I’m not the man I used to be.
He died violent and tragically.
The boy I was is trapped beneath
The rubble of that catastrophe.
I’m not the man I claim to be.
Confident, competent, casually
Adulting unsuccessfully.
I’m hoping for a sequel me.
I’m not the man I want to be.
Beloved, in love and integrally
Attached; detached from reality
And living in a hope-woke dream.
I know the man I’m not.
I’m not the man I know.
The boy that I forgot
Is the man I need to grow.
The distance between my desires and my perceptions is anxiety.
Q(•—{A}—•) 😥
The difference between my expectations and my experience is disappointment.
Q(Δx) 😑
The fallacy between my heart and my mind is depression.
Q(<3 ≠ ?) 😔
If I am the problem, what is the solution? The logic is obvious. Math has no emotions.
/Q 🧐
I am the answer.
🤓
I feel as if my life is lacking in love—love in a general sense, which I suppose means love in every sense. Familial love, platonic love, romantic love, random love, sexual love (lust), even unrequited love. All are in short supply with depleted reserves. The most intriguing and, consequently, the most troubling of the empty tanks is the unrequited one because this means that I don’t even have love to give which could then fail to be returned to me.
I treat this predicament as if it is separate from my depression, preceding it and now (of course) feeding it, but a parallel and separate trail not even connected to me. It’s like some beast or monster is walking on either side of me, scaring away and devouring all the love I might otherwise receive (or send) were I walking this road alone. I may be naïve in that belief and I wouldn’t judge anybody for disagreeing. I’d like to disagree myself and to simply blame my current emotional state for blocking my blessings of love. Perhaps the beast is Depression, but that would mean he’s been with me much longer than I care to admit… long enough to have met my daughter and attack her love. That thought is infuriating… so let us Woo-Sa and move on so as to avoid another angry rant.
I can see now that I had been running on stored reserves of love for quite some time (years, perhaps?) with no reliable source to refill them. I tried to fill them with hope but what is hope fueled by if not love? No luck there. I tried to fill them with belief but my confidence has taken such a beating this past decade—I’m not the cocky, young negro that thinks he can conquer the world that I once was. The religious types would say I should put my belief in God, not in myself. I tried that, more than once, and I recognize that it works for a lot of people but not me. I’m a spiritual person, not a zealot, and this I shall remain until a burning bush speaks to me directly. It’s time for God to put his faith in me. Sorry, not sorry.
Occasionally, I will reach out to some humans with my frail heart, possessing uncertain expectations and a faith that is tenuous at best. If I am received, which is not always the case, their kind words or attentive ears do little to restore my hope and serve only to carry me through the most current desperate moment. For I know once the moment passes, I will feel alone once more. I choose the word “feel” instead of “be” because (cognitively) I know that people care about me—possibly/probably even love me (in their own way), but this knowledge stays trapped in my mind, jealously hoarded from my heart.
In one of the meditations that I do every morning, I am reminded that everyone is doing the best they can within the framework and capabilities of their own mind. I am encouraged to relinquish grievances, regrets and resentment and choose forgiveness—both of self and others. Even my therapist reminded me that it’s dangerous to hold others to my expectations of love. But how does one receive, accept and, more importantly, recognize love without a blueprint? Especially when you can’t feel it in your heart because some fucking monster is gorging on your happiness. Bitch ass beast. Don’t let me catch you in my lane. I’m gonna put hands on you.
Wouldn’t that be great? If we could manifest our mental and emotional issues into physical form and then beat the shit out of them! Oh, what a world that would be… maybe I’ll write a story about it.
It’s like watching your life through the window of a house with no doors. Everything looks normal on the outside but you can’t hear what’s going on. You scream but the sound doesn’t escape your mind. It’s a damn well-built home. Any passerby bold enough to peer into your abode may wave, but they would only be confused by the curious construction, consider you eccentric, and keep walking. You’re trapped and alone, but rather than plan your escape, all you can think about is “How the hell did I get in here?! Did someone build this house around me? How could I not notice? Why did I not simply leave before they built these walls with a roof?” The only conclusion is that you built it yourself, but you don’t know shit about construction, Q. How did you do it?! It’s maddening!
The obvious solution is to break the window. But the single room home is empty. White walls. No furniture. No blunt objects. Not even shoes on your feet. You’re nude—no wonder they keep walking! Nothing you can use for escape except your wits and your fists.
You don’t trust your wits. They were too dull to notice the damn house being built in the first place. So that leaves your fists. You punch the glass only to discover that you’re weakened. Malnourished. No fridge or food in this colorless room. How long’s it been since you’ve had sustenance? How long did it take to build this prison? Long enough, it seems. Or perhaps the glass is tempered?
It’s a paradox either way. You’re weakened, that is certain. If the window is strong, it will be harder to break, and your knuckles will bruise and bleed in the attempt. If the window is weak, it will shatter indiscriminately, and jagged shards will undoubtedly pierce and scar your arms. Reality dawns. You must use your wits to feed your spirit, and then you must fight this invisible foe…but there is no escaping unscathed.
You look forlornly out the window and wonder at all the smiling faces and welcoming arms, “Is there anything out there for me?”
Depression is weird.
I’m angry, and not just some simple conniption or distemper. The fibers winding down to my core are braided with fury. The irascible roots of my existence are exasperated beyond the point of vexation, into unknown realms of ire, outrage and enmity. I’m mad, bro.
But why? That’s the first question anyone would ask. That’s the first question I asked myself, and for a long time I tried to give myself an answer that fit: my parent’s died (fuck cancer), my dream died (fuck the USAF), my family died (fuck baby mommas), my faith died (fuck Disney…I mean, for real, fuck-deez-nuts-Disney for giving faithless children these unrealistic expectations about life, but I digress…), my country died (fuck Donald Trump), my career died (fuck The Man), my relationship(s) died (fuck me).
And for a long time, I would try to bury my anger beneath the appeasing dirt of any or all of the aforementioned answers… because that’s what you do in polite society. You hide your anger. You appease it secretly and in acceptable ways that don’t draw too much attention such as the overindulgence of pleasures, the soft cutting of skin in discreet locations (no, I’ve never done that), or the cathartic ostentation of your choosing relevant to your personality type (i.e. Facebook rants, serial dating, being a Karen, etc).
I hate my job. Nothing novel there. Lots of people do. And if you’re thinking right now, “Well, why don’t you do something else?” Then I am mentally walking over to you and bitch-slapping you in the face. By the way, a bitch-slap is ALWAYS with the backhand. If you use your palm, you’re just slapping a bitch, not bitch-slapping. Denote the difference, but again, I digress… I’m not going to get into the semantics of my job-hate because, surprisingly, I’m not angry about it. Whilst it grates at my personality daily, it has also considerably broadened my perspective on the human condition. And my friends, the condition. is. poor.
‘Tis unfortunate for my rocky pursuit of happiness, yet fortuitous to my wit that I should fall into my present position as I’m embarking on those middle-age years when wisdom first dawns. I’ve always been a tolerant person but not without my prejudices. I may disprove of many lifestyle choices, but I tolerate an individual’s behavior so long as they stay in their lane. I’ve even casually conversed with people of questionable beliefs, temporarily withholding judgment, and often found them to be quite intriguing. Hell, my own brother practices a plethora of behaviors that occupy my prejudices but I love him all the same. Would I accept him as integral to my life were he not my brother? Doubtful, but that is the difference between tolerance and acceptance. You tolerate behavior, but you accept people. It’s easy to confuse tolerance with acceptance because if we correlate them as the same then we don’t have to own our prejudices. We treat prejudice as a bad thing. It’s not. It’s only a word. What matters is your association with that word. Prejudice is merely a way of distinguishing between something you don’t want to be, and whom you think you are. I am prejudice against meth-heads because I don’t want to be a meth-head. It doesn’t mean I hate all meth-heads. In truth, I only hate one meth-head and that’s because he hurt someone I love and judged me prematurely, not because he is a meth-head.
I am angry because I see prejudice twisted out of its neutral form into fear and loathing; then running rampantly, unchecked, unchallenged, and unacknowledged–in the world, in people, in a person, and most infuriatingly, in myself. I used to ask why. Now I ask, why not? I should be angry because I am not the things that I don’t want to be, yet I am and have been treated as such by “polite society”. The answers that used to fuel my rage have settled into components of my twisted prejudice. I can’t even look back on my life without acrimony or umbrage. How does one weave hope for a bright future from a cantankerous past? We are ruled by our prejudices, each and every one of us. If you’re thinking right now, “Well, I’m not.” Please see my backhand. We plan and live our lives according to all the things that we don’t want to feel or be, and then go hard in the opposite direction. I am angry because, when I reflect on my experiences, I feel powerless and unseen in a shallow society that abhors acceptance, embraces ignorance, calls it tolerance, merges all lanes, and blindly drives in reverse towards the pursuit of individual happiness.
When I was a kid, I always struggled with defining what I wanted to be or do in life. All I knew in my heart was that I wanted to make a difference, a positive and significant difference, in the world if I could, or in one life if I could not. That was the passion that fueled everything for me: my writing, my relationships, my goals. Now, that limitless passion has turned into anger. Unmitigated indignation. Discomforting antagonism. Infinite annoyance. Stifling displeasure… I’m mad, bro.