
but you
you
you make it worth it
you make it bearable
and for that
i
i live. 

Wednesday, 15 February 2017

lingering thoughts

                As my thoughts linger, causing cancerous lesions in my mind, my fingers hover uselessly, unsure of what to type. Unsure of how to save my life. The longer I pause, the more time the lesions have to grow and spread until they consume my entire psyche. Until they become me. Thoughts corrupting thoughts corrupting thoughts until all that remains is simply corruption. Yet still I cannot type. Still I cannot expunge and heal. The corruption lingers.
                Once, in a fit of normalcy, I scraped clean an old rusted blade. It had been hanging, worthlessly, on a wall in the old garage for years. Alone and forgotten; neglected until it became corrupted. I felt pity for it. Why, I do not know… perhaps I felt a kinship towards it; after all, I too was neglected and corrupted. Therefore, I took it off the wall, sat down, and I began to clean it. As I worked away years of rust, my mind emptied. I lost myself in the work, and I became the work. At the end, I had a blade as clean as the day it was bought, but my mind was no more clean than it had been hours ago.
                The idle work of my hands allowed me to be distracted from my thoughts. It allowed me to pretend that I was not sick.
                It was a lie, but, to borrow a phrase, it was a pretty lie.
                Of course, as soon I was done the thoughts came crashing back with almost enough force to stagger me. Unfortunately, I was prepared for that. And it is unfortunate that anyone should be prepared for the sudden crushing weight of their own thoughts. One’s own thoughts should be uplifting and weightless, not a burden to bear.
                That is how I move through life: always looking for the next activity that can lift away my burdens for a short while. In those brief periods, I can pretend to be blissfully healthy and whole.
                I wish I knew of a way that I could just sit down and scrub away the corruption in my mind. Spend an afternoon mindlessly cleaning, at the end of which I would come away clean and whole. Alas, that remains merely a fantasy. A true cleaning of the corruption would take a lifetime of effort and will, and somedays I feel as though I lack all three.
                Through my writing, I heal, and yet most days I cannot bring myself to write even a sentence! I merely stare at an empty page until my self-loathing consumes me and I am left bitter and empty.
                So few hours in a life with so many things to accomplish, yet we waste these hours on what? Work so that we can pay the bills that allow us to continue to work? I cannot remember the last time I felt truly alive—it was summer, and the sky was clear. The lake which I stood waist deep in was a mirror and I was surrounded by the heavens. Everywhere I looked, I could see the stars. I could reach out and touch them. For scant moments, I was alive. Beautifully and truly alive. Instead I just feel empty. I would not say I feel nothing, for I do feel a deep and unending regret coupled with a yearning for something more.

                Amidst the regret lays a burning desire for something better. To find someplace where I truly belong. 

Monday, 22 August 2016

Opening Up

I’m supposed to be putting some form of new content up every week day. It was something I challenged myself to in an attempt to hone my skills. Lately I’ve been failing at it. A mixture of work, stress, anxiety, and just not feeling worth it, has basically crippled my creative process. It hurts me when I can’t write, which makes even harder for me to start. All the days I’ve missed posting? I had started writing things that just got thrown to the wayside. I couldn’t finish them, and, hell, I didn’t really want to.
                That’s what happens with depression though. It strikes randomly and makes the things we usually love feel empty and hollow. We still enjoy those things; we just can’t feel that enjoyment at the time. A lot of the time, I lose all my ambition and sit just staring at a blank wall, trying to figure out why. The answer never comes, because there isn’t one. My writing suffers during this, my social life suffers during this, my vlog sure suffers during this, and I suffer during this. My personal suffering takes a backseat to the suffering of my art. I worry more about it than I do myself during these times, because it is usually the thing that makes me feel better.
                I close myself off, usually, and react hostilely to, what I feel are, invasive personal questions. Most often, these are just generic pleasantries, but in my depressed state everything becomes more than what it seems, and I don’t want to share with anyone. And I don’t want people to worry about me. I know everyone has their own problems, so I shut up about mine until they become something way larger than they ever should have been, and it causes me to break down. I’ve had so many times where something small and inconsequential will cause me to simply give up because of all the other shit I’ve pushed down. The phrase, “the straw that breaks the camel’s back”, is one that I often relate to on a very deep and meaningful level. Sometimes the straw that breaks my back is something as small as not being able to find my keys, or not having any clean socks.
                It’s odd, being broken by such small things, when the big stuff appears to leave me unfazed. But you learn to hide things, to keep them out of sight and out of mind. There are very few people that know I suffer from depression. Some of them only know because they started piling stuff on me during an extremely harsh episode, while others know only because they suffer from it as well. Keeping it hidden comes from my need to keep everything buried down. As long as people assume everything is okay with me they won’t treat me differently, but as soon as they find out they start walking on eggshells. Which annoys the hell out of me, and only adds to the many emotions playing havoc inside of my head.
                I’m not writing this now to garner sympathy. I’m merely writing this to let others know that they are not alone. I know that sounds horribly cliché, and to outsiders maybe it is. But to the people suffering from depression, it’s a life line. I never feel more alone than when I’m in the midst of a depressive episode, and just knowing that there are countless others out there helps immeasurably. So I’m writing this now. I’m writing it for the people who look up to me. I’m writing it for the people who look down at me. I’m writing it for everyone, so that they can see that anyone can be affected. And most of all, I’m writing it for me. To get this weight off of my chest. Mental health problems are nothing to be ashamed of, and those suffering them should not be labelled outcasts and freaks. I need to let go of the stigma to be free of it. I need to stop believing the people who think depression and anxiety are fake. I need to embrace who I am, fully, and I need to be open about it. That being said, if anyone reading this reaches out and asks me how I’m doing, my honest answer will be that I am doing fine. That’s not a lie. I genuinely am doing fine. The world is not ending for me.
                To anyone reading this who is dealing with mental health: there is help. There are hotlines you can call. Friends and family who love you. Websites where you can message trained professionals. And there’s probably a cute cat or dog somewhere nearby that you can pet.

Kids Help Phone: 1-800-668-6868

There are many more options, but most are for specific regions of the country. You can always look online for resources specific to your area.