Pooter's Blog

A place where I can get my head on paper.

[pooterhumprhies]

Rewatched Fight Club the other night.  This part I always had so much trouble with on an emotional level.  That out-of-the-blue abandonment from such a close friend, the feeling of being purposefully left out and then tossed aside that Edward Norton feels is something I always used to strongly identify with.

[pooterhumprhies]

This makes me happy.  Granny rides roller coaster for first time.

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[pooterhumprhies]

A special thank you

Thank you, Bill Pullman.  We'll never forget how you came through for us on this day.

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Happiness is a Turkey Club Sandwich

Old blog post again.  Still, very relevant to myself today.

I love food - I really, really do.  I especially love rib-sticking comfort food.  It's made my quest to get lean and healthy a challenge and a half, but though I struggle to maintain an occasional dose of self-discipline, I will never rid myself of this passion.

Honestly, I apply my love of food to most aspects of life - and why not?  It is a necessary component of life, after all.  When I think back to happy childhood memories, I often think of special trips to restaurants my mom took me to on summer weekdays.  When I think of things that make me homesick for San Diego, I can almost taste the carne asada.  Additionally, I honestly believe that the best way to define and identify with other cultures is by their food - the raw ingredients, the marketplaces, the preparation methods, and the meal gathering practices.  Some of my favorite shows on television are Good Eats, Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, and Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern.  I love to cook, grill, bake, and fry.  I love food.

Going back to the happy childhood memories as well as homesickness, I can't think of a better example than Troy's restaurant in the Clairemont Square, smack dab in the middle of single-story-homes, lower-middle-class San Diego, California.  There's nothing particularly special about Troy's - it features standard greasy spoon diner fare with a very, very slight Greek twist due to the nationality of the proprieters.  Its busiest time is Sunday morning where you can expect a whopping 3-minute wait for a table while the elderly church goers dine absently in pasty conversation.

So why this place?  Largely, because it was a constant in my life that was uniquely my own.  A somewhat regular patron of Troys, even whilst inside my mom's womb, I grew up on the comfort food offerings and when I needed a silent refuge to engage in self-reflection over a bottomless cup of coffee for $0.65, it was always there.   The waitstaff were ceaselessly friendly; many of whom watched me grow up from a boy into a man.  I grew taller, they grew grayer, and for over two decades, we were there to banter with each other whenever I walked through the doors.  When my father would get particularly angry or violent, my mother would take me there as a quiet apology for our situation.  When I wanted to show a friend or colleague something about myself - to take them on a more intimate tour of some deeper level of my soul, I would do it over a plate of chicken-fried steak and eggs.  Some of those friends didn't quite get it - it was just average food, after all - but they indulged me nonetheless.  A select few actually joined me in my feelings of the place and I will always share a very odd bond as a result.

And so, ever since I moved away from San Diego over three years ago, I have made it a point to order a turkey club sandwich in most every restaurant I visit; this was my favorite lunchtime meal at Troy's, you see.  Much like the diner itself, there was absolutely nothing special about it.  Turkey, bacon, cheese, lettuce, tomato, mayo, all stacked betwixt three slices of bread cut into four diagonal pieces and served with large-cut steak fries.  Still, I have yet to come across a turkey club sandwich in these parts that compares to Troy's, and I suspect I never will.  Some leave off the cheese.  Some add ham.  Some have skinny fries.  But that's not it, really... no, the big difference is the location.  The people.  The emotional connection that I have with a place of brick and mortar.  The difference is myself.

My old refuge is still out there somewhere, keeping the old folks of North Clairemont hopped up on mediocre coffee.  As for myself, now, I must move on to find solace within new places, new people, new comforts, and perhaps, even new sandwiches.

[pooterhumprhies]

The importance of the written word

Old post from previous blog, brought back to life here:

I've found myself in a motivated state lately, and as such, I've turned back toward the written word. A passion of mine has always been writing, and though I have long bemoaned my lack of skill, others have assured me that they find my words enjoyable. As far as reading goes, it has always proven to be a love/hate relationship... when I find myself interested in the material, I can't tear away from it, but getting to that interested point takes some effort and with some authors, never comes at all. I'm looking at you, Dickens, dry bane of my tenth grade education, ensuring English class was always The Worst Of Times.

While classical literature was never my "thing", I have come upon a brand of it that I have found remarkably easy to get into: American Renaissance Authors, Humorists and Essayists. As far removed as I am in interest with Victorian-era England (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle notwithstanding) or Revolution-era France, I find myself irrepressibly drawn to the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Washington Irving, Henry David Thoreau, and of course, Samuel Clemens.

I should note that I have had no higher-level instruction in any of these gentleman, nor of any literature at all. I am simply coming at this from the point of view of a 30-something high school graduate that loves a good yarn, so if my viewpoints on this seem naive to those with scholarly interest in these works, please forgive me.

The thing I find most intriguing about about the works of these authors is how around every corner, you'll stumble upon a sentence dripping with literary gold. Something that is written so well that it causes you to stop in your tracks and stare at it, dumbfounded. To know that this one sentence not only expressed a thought so flawlessly, but it expressed it so completely that if you were to try and put form it using your own words, it would have taken many paragraphs to equal its power.

"Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use." - Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things." - Henry David Thoreau, Walden

"The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood." - Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature

It is fair to say that it is not just the words or the individual thoughts that these bring to mind, but also the entirety of the stories that I find amazing. I grew up, as many have, knowing the general notion of "Rip Van Winkle". The way it was presented was almost a cautionary tale, certainly one of despair. It wasn't until I read the story that I realized just how delightful it was - that the main character was a depressed man whose nature was at constant odds with the external world, until at the end, he found himself in a place where his nature was acceptable and forgiven.

I've also been reading quite a bit of modern books, too. Books that have long been on my radar, but have never hit my gaze until recently - Anthony Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential" springs to mind.

I just can't overstate how important I find the written word. I have a difficult time enjoying the company of an individual that not only doesn't practice reading, but adamantly refuses to do so. I find it nigh impossible to trust the word of any such individual. My experience with the people that shun the written word is that conversation is often bland, full of pap filler material, and in general, never well thought out and usually compromising to the integrity of the source.

Writing is a different beast, altogether. It is my interest in writing that led to this blog in the first place and it is this newfound motivation that has led to the blog's recent revival. I have many story ideas stuck in my head and I'm eager to get them out into the world. Likewise, I have a great number of thoughts that I find tend to mellow and refine once I put them down on paper. Notions that hang above my head, directionless, find their star once I begin to clack away at my keyboard.

I really do hope to continue writing for this blog. Whether it is the cause or the symptom of a calmer state of being for myself, the fact remains - when I write, I enjoy who I am a great deal more.

[pooterhumprhies]

For love of the macabre movie

Old post from previous blog, brought back to life here:

Anyone that knows me even moderately well knows that I am a big movie enthusiast. I have a dear, deep appreciation for movies across all genres, decades, styles, and languages. I think I have had a love affair with movies all my life, but I didn't really grow to appreciate the grander world of cinema until I was in my late teens and discovered independent movies via the Landmark theaters in San Diego.

I began falling into a trap that a lot of people find themselves in once the indie scene is happened upon - the notion that as long as the film is low-budget, it is the best thing ever, no matter how contrived, meandering, or simply poorly-made it actually was. The fact is, I saw it and 99.9% of the rest of the world had never even heard of it... that alone made it golden.

Yeah, I was that guy.

Fortunately for myself and everyone around me, I grew up and started taking objective critical looks at all movies. This involved not only taking a sterner look at the smaller films, but also a more open look at the big-budget movies at the mall. I realized that the quality of a movie is subjective at best and can best be judged not by comparing it to other films, but rather comparing it to the intent of itself. In a nutshell: what was the movie's intent and did it achieve it? If the intent is noble and the goal was reached, then it is a success.

When presenting this viewpoint to other people, I like to point to the movie "Mortal Kombat". Obviously not an Academy Award winner and there are no festival-winning palm-fronds adorning the poster, yet I found it immensely entertaining and not once did I regret watching it. This was a movie that set out to have some kickass fight sequences set to equally kickass techno music with some cheesy dialogue and a good dose of Christopher Lambert thrown in. For me, this intent was noble, and you know what? It achieved it in spades.

That's really the hallmark of a good movie and the measure by which I judge them.

Now, let's take into account when this model breaks down: 1. When the intent is not noble and 2. When it did not achieve it.

An excellent example of poor intent is when a movie is made strictly for a payday. It's very easy to spot a movie made for the sole sake of money - just look toward any unnecessary sequels... especially the ones where the original cast and/or crew did not return. "The Sting 2", "Jaws the Revenge", "Speed 2", "The Fly 2", "Caddyshack 2", and yes, "Mortal Kombat 2"... these are all excellent examples of poor intent. Whatever story the filmmakers had in them was over the minute the credits began rolling in the first film. Now, what you have is a successful movie that can be easily and inexpensively piggy-backed onto with relatively low risk - and that's what the investment numbers game is all about. Risk versus reward.

As far as noble intent without hitting the target, there are too many to name but they are all tragic in one manner or another. When I saw the awfulness that was "Troll 2", I laughed my ass off at the obviously purposefully horrible movie. It couldn't have been any other way, right? The director had to have known how bad it was... right? I mean... come on!

Turns out, after watching the documentary about "Troll 2", called "Best Worst Movie", I saw instead that the director was a Italian gentlemen with a language barrier and a massive ego. He actually set out to make what he thought (and to this day, thinks) is a family-bonding, feel-good movie with a dark side that makes you think. He has such pride in this film that I truly felt bad for him and it made "Troll 2" a little bit harder to watch from there on.

Anyway, (boy I'm taking a long time to get to the point on this one) it is with that notion in mind (intent + achievement) that I found one of my ultimate passions. I believe very strongly that the most noble intent that movie can set out to achieve is to make the audience feel something. Anything. When you can sit in a chair for an hour and a half and have your emotions twisted into knots, finding yourself feeling true joy or blubber like a baby for imaginary characters that you didn't even know existed a short while ago... that's powerful.

One of the most enjoyable emotional paths for a movie to set me off on is fear. To feel true terror and lose your sense of worldly safety is, for me, an enjoyable experience so long as the situation stops when the lights go back up. I love getting the pants scared off of me by movies.

I remember as a young'n, going into the movie theater to watch a scary movie. Usually I was with my friends, and I LOVED the feeling I got when we were waiting for the movie to start and the lights started to dim. I didn't know what to expect, but I was sure it was going to be a wild ride and there was no leaving early - certainly if you didn't want to be chastised later on. It felt like the restraining arm coming down on a roller coaster.

I don't go to the theater much these days. I now live in a small town where the theater is a rancid joke and I don't much relish the thought of driving an hour to go to a "real" cinema, just to plunk down ungodly amounts of cash, except for special circumstances, that is ("The Dark Knight").

Now, I enjoy my cinematic hobbies in the comfort of my home using Netflix as my vehicle and the rest of the internet as my guide. I have been flabbergasted by the scope of the horror genre and have loved most all of it - foreign horror (especially from South Korea), supernatural, gore-fests, comedic horror, classics... it's all great, just so long as it's scary.

The downside to this is that the notion of watching horror films to get scared is akin to eating Buffalo Wings to feel the painful burn... the more you engage in your hobby, the more it takes to reach that same goal the next time. I don't much follow the notion that critics of horror movies and violent video games espouse, that exposure to violent content builds a tolerance to the violence of the real world. I personally think that's a load of crap and I'll save that argument for another time, but what I can say is that violent content in entertainment builds a tolerance to violent content in entertainment.

For me, there are two challenges to being a horror fan:

1. Pronouncing every syllable deliberately when verbally telling people that you're a lover of horror.

2. Backing off enough to not numb yourself to the content. When you see jump-scares a mile away and can tell when one is about to happen and even when a "psych-out" non-jump-scare is about to happen, it's probably best to move on to a different genre for a while and let yourself have a break.

When the purpose of a horror movie is to make you feel an emotion as strong as fear, it's no good letting yourself get in the way of that.

[pooterhumprhies]

Why your hard drive died.

Working as a desktop tech in an organization that services not only enterprise systems, but also all the computers that students bring to the campus, I see a lot of hardware failure - the most common of which, by far, is hard drive failure.

I often get asked questions about this from the perplexed users. Most notably is, "How did this happen?" or the slightly accusatory cousin, "What - do parts like this just die on their own?"

As a matter of fact, they do... and here's why.

Imagine if you will, a record player.

Under 30? Here you go.

A record player operates by spinning the information-carrying-medium (in this case, a vinyl pressing of analog bumps and grooves) at 78 RPMs. That is, Revolutions Per Minute. This means that by the time your 1-minute egg is done cooking, the record has spun a total of 78 times. That's plenty fast, considering the following: there is a needle gently pressed into the record which reads the information coming from the medium.

Like this.

A lot can go wrong here - a bump of the table, some scratches on the record, an errant dust-bunny lands in a bad place, the needle wears out, etc and you end up having to stop the music and make some adjustments.

Okay, so we have the basic nature of the spinny-needly bit. How does that relate to your hard drive?

Imagine if you will, a very special record player. This one does not spin at 78RPM. This one spins at 7,200RPM (or 5,400 if you were a cheapass when you bought your computer). The medium is not a vinyl pressing, but rather an aluminum alloy with a magnetic material coating we call a "platter". As unforgiving as a record can be about dust and scratches, the platter is a downright bastard about such things.

But wait - if it can't be scratched, how can the needle read the information from it spinning that god-awful-fast? Ah! Here we go - this is because a needle isn't used. Instead, a digital reader called a "head" is attached to the arm and that is what reads the data.

But how does it do this without scratching the platter? Simple - it doesn't make contact while the platter is spinning. See, the air caused by the spinning platters actually lifts the head up between 5 to 10 nanometers (the thickness of a human hair is around 50,000 nanometers). This allows it to read the magnetic data from the platter without damaging it.

So where does it all go wrong? Well jeepers, man - where doesn't it go wrong? You have a record player spinning just under 100 times faster than the one in your parent's attic... you have a "needle" that is constantly floating above on a microscopic pocket of air, and it's all being tossed around helplessly in your backpack. Either that, or you have a system crash that causes it to go from gently spinning down to putting on the emergency brakes. There are plenty of protections in place to help with the bangs and bumps that computers today endure, but the fact is, it's a crazy mechanical system that has to continually go just right, or it's dead.

So what do you do? Well, there's a few things.

1. Wait to move your laptop around a few moments after shutting the lid. When you close the lid, the system is still active. It knows that it needs to go to sleep, but it requires a drink of water and a bedtime story - it has to prepare and make itself safe to move around. Give it that time.

2. Never just pull the plug (hold down the power button for a hard power-off). Or at least, try to do it as little as possible. This really is an emergency maneuver and should be treated as such. I've known people that did it constantly as a fix for "it was being slow and stupid". Not good.

3. Know that it will happen and prepare for it. It is a very rare delight when a user comes in and says, "I think my hard drive died and I need help buying a new one. No sweat on the data - I HAVE A BACKUP". Hard drives are not that expensive - usually a decent one will run between 60 to 120 dollars. It's not that big of a deal - where the panic sets in is with the data. For god's sake, man - back up your files! Use CDs, DVDs, USB Pendrives, or even better, external hard drives that you only ever plug in to perform occasional backups on... whatever it takes, just have your stuff in more than one location.

So there we go. "Why did my hard drive die?" can now be replaced with "Here's my new drive - can you help me restore my files from my backup onto it?"

Right?

[pooterhumprhies]

Scrubs - Dealing with Dying

Scrubs had some sad moments to it, and most people would either pick the "Where do you think we are" or the "How to save a life" moments as their top.

For me, personally, it was this. The hug she gives him. When the desire to be held is as strong as it is for me sometimes, it's that selfless "come here" hug that puts me over the edge. Sometimes, the thing that I most want is to be honest, say "I'm scared" like he does, and be held.

[pooterhumprhies]

RWP - "[WP] You buy a used car. After turning on the radio you discover it receives a radio station that can't be picked up on any other radios you try."

Reddit Writing Prompt: You buy a used car. After turning on the radio you discover it receives a radio station that can't be picked up on any other radios you try.

I'm feeling pretty good about this buy.  Bank loan would only approve me for a car valued at 120% of the asking price, so Hondas were out... really wanted a Honda, too.  Still, the dark blue Hyundai Elantra GT with some surface rust would fit the bill nicely as a daily commuter that I can tinker with.

I pull away from the dealership, the smell of ArmorAll filling my nostrils, masking the true smell lying in wait to reveal itself slowly over the next few weeks.  So goes the plight of the pre-owned vehicle purchaser.

As the main road drifts into the onramp for the freeway, I miss fourth gear and lurch forward as it gets cranked into second.  I correct myself without losing too much speed, looking around in embarrassment as if the other drivers were judging me with the scorn reserved for a fart in public.

To mask this minor moment, I flip the radio on.  Lights come on, numbers fill the digital screen, but no audio comes forth.  Hit the scan dial, nothing.  It dawns on me that though I scrutinized the mechanical soundness of the machine, I didn't check the bells and whistles so closely.  No worries... this was a project car after all.  Just one more thing for me to make perfectly and uniquely my own.

The buttons and knobs continue being molested since I have an hour drive home and nothing better to do.  As I approach the last end of the FM dial before it rounds the horn again, I hear a flicker of static.  Not enough to catch the auto scan, so I press the manual button, changing the frequency one small decimal point at a time.  Finally, I can hear voices coming through, some slight static, but nothing horrible.  Enough to fill the silence, which is welcome in any form aside from televangelist.  I swear, one "brimstone" and this ride will be a quiet one.

No mention of God or damnation, instead it seemed to be a traffic report.  I had made my way well clear of the city and was now on the smaller section of freeway that cuts across rural western NY.  The promise of gas and golden arches were plentiful though scarcely much else.

There were two male voices delivering statistics of familiar roads and landmarks, but nothing very relevant to my commute yet.  The company is nice, but is turning into background noise for me rather quickly.  I pull off around Geneseo to see about a bite to eat for the ride home.  Denny's.  That'll do.

Just as my hand is turning the key in the ignition, I hear the voice mention "86 Dansville".  My fingers are too good at jumping the gun and the radio goes dead as the engine stops.  I turn the key again and find the station gone - just static.  Shit.  That's just my luck, my main road home potentially bottlenecked.

I hop out of the car and notice the green minivan next to me is occupied by a sole driver, waiting expectantly, perhaps for his passenger to finish their business in the restaurant.  I approach the open window.

"Hi there." "Hello, can I help you?" "Could you do me a favor and turn to 107.7?  I heard a whisper of a traffic thing and it's my only way home."

The driver looked at me dubiously for a heartbeat, then resigned and adjusted his radio.  Silence.

"I got nothing," he said. "Sure it was 107.7?  Never heard of that one before." "I'm sure, it was kinda weak though.  Thanks anyway."

He nodded his head dismissively.

"If there's something going on," I thought, "maybe I should just beeline it for home and get there before things get seriously backed up.  It's only 15 minutes away."

Feeling decent about this plan, I hop back in my car and continue the journey.  The radio remained on, but silent.  I drove down the road, heading back for the freeway.  The onramp welcomed me, I shifted properly this time, and as soon as all four wheels were firmly on I-86, the voices sprang out at me, startling me nearly to an audible "Eep."

"The 390 northbound is looking pretty good for this time of day, nothing too major to report.", said Voice One

"Nothing besides a little bit of slowing around the 490 downtown area either.", Voice Two chimes in.

Get to Dansville, I thought.  If I have to take side roads, I need to know sooner than later.

My last opportunity for a sideroad in Sonyea came and went.  I was locked into going through Dansville.  All ahead of me... nothing.  Clear roads.  A truck here and there.  My exit was just a few minutes away.

"Must have been nothing huge", I thought.

"And to continue our coverage of the accident on I-86 Southbound all the way down in Dansville, police and firefighters are working at clearing the wreckage of that five car pileup."

I continue looking around, nothing.

Voice One continued, "Police are beginning to set up detours at the Sonyea exit to reroute traffic."

Great, walled off from behind, too.  Must be bad.  Where, though?  Maybe past my exit on the ass end of Dansville?

"... We're still getting information on the nature of the cause of the pileup, but it does appear the police have confirmed at least one casualty from the initial vehicle, a blue hatchback."

Just as a semi truck was coming up behind me, the steering wheel jerked from my hands, a strong force sending me veering into the guardrail.  Just before the truck hit me, before everything went into deafening blackness, Voice Two came back on the radio.

"Goodnight, fucker."

[pooterhumprhies]

Great comic.

[pooterhumprhies]

My confession

Well, sort of confession.  Feels like it should be.  Feels like a fundamental character flaw that must be announced and apologized for.  "My name is Mike Stone, and I have PTSD related anxiety attacks".

I suppose it's best to just be honest about the situation.  To you, the reader, and to the world in general, whomever might happen upon this blog and this post.  My natural tendency is to hold back, to hide, to bury - and this post will be doing none of that.  My guard is down, and my pen is in my hand.  Here goes.

The way it usually goes is if/when I'm feeling insecure or generally feeling at fault for a situation.  If there's tension, or I feel (rightly or not) targeted, my defenses get raised.  This proves to be counter-intuitive in a healthy conversation with normal tones whereupon a sensitive topic is brought out about my character or behavior.  Instead of being receptive, I close off.  Mentally and physically.

My arms will cross.  I'll want to feel protected.  I'll hug myself.  My shoulders will feel bare no matter what I'm wearing.  I will hunch over.  My fingers will find a life of their own, picking at my nails, my arms, whatever they are in contact with.  This is the first stage of things going very badly.  It is not insurmountable, it can be recovered from.

After that, if things continue or I'm not able to breathe and concentrate my way out of it, my speaking will get sporadic.  Volume takes on a life of its own.  Speed of speech intensifies.  Sorries a-plenty.  My fingers continue to pick at whatever they initially found, but this time with some fervor and damage can occur.  Insecurities take hold in my heart and I begin to fade away from myself.  By that, I mean I begin to lose control of my ability to have rational thoughts.  They are there, but I have to fight for them.  This is also not insurmountable and can be recovered from, though it is a much more difficult task.

If I continue down the rabbit hole, I begin stage 3, with what would appear to the casual observer to be a full breakdown.  It isn't.  There's another stage, but we'll get to that.  I have now lost all rational thought and am a mess of walking, talking physical fear.  Speech now consists of low chanting through extremely tightly clenched teeth.  Usually confined to the same 3-6 words, over and over again in rapid succession.  My breathing is intense and shallow.  My eyes are either tightly closed or unwavering in focus on a fixed neutral object.  Usually closed.  Rocking back and forth is sometimes there, but the fetal position is common, the feeling of needing protection and comfort is all-consuming.  I cannot think properly during this, I cannot talk with any semblance of coherency.  My fingers if allowed to will do damage, picking and clawing at my arms or themselves.  This cannot be recovered from and brought back to normal, I am now in the thick of it.  The only way out is through... though it can be escalated further.

This escalated stage I have only been through a handful of times.  This is when I am a danger to myself.  The only thing I can think is guilt and fear.  It is absolutely all consuming.  Guilt and fear.  I recognize the state I'm in, but cannot control it.  Feeling that level of pain with no ability to control it, I start hitting myself.  Usually in the head.  At that moment, the only thing I can think is how much I hate my head.  How insane I recognize I am and how much I want it out of me.  Screaming or at least greatly increased volume of whatever 3-6 words I'm chanting goes along with the hitting.

Recovery.  If I have made it to Stage 3 (or 4, god help me), it takes me an hour or two to recover.  My breathing slowly returns to normal, I slowly stop chanting, I am a tightly wound bundle of nerves that little by little, begins to relax.  When I have reached the point where I can finally articulate myself again (through clenched teeth, still - that takes a while to relax), I break into full sadness and despair.  I now have more control of my thoughts and my actions, but with the knowledge, emotional pain, and physical pain of what I have just put myself and my loved ones through, if they were around to witness it.  I cry.  I cry so fully and completely, yet it scarcely does justice to how guilty I feel.  I feel guilty, I feel embarrassed, I feel weak, and I feel helpless.

True recovery.  That happens days afterward.  For the next several days I go through severe guilt-based depression.  I can't begin to explain the pain I feel of doing something like that in front of and to someone I love.

Why am I writing this?  Now?  Because as I am, I am doing so with a forehead bruised and sore.  The last few days have not been easy on me or my family.

I decided to stop lying and covering things up.  I am done pushing things down.  I'm ready to face them.  I pulled my coworkers into a closed office today and laid it on the line.  My "fell into the couch" bullshit line last time was made up.  Wouldn't fly twice.  Time to come forward.  Everyone was very supportive.  Scared.  But supportive.  Can't say I blame them.

I am going to therapy finally.  My first session was a short while ago and I intend to do the work.  I'm optimistic and hopeful.

I imagine I will be writing more about what else is in my heart and head (and it's a lot), but I wanted to put into words what I've only previously been able to feel and to make those words known to the world.

[pooterhumprhies]

No hiding it anymore

Nothing quite like wearing your mental illness squarely on your forehead.

[pooterhumprhies]

A note on depression.

I wrote this about a year and a half ago on my Wordpress account.  Felt it touched home enough to make a copy/paste here.

When I was younger, I had no castle.

I think having a castle is important.  A castle made of rock.  Something firm you can stand on and stand behind to protect you from the ills of the world.  A friend.  A family member.  Someone who can be there for you in a way nobody else could or would.

A castle made of sand.  Playing in a box with a bucket, forming towers that crumble at the edges despite your best efforts, yet still eliciting smiles from those brave enough to pat it gently and pretend.

A castle made of the bones of your enemies.  Skills bested, obstacles overcome, the more goals checked off your list, the higher the castle grows, the sweeter the clouds taste.

I had no castle.  I had myself, vulnerable to the catapults and arrows shot at me.

I woke up and went to school.  I was bullied by the boys and laughed at by the girls.  The bell would ring in the afternoon, signifying it was time to unshackle my bike and make the ride home, fresh bruises stinging on my arms and in my heart.

I went home to anger.  My father angry at me.  Room not clean, grades too low, height sub-par, weight supra-par, sports aptitude laughable, work ethic shameful.  The second son he was dealt late in life, less than the sum of the son he wanted.

Maybe a word can fix it.  Maybe a scream.  Maybe a slap, a fist, a belt, a candy bar thrown at the face with a “fatass” thrown in for good measure would turn things around.  Maybe with enough tension, stress, and pressure, a diamond would form from the coal of his disappointing offspring.  The alarm clock would ring in the morning, signifying it was time to unshackle my bike and make the ride to school, fresh bruises stinging on my legs and in my heart.

I had no castle.  Every sling would find its mark and every arrow would pierce my flesh.

Through the years, I build a castle out of myself.  My skin would shed, fall to the ground, and I would scoop it up, mix it with glue, and reapply it… my new armor.  My bruises were still warm underneath and skin makes for poor protection, but it felt better.  The ability to not let people in.  To keep everyone at arm’s length.  To let them see the Mike I wanted them to see rather than the Mike of truth.  Anything was better than my truth.

I have on more than one occasion slipped out of my skin and let loved ones into my heart.  I have on more than one occasion, though not on all, been made a fool and a foil.  When my trust was well-placed, I found strength.  I found good people standing tall, rocks and mortar at the ready, willing to help me build my castle.  When my trust was ill-placed, I found my new home in tatters around me.

I am 32 years old now, and I have a castle.  I have a wonderful fiance, a bright shining star of a stepdaughter, a lovely home and a great career.  Echoes of the past still hammer at the walls.

My ex-wife, who saw fit to exploit my darkness for her own gain.  Her son, who I loved like my own, but never bonded with me entirely.  Six years of holding his hand, feeling him slip it out of mine like an obstinate toddler in a parking lot , and now that ways have been parted, fading further and further into fog and shadows, every day a little more out of reach.

My parents, with whom I’ve since reconciled, still both worry and frighten me.  I fear for their well-being, and I fear the booming voices from two decades ago echoing through my hallways.

Depression is a horrible thing.  It’s a shadow at dawn.  The sun rises, you face the light, and it sits behind you, stretched thin, no threat.  The sun continues rising and your shadow grows ever closer.  You can feel it.  Words hurt more.  Thoughts weigh heavier.  Smiles are harder to find.  You know noon is approaching and your shadow will find its way fully onto your shoulders, ready to buckle your knees.

Every compliment to others is an insult to yourself.  Every positive quality you see in others is a lacking in your own character.  Why can’t I dance like him?  Why can’t I be thin like him?  Why can’t I be everything to everybody?  Maybe if I’m perfect I will have value because when noon strikes, I have none.  I am nothing.  I am a crying child huddled in the corner, face greasy with snot and sweat trying to ignore the heat from fresh wounds and urine-soaked underwear.

I have no value.  Why would anyone want to be around me?  Why would anyone love me?  Why would anyone stay with someone so lazy, so fat, so worthless?  My fear of loneliness begets loneliness.

The sun is highest at the longest minute of my life.  On my knees, buckled and bleeding from the pressure of the burden I carry.  A hand appears on my shoulder.  My fiance is there, trying to get me to stand.  She braces me when I can and holds me when I can’t.  I just need to survive this minute.  I cry into her chest.  I hurt so much.  So much pain, I can barely stand it.  She reminds me to breathe.  She speaks to me coolly and with love.  She strokes my hair and helps me through this minute.

12:01 pm arrives.  My shadow slinks away.  I get up and brush myself off, with my fiance there to embrace me and remind me of the value I have.

I’m amazing.  I work hard for my family.  I have an internal strength that others can envy and admire.  I’m beautiful.  I’m fun.  I’m funny.  I’m intelligent.  I’m introspective.  I’m empathetic.  I care so much for those around me.  I’m Michael Christopher Stone and that’s a pretty goddamn incredible thing to be.

The sun begins to set, my shadow as far away as when dawn broke.  I walk forward confidently… but always knowing that noon will come again eventually.

When it does… I have a castle.