I am just me mostly because I probably would fail miserably at being someone else. I am to young to think of myself as old but old enough to know better. I originally started this (the previous posts were written and saved to the computer long ago) to help people understand what a depressive goes through. What it feels like to tell someone that yes you know you are in fact crazy. To feel things so deeply that you know that your heart is breaking and still have to look up and smile at those who will never feel that much.

It is passion, its love, its self-loathing, its knowing that it will never stop. It is watching others around you in their happy lives who look at you as if you have grown an extra head when you can’t be like them. Its knowing you are going to die by your own hand or by someone else’s before you are old.


Its finding people who are dangerous to you and tempts them to do things that are dangerous including putting their hands around your throat when they are out of control. Its having a gun pointed at your chest and taking the step forward so you know if they pull the trigger that they won’t miss and they know it too, your eyes daring them to do it. Its having the person with the gun back up because they see something in your eyes that says “go ahead,” giving them permission, absolution, and forgiveness.

Its knowing that it won’t ever stop until you stop breathing and begging for that day to come.

4 thoughts on “About

  1. Reading through parts of this blog, the question that keeps arising for me is: is this real, or is it totally fiction? But that’s too naive a question to ask. There’s a question that I can’t quite formulate, having to do with modes of self-presentation. It’s hard not to notice a certain quality to the writing – a quality of relishing. If this is fiction, it’s pretty good – for what it is. If it’s “real” (whatever that really means), then it’s hard to avoid feeling that you’re cannibalizing your own inner distress and suffering – and if that’s the case, my reaction is: some ways of making a living aren’t worth it because what they provide doesn’t even make up for what they cost, can’t you find something better to subsist on? Because maybe it’s a matter not just of cannibalizing the distress that’s already there, but of manufacturing further distress in the attempt to find something of sustenance.

    But how sustaining is it really?

  2. In answer to your question, this is both. The fiction is pretty well marked. It is all of what goes on in my head at any given time. As far as making a living – that is not at all what this is. I do not nor will I ever generate an income from this blog. Some things just are not about that.

    This is exactly what it says. It is meant to let others out there that crazy can coexist. That it is okay to feel. It is okay to be yourself. It is okay to feel off, think about things society says are wrong, be something that is very different.

    As for the writing, I write, I always have. Sometimes it helps organize things inside my head other times it makes them more chaotic. Either way I cannot stop doing it. Some people say that it is good and others don’t. People’s reactions to it do not matter as much as the fact that it makes them react.

    Other than the hope that someone reads this and says “hey my life isn’t so bad,” or “what other people out there feel like sometimes too,” there is no aim, goal, or reason for this blog.

    Like me, it doesn’t know how to be something else.

    So as far as it being sustaining, it isn’t, it doesn’t have to be, that is not its purpose.

    1. OK. I meant “making a living” in the metaphorical sense of giving some sense of satisfaction or sustenance or even pleasure — and not in the literal sense of making you money. But I get that you’re saying that your writing is a kind of compulsion (“I cannot stop doing it”) that doesn’t give you any satisfaction (“as far as it being sustaining, it isn’t….”).

      I guess it’s hard for me to imagine putting the time/energy into blogging (or anything for that matter) if it wasn’t either directly satisfying, or a means to some kind of satisfaction.

      You do imply that you want readers to have some kind of reaction to your blog.

      When I read something that’s striking, I always wonder what the author is like when not in writing-authorial mode. But that’s probably usually pretty pointless, and goes back to my initial question & observation, “is this real, or is it totally fiction? But that’s too naive a question to ask.”

      And who wants to be thought of as naive, mmm? ; )

  3. I answered your question. It is both. It just depends on your definition of reality. Countless arguments have happened because people disagree as to what is real and what is not. It is what goes on in my head at any given time. I have noticed that my reality is a bit different than others at times, if that helps.

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