#1 Crush

 I don't feel much like doing this tonight, or much of anything, really. I'm feeling very tired, and the occasional negative thought is making it's way into my brain, like a weird slug thing into Chekov's brain in Star Trek 2. The Wrath of Khan. Had to make sure the whole title was in there.

I'm trying not to let the negative in, though, and the best way to do that is to stick to this new routine and write whatever is happening in my admittedly silly, sleep-deprived and generally stressed out brain. I suppose it's worth noting that I don't actually remember what the negative thoughts were about, which is probably a good thing. I suspect it had something to do with feeling mildly rejected throughout my life (which is a common theme) and my always present fear of MORE rejection by others. Got caught apologizing to Maggie for basically no reason, and it once again came around that I need to probably start doing that.

I did have something to mildly celebrate, which I mentioned to Maggie when she and I talked around our Buffy podcast, which is that this morning was a strange period in which I thought a lot about my own romantic and sexual history and didn't feel guilt or shame from it. Normally I think about that history and am constantly bombarded by thoughts in which I did something wrong, that I did damage, that there was something wrong with me in general. Even relationships that ended positively, I tend to think "I did something wrong" or feel some sort of way about it...but this time, I found myself thinking that I shouldn't do that anymore, that most of my guilt and shame is self-inflicted friendly fire, a ritual I force myself to perform because I have a hard time considering myself anything other than a loser at best, a villain at the worst. I constantly turn it inward because otherwise I may have to admit that I am not a bad person. At least not in total. And I need to get better at thinking of myself in a way other than as a bad person. So I told myself this time that I would put aside the grief and try to think well of these things.

The real reason this came up was due to something silly, and it had everything to do with realizing I had a crush on Jason Priestly as Brandon Walsh in Beverly Hills 90210 back in 1994, and that 1994 may have possibly been the most important year of my life in terms of romantic and sexual interest. 

At the time, I was thinking about the new Scream movie (it's all anyone wanted to talk about on social media, at least until the Paramount deal went through and now there's that, too) and how I probably would eventually buy it (a long time from now, when it's on sale for super cheap) just to have the complete set, and I found myself wondering somewhat what Neve Campbell's appeal was (it's her laugh: the squint, the dimples, the head tilt to the back and side, followed by the downward look, like she's a little embarrassed by her mirth) and where she had come from, and that was Party of Five, which I watched because it aired after 90210, which I watched because I wasn't sure if I wanted to kiss Brandon Walsh or Be Brandon Walsh (not that I had even a fraction of awareness at the time). And I only continued to watch Party because I fell totally in love with Jennifer Love Hewitt. Like, giggling, swooning, feet-kicking love.

This realization led me to think about my other first crushes and the first time Twelve-Year-Old Nathaniel decided to flog the bishop...and all of it was 1994. Party of Five and 90210 both would have been watched by me in 1994. The first time I ever really understood that I appreciated the opposite sex was Lea Thompson in Howard The Duck, which was before 94 ("It's just Lea Thompson?" my Mother's boyfriend said when I enthused how pretty she was in that movie)...but Caroline In The City was 1994, and I watched the fuck out of that show, you guys. Amy Jo Johnston of Power Rangers. '94. Larisa Oleynik *and* Meredith Bishop of The Secret World of Alex Mack (I remember buying an issue of some teen magazine just because Oleynik was in it), 1994. 

The July issue of TV Guide in 1994 had a feature article in which they pretended Cindy Crawford would have a successful career after departing MTV's House of Style in which she wore a slinky red dress and red heels...and when it became no longer useful, the issue was thrown away and a twelve-year-old Nathaniel snuck it out of the trash when no one was looking and hid it under his mattress. 

Other than Crawford, they also reveal a type.

Pretty big year, 1994. Couple years later, it's Lisa Wilcox in Nightmare on Elm Street 4 and Alyson Hannigan on Buffy, so add a second type in there. Shy red-heads with aggressive sides.

From there, my brain ran through a series of possible off-ramps, which ended up being memories of childhood. First kiss was in 3rd grade (Jana, my first love, who kissed me on the school bus, gave me some costume jewelry and said it was her dad's...and then she kissed Greg, the bully, who demanded I surrender the ring, and I defiantly and heart-brokenly refused and he beat me up and took it on the playground in front of everyone. It was all down hill from there romantically, I'm afraid), at the time I couldn't remember my first makeout, but I literally just remembered a girl named Anna that lived near the church I was forced to go to as a kid...roughly around 1994? Maybe a couple years later? Pretty sure she was the first.

Losing my virginity was a traumatic experience that I won't go into here, but it wasn't until I was 22, because I eventually began to associate sexuality with guilt and shame due to a general lack of sexual education until high school, and by then it was too late and the act of sexual behavior was built up so much in my mind that I could never go through with it. 

Anyway. Gotta let go of that guilt and shame I associate with this sordid nonsense I just wrote down. Maybe learn to forgive myself for some of the lousy shit I did do and not blame myself for everything else? Learn to accept that relationships are fragile things that take two people to create and maintain and maybe even end? Stop trying to take so much responsibility for my history that I forget that others share some of that responsibility? In a way, the idolizing of past lovers, crushes, and encounters as perfect, blameless victims is just as guilty of objectification as it would be if they actually were victims. And most of them have likely not given me a considerable amount of thought since then. Not everyone has a perfect memory of their every bad experience like I do, probably because most people haven't convinced themselves to hate themselves quite like I have. So, I'll work on forgiving myself and maybe even forgiving them, too? In the instances they may have wronged me? 

I have no idea if any of that made sense. And any attempt I make to make sense of myself always feels like narcissism unless it's self-blame. Because I was raised to believe that Men take responsibility, a good person only thinks of others, to blame other people is a sign of a guilty conscience, and other likely well-meaning lessons that, when taken literally by a probably at least mildly autistic (or some other personality disorder) leads to a harmful view of self-actualization.

....I seriously meant to mostly talk about my crushes in 1994 and how beautiful Jason Priestly was (is?) and not end up here. But such is the miracle of the free-thinking, stream of consciousness process of this exercise in self-understanding. 

I've come to realize that the public nature of these posts is not so much a need for audience, as much as it is for accountability in terms of my efforts to understand myself. Perhaps I simply need to be seen.

In order to be truly honest with myself, I must be honest with everyone. In a broad sense, save for when being specific in a humorous way. 

But I have maybe had a breakthrough in learning to forgive myself for things. So. Bully for me.

I'm Not Ready Yet

 Not sure what to write about tonight, but I wanna stick to it. It occurs to me that I could use this time to write fiction...and maybe I will at some point, but not at the moment. I don't think I'm ready yet.

I was originally considering writing about the frustrations I have with social media, and it's overall effect on my mental health (spoiler: it isn't good), but I'm not sure I have the strength anymore. Besides, I was taken off guard with a surprising schedule change, in which I now have a three day weekend coming on actually on a weekend, which is extremely odd.

I don't think it is a permanent thing (as some of you might remember, I mentioned wanting to try and get weekends on off on an earlier post, but I have not approached anyone officially about making that happen), just based on how busy the hotel is, but it was surprising.

In that earlier post, I talked about wanting to use said weekends to maybe get out more, maybe try to date, some sort of effort to be connected to the world, and it occurred to me that I could use that three day weekend to go out and do something, but the idea fills me with a weird dread.

I'm not ready yet.

There's a film that I quite like, probably one of my favorite movies considering how often I watch it, called The Legend Of Hell House, an adaptation of the novel Hell House by Richard Matheson. Matheson wrote the screenplay for the adaptation, but they're kinda different. Both deal really heavily with the ideas of sexual repression, and hidden desires and taboos, but the film makes it very british. 

The plot of the film is a group of investigators and psychics are tasked with going to "the Mount Everest of Haunted Houses" to gain proof of "surviving personalities" after death. Roddy McDowell is one of the psychics (Mr.Fisher), the only one to ever walk out of Hell House alive, intact, and sane. It's a marvelous performance, very hesitant and timid, as he deliberately withholds his full energy from the investigation. At one point, he is asked to do a sitting, and he half-whimpers "I'm not ready yet." 

I've always admired the performance and the character (my favorite part of the film is when, after he is confronted about holding back and being called a coward, is him trying a sitting by himself, which ends up in him screaming and writhing about on the floor), but it's only now that I really consider the idea of relating to him. 

Fisher is a very haunted man. He witnessed horrors when he was a young man with talents and confidence ("You might have been hot stuff when you were fifteen, but now you're shit," the evil ghost taunts him) and is now reserved, reclusive, and withdrawn. He is still aware of his talents and abilities and virtues, but fears to use them because he knows what will eventually happen ("I know the score: You DO NOT FIGHT this house!" he cries). And, as I mentioned above, when he *does* decide to use his power, it nearly destroys him. That's me in a lot of ways (not the "talk to ghosts" stuff, so much) these days. I don't speak at a high volume much at all anymore (outside of podcasts and having to yell over noise at work), I am hesitant to reach out with my feelings, and I could use all of my talents and abilities, but I know they only bring pain with them.

However, I am doing this blog, which is the first thing I've written in a very long time. I'm trying to prepare myself, to bring back a little bit of the "hot stuff" version I was once upon a time. But I am not ready yet. To actually go out into the world and try to be even a resemblance of the guy I used to be sounds way too damned hard and will bring far too much pain and doubt.

Eventually, Fisher does become the hero of the film, going up against the evil Belasco and eventually defeating him by reminding him how short he was. It's an odd movie. Makes sense in context. But that's essentially it. Fisher steps up, after a few deaths, and confronts the bad guy (with a lot of yelling and cursing) and comes out on top. So maybe there is hope for me yet on that score.

For now, I'm not ready yet. Not to try and be social or make new friends, or try to date (Jesus, what a terrible idea that would probably be right now)...I have too much more work to do on myself. Too much self-inventory and discovery and reckoning to be had before I can be of much use to anyone else. But I think the power, such as it is. is still there. Eventually, maybe, I can open myself up to it more without screaming and falling over, but I'm certainly not there yet. For now I'll remain the weird, quiet know-it-all in the corner delivering all the exposition and hiding his libido. 

So, it will be a quiet three-day weekend. With Werewolf movies and weed, most likely. Maybe I'll get some sleep. I did a little better with the sleep schedule today, but not by much. I'm hoping this coming morning goes well, since I have a podcast recording and I hate bringing half-assed (or artificial) energy to those. Both of my cohosts deserve better. In general, but in this case I'm talking about energy. 

I don't think there's anything terribly wrong about feeling unprepared to really open myself up to humanity again. At least nothing I should be ashamed of, at any rate. I used to be okay at it, maybe even good at it, and maybe I can be again eventually. Just not right now. And I'm choosing to allow myself that time, even if it does seem a little cowardly and cheap, as it does with Fisher in the first half of the film. But I do know the score. You do not fight this house. At least not when you're feeling weak.

 Eventually, I'm sure I'll go yell "You little bastard" at ghosts again.

 (See what I did there? Ghosts are literal in the film, but figurative when applied to my situation and....ah, you get it, that's what I do, make vague references and I kid around)

Anxiety Has Entered The Chat

 I wasn't able to get much of anything productive done yesterday, mostly due to executive dysfunction and general anxiety, the latter of which I wasn't entirely aware of until today. I wanted to get stuff done on my day off, I really did, but found I didn't have energy for anything other than the podcast recording, which went well. But it took all my social energy to do. 

Where the discovery of the anxiety enters into the equation is that I overslept on my day off due to my poor sleeping habits, which carried into today. As I went to go to sleep Tuesday morning, I found I couldn't wind myself down properly for what seems to be weeks now, a concept I thought was the result of depression (i.e. horrible thoughts keeping me awake) but I realize is instead a side effect of my anxiety issues.

I once again come back to a certain frustrating sense of irony at the realization that, even in the middle of the upside of a depression cycle, anxiety never really seems to subside at all, and so I am having thoughts racing through my brain at bed time, shaking limbs, headaches, stuff like that, all preventing me from managing to get rest at the time I want to. And I often want to.

Coming home from work is really stressful when it comes to my mental health. My friend Glaive had suggested to me that the reason for this may be related to just low psychic batteries (so to speak, not their words exactly), that I had spent all my energy working for eight hours that it was harder to regulate the mental health stuff (because I did it all night), with another friend also pointing out natural circadian rhythms are also in a constant disrupted state, and so the trip home is often either "I want to die" (if depression is high) or "I really want thoughts to stop" (when anxiety is high). Either way, I often get home wanting to shut the whole system down for awhile and sleep, but when the anxiety is high, I can't seem to make that shut down process work.

So I spend hours trying to quiet things down, maybe dose off in bed, wake up again for two hours, take a sleeping pill, wake up to pee (and be disoriented and groggy) after two more hours, and then finally enter real, honest sleep, four-to-six hours after the initial attempt. So I attempt bed at 9am, finally sleep around 1pm, and then try to get up at 5:30, but then my alarm goes off and I snooze it or ignore it, and wake up around 8 or 9pm, sometimes later, and rarely feel extraordinary rested.

This happened on both Monday and Tuesday, and killed a lot of momentum and left me feeling far more deflated than when I began. 

I didn't have the anxiety dreams on Monday, though, but today I got hit with a doozy. I actually had two and, while both dealt with heights (I am terrified of heights and they give me major anxiety), only one was particularly notable. The first was mostly trying to achieve the task of not falling off a tall thing while dealing with customers at work which, while revealing on the subject of how I feel about my job, doesn't provide too much insight into the relationship between my depression and anxiety.

The second dream was the one that shook me.

I was in some sort of airport or public transit building, and my anxiety was already going through the roof due to all the people coming and going. There was a woman with me, but I don't really see her face, just a Charlie Brown adult softly wa-wa-wa-waing at me in a way that helps to soothe me a little. She holds my hand. Eventually, we get separated and I am by myself. A tall, young, somewhat handsome but a little off-putting man (The Odd Young Man) begins to speak to me, showing me a game on his phone. He seems a little off, awkward in a very aloof way. The game is nothing I recognize, and the writing is what appears to be some sort of not-quite-Japanese characters, like alien symbols I don't understand. I politely tell him I don't know anything about his game and walk away. As I look for the woman, he once again approaches me, and this time I cut him off and say I really don't know what to say about his game, but I am polite.

I find the woman, and again The Odd Young Man approaches me. I tell the woman the guy is weird, even unnatural, before he gets close to once again show me the game, though this time there is some cartoonish anime girl on the phone with more strange writing. I tell him, this time not politely, to leave me alone and that I don't care about his game. He then walks away without making a single expression or saying another word. I am weirded out by him.

I notice another man across the crowd, but can't seem to make out any details about him, like he looks normal but somehow blurry. I point him out the this faceless woman beside me, but she takes no notice. I find him suspicious, even a little alarming, feeling like he's watching the crowd for something. The woman again softly makes her soothing noises. 

 The woman and I are ushered onto a cabin with windows on a cable, like a ski lift, and we're taken up suddenly. It's going a little fast, and taking longer than it should, but the woman tells me I'm just anxious because of the social situation, and that I need to relax. I feel warm, and sweaty, and frightened.

The lift stops, jostling everyone around. I look out the window and am shocked to see I can't see the ground, just sky and clouds, like being in a plane. I look to the right and see the cable continues into the sky, but I can't see where it connects, where it stops, where it ends. Just keeps going. I find myself wondering if it will literally dump us into space, which frightens me me more. My heart is hammering in my chest, I notice I am sweating.

A voice comes on an intercom and tells us all that "Only one of you will be alive when we reach our destination. Each stop we come to, one of you will walk onto the platform outside for your conversation." The voice has no emotion, but I understand that this a threat. I look around at everyone, just a handful of strangers. They do need seem terribly concerned. 

I feel a moment of profound shame in the middle of my anxiety. "This is my moment," I think to myself, "this is the horror movie moment you've prepared for all your life. Of course heights are involved, did you think this would be easy? Go lead these people. Solve this problem. Survive." But instead, I am frozen in fear. 

A sliding glass door opens in front of me, and a black man walks outside. The door shuts behind him. There is a circle on a flat platform next to a snowed glass booth. The black man stands on it. I can see the wind is high outside. We cannot hear the conversation, until the man begins to yell at the barely-visible shadow on the other side of the glass. We can't make all of it out, but the words "bitch ass" are audible. This man will not be having whatever the shadow is offering. I sit down, turned away from the scene, trying to collect myself. Suddenly the sliding door opens and The Odd Young Man from earlier walks in and sits in a folding chair in front of me. He is dressed exactly like me. He informs us all that the black man has jumped from the platform. Heart begins to beat faster. 

They're talking people into jumping, I realize. You go out on the platform for your conversation, and they convince you to jump off the platform. They will do this until every single person save one has jumped. I don't think I stand a chance. But I'm not sure what I'm more afraid of: being talked into jumping, or the fall itself.

"You're a liar and cheater," I say, "There's no way that guy just agreed to jump. You lied." 

But the man across from me is gone. I stand up, looking at the sliding glass door. I know it's my turn, and I am terrified. I stand there, tensed up, and look at the booth outside. A shadowy figure is inside, waiting. 

I wake up.

As I thought about the dream, I came to realize that the most important part is what I never got to see: what happened when I went through the door for my conversation, and I realize that why that is important is because I don't know which would win out: Will they convince me to jump? Or will I be unable to because I am too afraid of falling?

My depression, an occasional wish to die, could doom me. My anxiety, my fear, could save me. But either way, I am uncomfortable and stressed. Which of these sensations, these irritations, these destructive tendencies end up being more of a part of me? And do either of them have any merit? Is survival by fear a net positive?

I don't know, but it was an unsettling anxiety dream. Even if it did lead to some introspection into the way anxiety persists, even as depression waxes and wanes, and I'm not sure it has cycles in the same respect. But I still feel very tired, even now, and I can still feel the unease of looking at that booth, and wondering what choices I would make. 

The Storm Of The...Month (Or, Give Me What I Want And I'll Go Away But Probably Not)

 Decided to do a second post tonight, due to snow storm and a general mood of anxiety that is making me a little jittery. I don't like working solo overnights anymore, and tonight happens to be one of the times that I am having difficulty overcoming that aversion. So anxiety.

As aforementioned, there is a snow storm happening here in Cleveland (and many other places, as I understand). I rather like snow storms. I know I don't have to drive in them, which probably does admittedly make that a lot easier. I've had to work most of them, though, which is less inspiring, but I did managed to get most of my traditional snow storm watches (The Thing, Howling 5, The Shining (both the Kubrick and Garris versions) in case anyone was wondering) this year. Even some additional stuff like The Hateful Eight was watched this year, too, which (other than the oddly gratuitous use of the N word) I generally liked and may add to my snow storm watches. 

The only thing I didn't get to watch is The Storm Of The Century, Stephen King's overly long and maybe a tad dull "Novel for Television," that I love anyway and isn't currently streaming anywhere I can readily get to it. I suppose I could restart my Disney+/Hulu subscription, which I have had disabled since the FCC threatened ABC to cancel Kimmel...and while I don't care about Kimmel, I do care about the federal government threatening free speech, so I disabled it in protest with everyone else. 

I am off today, and I think the storm is supposed to go awhile, so I'll consider it. I only have a podcast recording on my to-do list...well, no, that isn't true. I had a couple other things to do. Try to make a Doctor's appointment, but that will probably be moved due to the offices likely being closed re:storm. Schedule a haircut, another expensive proposition. Do my taxes (I probably actually will tackle that one). At least, I currently feel capable of doing those. When I get home, who knows. It's difficult to predict moods when a venue change is part of the package. Sometimes what begins as a lot of enthusiasm changes to a complete lack of interest and turns into a hibernation mode in which I barely want to look outside (which is pretty easy: my black out curtains and christmas string lights make it impossible to tell what time it is or what it's like outside without actually peaking). Same for going *into* work, of course, but almost certainly in a negative way. Going home can create a sense of positive energy after work, depending on my energy reserves, but it's also sometimes a difficult and exhausting task. In fact, I've lately found the morning commute home to be a pretty miserable experience in which my darkest, most self-hating thoughts occur during that point.

My hope is enthusiasm will continue because I like snow storms and I have the day off. I like commuting home in the snow, walking in it. I don't know why because I hate the cold, but there is something about a snow storm that makes me not mind wandering about in it. It's probably the dramatics of it, really, the idea of braving the elements, struggling against the environment itself. We place a lot of symbolism into it, the weather, and I think it's that promise of disruption and the (generally) survivable nature of it (privilege acknowledged, by the way) that gives it such weight. There's a confrontation in it. A sense of defiance. Not even god can stop me, that kind of thing, I suppose, but also in a surmountable challenge. The cold winds of change. 

They oughta make more horror films that take place in snow storms. Ones that don't just rip off The Thing and The Shining, that is. Does anyone still do the sitcom trope of "people snowed in" anymore? And has that trope actually happened to anyone in real life? I doubt it. My back hurts from standing at this computer all night. I'm less enthused about that. But anyway, snow storms are so dramatic and fun/threatening that they make great back-drops to horror stories, in particular. But that drama lends itself well as an environment for a lot of different kinds of tension. I can't recall a particularly dramatic "snow storm" encounter of my own, which I guess is unfortunate. 

Anyway, this second post was mostly brought about by enjoying snow storms, reminding myself that I have things to do that I probably won't, and a general boredom and anxiety. Probably not as substantial as previous ones, though I suppose you could make some inferences as to how mental health is affected by weather...because it usually isn't good. But maybe that's a post for another time.

If you are encountering a storm where you are, I hope you have the good kind of dramatic and not the bad, and that you and yours remain safe and warm. 

The Perils of Inertia and Societal Expectations

 Probably be a bit more disjointed and unfocused tonight, working alone isn't easy and I may be interrupted, which isn't the friend of trying to focus thoughts into the written word. 

I'm feeling an odd(ish) sense of frustration today. I say oddish because frustration is pretty common (it and anxiety are my natural state), but this version of frustration is a little different in that it comes from being in a clearer head space. In short, I'm frustrated that I am frustrated. I was just generally thinking about my situation and realizing that my basic essentials are, in fact, more or less taken care of. Job pays okay, have more or less comfortable and affordable housing (relatively to some, at any rate), and health insurance and many other things lots of people don't have.

However, and this is where the frustration begins, I do not feel happy and content with these things. I could, in theory, live the rest of my mainly insignificant (on the cosmic scale) life in this state without too much friction. Lately, I have mostly made it a point to remain in a state of "standing still," with no particular plans or direction, mainly because I tend to drive myself insane trying to figure out what I want to do, and how to do it, and often only running into a wall when it comes to implementing or deciding on a course of action. One would think my present clarity of thinking (such as it is) would allow me some further perspective, but it doesn't. Instead, it makes my "standing still" more intolerable to me. I should be doing something. And, despite many people telling me it is actually fine to be standing still, it makes me feel frustrated at my own inability to act.

What this also means is that I cannot entirely blame this executive disfunction on my mental health issues (though by no means does my "being on the upswing of the depression cycle" equate to "perfectly not depressed." I AM still depressed, I'm just not suffering at the moment), which creates more frustration, which causes more inaction, and that cycle of uselessness just keeps running around. It also frustrates me that most of this frustration is caused by my perception that I am being watched or judged by everyone, or at least that I can't seem to turn off the part of my brain that understands-and I do definitely understand this- that the very idea of being a capable, healthy adult is a construct created by a society that no longer exists in the same state that created these ideas.

The social and cultural world in which simple ideas like a one-bedroom apartment and a simple job were easily achieved and valued. Considering the only reason I don't have my own place right now is because I was turned down for some I could afford due to issues with things like credit checks and a black mark on my rental history caused by a shady rental company are not reflections on my own failings, so much as they are on how society has come to value the wrong things. While society, sadly and regrettably, values these things and defines them as "simple," I know that I and anyone whose opinion I give a single solitary shit about know the truth about the current state of things.

That was a long walk to a statement that essentially boils down to "nobody is judging setbacks created by rule changes," but I suppose it was still worth typing it all out.

The point is that it frustrates me that I can't forget that nobody is judging or keeping score whatsoever, and I am not for anyone else (this is an important idea that needs more conversation: most of the negative thoughts I aim at myself are for things I would never judge anyone else for, and yet I fear everyone else is judging me, but I am aware they aren't), so it really doesn't make sense to worry about, and yet I do.

So all that frustrates me. Social expectations that are not longer strictly expected, certainly not by anyone I associate with (even if my depression has a hard time understanding that on anything beyond a surface level), and yet still govern my own self-identification. When in the middle of heavier depression, I oddly care less about living up to social expectations, maybe because it's easier to admit one has difficulty doing that when sick (and I am sick, and I don't need to be ashamed of that), so I guess there is some sort of freedom in depression. Or maybe it's just you hate yourself for much worse than inaction. And I do. Eventually, I'm sure I will discuss my abusive relationship with guilt, probably when it the downswing, in which I feel like I don't deserve to have activity instead of frustration with lack of activity.

At some point, I would like to talk more about fun stuff like my Community rewatch or how much miss Dungeons and Dragons. Been flipping through the books at home to disassociate a little and have a lot of ideas for campaigns but, y'know, lack of players. But I have thoughts, you guys. Instead, it's been all introspective. I do hope it hasn't been, y'know, whiny or self-pitying or irritating (again, I fear judgement while inviting it by writing it all down?), but the purpose of the exercise is to express myself and my own thoughts while craving an audience (that I assume hates me? I never said it would make sense)...maybe I hope it will bring others a greater understanding of me, or maybe someone random will read it and realize they're not alone. I assume these conditions are not unique to me. In fact, I'm incapable of it, because I would never come to find myself nearly that important or of value. Which is a cheery thought. Maybe I would be happier if I did come to think of myself as a beautiful, unique unicorn of mental health issues. 

Important happy things today: I thought of myself as handsome (I need a haircut and a beard trim, but I acknowledged my own handsomeness). That's a win. 

Anyway, I was right. Got interrupted five times when writing this. Actually, six now. Probably should quit when ahead.

Thank you to anyone who is reading this. Very kind of you to care about what's happening in this diseased mind. 

C'mon, Feel The Noise

 Something is new for me in the past year is my realization that I am very noise-sensitive. 

This is something I suspect has always been true, but I don't know that I have really noticed until fairly recently. I've never been good with crowds, but recently they have become more and more intolerable to me, and the difficulty I have with large amounts of people has only grown in recent years. Mostly this year, though I know I can remember when the first time I really noticed any discomfort was over ten years ago.

This is only the second time that I have worked in a hotel which has its bar located in the same area as the lobby, the first being the aforementioned environment from over ten years ago, and both of those hotels had constructed said lobby as the worst possible place acoustically for it. Big, cavernous rooms with marble flooring. So the echo becomes incredibly intense.

So when 200 people are in there being loud and drunk and obnoxious, it becomes a nightmare. I used to be able to manage this type of thing better (might have been all the alcohol in most of those cases, though, and I don't drink much at all anymore...in fact, I haven't had a drink in months? I had two beers when I moved into my place, that was back in September. I just smoke weed now, which doesn't give me hangovers and only keeps me more mellow and not, yknow, stupid. Weed is not as good as alcohol when it comes to killing social anxiety, but it has far less harmful side effects. That was a long aside), but I find that as I have gotten older, the harder this type of thing becomes.

It's almost 2:30am and the party is still going on. I'm on my break, typing this in the back office, and I can still hear them out there. Nothing specific, no words form from the swirling chaos, just noise. Noise noise noise. It shakes my every nerve, drilling into my skull. And then someone shouts and I literally wince. 

It's bad enough my direct boss had wondered if there wasn't a way for me to use noise canceling headphones, but there's no way corporate would agree to that. I have mentioned that I have clinical anxiety and depression (there is documentation of that diagnosis out there somewhere, it's the possible adhd/autism I have no diagnosis for and is therefore conjecture, but I would never claim that on a job application), but that really only goes so far in the corporate world.

I have been experimenting on ways to disassociate, to distract myself in a manner that is semi-professional. I am at a computer, after all, so there are things to read and look at it. I find I can do okay in short bursts if the volume stays somewhat consistent and, of course. no one makes any noise at me directly. I have had a hard time with phones ringing for a long time now, hospitality does not make that any better, but it particularly hurts when it disrupts a level volume. I don't even watch movies on particularly high volume anymore, now that I think about it, but there is a whole other major line of thinking when it comes to the volume of media, particularly in how bad sound design has become in modern media. 

The point is that I used to be better at noise, and it appears that has changed for me. My co-workers seem to mostly sympathize, or at least aren't dicks about it, but it's really hard. I know the social anxiety is part of it, but I do find myself wondering if I were to go to a place with 200 quiet people, would I have a similar reaction? Is it the people, or the noise they make that causes my discomfort. I guess it would depend on context in that scenario. I am socially awkward, even in pleasant conversation, and have trouble with eye contact, over-stimulation and over-thinking at all times, regardless of context...so, in theory, I wouldn't have a hard time with 200 quiet people unless I had to interact with any of them directly? 

I guess I'd be at home in Eyes Wide Shut masked orgies? It seemed pretty quiet. Or at least covered by music? Which is fine at generally acceptable volumes, as I mentioned before. I assume there would have to be some noises made at an Eyes Wide Shut party.

Stream of consciousness, unplanned writing is always interesting. 

Been re-reading some Seanbaby comedy from the dark ages of the internet. He remains a very funny comedy writer, even though a lot of the humor and language is very problematic for today's world. At least as problematic today as it was "edgy" back in the late 90s/early 00s. Seanbaby's true strength though, is in his ability to create a hell of a simile. It has been helpful to read it, as it has become difficult to disassociate through scrolling the Fandango account and doing ordering exercises (making lists of titles, reading titles silently to myself, researching years and performers, etc) lately, probably due to over use. But Sammaeal and I have amassed a hell of a collection and films and tv shows, and that also does fire off some endorphines.

Anyway, I think I lost the plot. I had mostly wanted to discuss the more recent phenomena of noise sensitivity in the past couple years and how it related to my depression and anxiety, and maybe whine about how difficult my job has become to perform, but that doesn't sound interesting anymore. Eventually, I'll find something I can do that will be better for me. Or, *gasp*, finally manage the social energy to make a doctor's appointment and try to become medicated. By using the insurance that likely won't do much to actually pay for any of it. But I do have the insurance now, so the excuse of Insurancy The Insurance Sprite yelling "NO Insurance! Whee-Whoo!" no longer works. Maybe Monday. I should probably say "Yes, Monday" now because I'm writing it down, and now if my post on Monday reports anything other than "Got Appointment," I could be called a coward. 

Maybe Monday.

In Dreams, I Hug With You

 I'm currently in an upswing as far as my usual depression cycles go. This is a good thing, save for the fear that tomorrow I'm gonna wake up wanting to die again. There is something remarkably funny (not, like, "ha ha" funny, more like "nobody is arresting Epstein clients" funny) about living with depression (assuming it is actually depression and not some undiagnosed autism or ADHD, which is possible...but I think you can still have depression with that, too) in that it colors your worldview. In every way possible. Even a moment of positivity is marked by some voice that says tomorrow may be different. 

Tomorrow will probably be fine. If my general understanding of my own rhythm is even remotely correct, I'll have a good week, maybe a week and a half, before descending into the (non-racist) Lovecraftian horrors of my own mind, a howling pit of gibbering monsters waiting to claw at my mood. BUT. For now we're okay.

In fact, today has been oddly good despite my poor sleeping, which is a convenient segue into what I think I want to talk about. 

I noticed what may be a pattern I need to keep an eye on, if only in the continued service of self-understanding that this blog is supposed to represent, which is that I noticed my dreams may be more positive and warm when in an upward part of the cycle. I had the nicest dream I can remember having lately, in which I ran into a friend in Maine. She was older, a little, and I didn't recognize most of the locations, but in the back of some bar I've never seen before she was sitting on a bench and I approached and we hugged so warmly and tightly that we were unable to let go for several minutes. It felt so nice, and so peaceful, and so calm and wholesome that it actually put me in a decent mood upon waking up, which was a nice change of pace from the norm. 

Normally, my dreams aren't super nice. They're judgmental, filled with accusation and social casting out. Just last week, I was rejected in my dreams all over again by a woman I once felt love for, and I woke wishing I didn't have to think about her. I spend a lot of time trying not to think about people that I know are not thinking about me, especially not anything kind, because moving on is important (and something I am uniquely bad at), but my brain loves to hold onto as many memories as it can (good and bad) and I can't seem to escape the past. 

It was interesting to me that the friend I dreamed of hugging was older, because it wasn't the past. That doesn't mean it is a premonition of the future, mind you, though I hope I do get to hug her some day, but only that my brain (which we have established loves to replay the past) acknowledges a possible future. Not only did the dream suggest to me a reunion (or union, since we are uncertain if we actually ever met before) with a friend was possible, but so was a possible return to Maine, which has been something I've wanted to do for some time, but has proven to be difficult if not impossible as of late. At least not without somewhere to go. But maybe it is possible under the right conditions.

I also had a positive thought before bed while watching episodes of Community, in which I thought maybe I should go back to school (and idea I've had for a while but hadn't thought about in some time), if only to attempt to reclaim a bit of focus and mental acuity that I've been somewhat missing lately. Not that the podcasts aren't mentally stimulating, only that academics have a certain structure and pressure that maybe I've been missing a little. It might be nice to step into a classroom again and learn something, as long as it ain't math. Maybe criminal psych or a social science or something. But I also keep thinking about trying to leave Cleveland and return to Maine, and getting started in an academic program here generally means committing 100% to actually being here awhile longer. Maybe if this depression cycle holds up a little while longer, I can weigh these decisions a bit more practically, see if there is a feasible way to go elsewhere (is "save some money, apply for work in Maine, and try to apply for an apartment sight unseen" actually possible? It usually feels like a lot, and it certainly would take time and patience, but in my current "There is hope?" state, it feels a little more positive...it's funny, last week I said the words "It's hard to have hope when you have never experienced it" out loud to myself and here I am typing the word Hope unironically. But I digress). If staying a long time is the only way, I suppose I try *gasp* dating apps or try to have some Saturdays off to go to a goth night (again, my past has some happy memories of goth nights in Maine, and I do kinda wanna meet a goth mommy domme, so...) and see if I can manage to be social without running headfirst into a wall like a Chris Farley character. 

I did kinda manage to flirt a little with someone tonight without being totally horrible, and was able to have brief conversations with a couple guests without feeling like screaming? Please clap. 

 By the way, Community is great and largely holds up (aside from some problematic language and outdated views on certain social ideas), and has long been one of my favorite shows. I've been considering doing a full ranking when I eventually finish this latest rewatch. As much as I love consuming new media, sometimes the comfort of the familiar is just truly necessary, even if it does sometimes cause an odd shameful feeling ("I should be watching some new, something meaningful, I'm wasting my time, way to be boring, bro") when I do, but that is another thing to be overcome. I kinda wanna rewatch a lot of my favorite shows, especially ones from when I was either a child, or felt more myself. I talked a little yesterday about how Angel has an odd way of connecting with me, and I'm sure LOST or Farscape would be no different, and it's been awhile since I've given either of those another look. 

I'm choosing to accept "what I want to watch" as still thematically connected to the hopeful dreams and possible aspirations for positive future idea. At least there is something I want to do and/or look forward to. Interesting how this seems to be a positive symptom of the upside of depression cycles. Which has proven to be the entire point of this particular post: examination of the upsides? 

What a difference a nice dream can make. 

Touched By An (TV's) Angel

 Only a day in and I'm already questioning my commitment to the project. I'm not entirely sure what to write about tonight, but I'm committed to writing something and so...viola. Trash posting.

My job is generally frustrating me lately, especially tonight, which has been oddly busy. I have found over the course of my over twenty years of hospitality business experience-a fact that will forever torment me, wasting as much of my life for capitalist nonsense-that people are, in fact, getting worse. The attitudes, the entitlement, the rude comments. 

Make no mistake, it was never good, but it definitely was not always as bad it is now. I blame society. I blame politics. I blame capitalism and dramatic wealth disparity. The wrong people got money. 

I've been actively trying to do less social media viewing, with mixed results. Nothing good comes from looking anymore, and yet it just continues. I suppose that, without social media, I would have no idea what is going on with anyone I care about, not could I whine about how much I hate social media. But it seems relevant to the increasing frustration with dealing with the general public. And it is this increasing frustration that has led to me to being little more than a hermit, doing nothing with my free time besides watching movies and occasionally sleeping (which seems to be less and less lately), which probably is something I need to change.

This also contributes to frustration with the job. My days off are effectively useless for anyone who wants to, say, date or at least go to a goth night or some sort of social function in an effort to be more connected to the world. Which I don't want to be, really, because my job makes me hate connecting to the world. Because the world suuuuucks.

I recorded one of the two (soon to be three?) podcasts I do every week today, Insane Troll Logic, which was about episodes of Tv's Angel and, while it is always a good time recording with Maggie, I often feel mildly guilty because I don't always bring the energy I hope to, which is how I feel today. 

Don't get me wrong, I consider any episode of a podcast in which at least one good idea is expressed is a successful one, and we had at least that tonight, but that lack of energy comes from the job (and distractions from the other guy who is always loud and gross that also lives in the apartment I do-for some reason I hate referring to him as a roommate, even though technically he is exactly that) and my lack of sleep and the general awkwardness I feel connecting with someone-even someone I love as much as Maggie-and so...guilt. It's a difficult thing to feel, but it at least is something I can identify the cause of and cope with, which I suppose is a good thing.

It does all tie together, though, in the idea that I need to figure out what my plan is for the immediate future. I had committed to standing still for awhile, needing to regroup and rethink, but that is wearing thin already due to the aforementioned irritating, isolation, and general lack of accomplishment I've felt for some time. 

Obviously lateral job changes aren't really an option. I know that from experience. Without a major change of venue or medium, it would just lead to a temporary shift in mood but little else. I probably need to get out of Cleveland, or find something outside of hospitality, and a new place to live, and all kinds of nonsense and it's a lot. 

I feel like I've sung this song before. 

Eventually, I'll figure it out. Make the right changes, truly understand exactly who and what I am now. Maggie and I were talking about the character of Angel tonight, and I've always identified with him and his deep-seated existential depression, guilt, and self-depreciation, but tonight's conversation brought me to other levels of his (and perhaps my own) identity. We talked about the arrested development of Angel as a character and how, despite his advanced age, he really is starting from scratch in his journey of self-understanding. Maggie attributed it to his immortality (he has forever to figure this own), and she's right, but there is also an element of how Angel hid himself from the world for over a century, never really working to better himself. It wasn't until his involvement with Buffy that he ever took stock of his own life and what it meant, leading him eventually to strike out on his own in Los Angeles.

As a result, Angel (at least where he is in the narrative where Maggie and I left him) is struggling with his first major set-back, resulting in his developing a rather petulant and self-important stage, lashing out and isolating, that will eventually humble him and get him back on track. 

It always bugs me a little when I'm talking about a character and realize I'm kinda talking about me. And this is not the first time this has happened.

I have barely come to acknowledge that I even have a journey ahead, that I have never entirely understood myself or my place in the world, and am only getting started in my own voyage of self-discovery, like Angel. And I gotta figure that out. Hopefully without the voiceover narration (it's kind of a crutch). I'm not egotistical enough to believe I have any grand destiny or anything, but maybe I, too, have a chance at being a real human again. It hasn't been a century since my former self was cursed with self-knowledge, but it feels like it, and it feels even longer than that since I felt like a real person.

A Brief History of Enigmatic Sadness

I have decided to begin journaling again. I'm not entirely sure why I made this decision, only that occurred to me the other day in the midst of the lowest part of my latest depression cycle that I used to use "livejournal" (if you understand this reference, enjoy your back aches and greying hair) at my first overnight job back in the dark ages when it seemed like life was far easier.

It wasn't, of course, it only seems that way in the same way that someone being tortured in hell would remember a different, less painful circle of hell as "not so bad."

Because memory is a weird, fickle, and untrustworthy mistress. But here I am again.

I think maybe the idea to begin journaling again probably began germinating weeks ago, actually, when watching an episode of Community where the ever-optimistic Annie asked the ever-jaded Jeff if he ever just journaled, something only for himself. He also ruined it by immediately sharing it with a documentary film crew. 

It could be just that, this journaling thing, but I never quite understood the concept of writing for only myself. I can't really quite fathom a form of art, expression, whatever without an audience in mind, even if that audience is just an ephemeral, faceless, and possibly non-existent thing. And people are probably sick of my social media posts anyway, so maybe this will be where those thoughts and expressions can live, to be found only by someone who cares to actually click a link and look.

But probably not.

The therapeutic nature of journaling is not lost on me, which brings back the beginning of this admittedly messy return to journaling: I felt more even when posting thoughts on livejournal, whatever was on my mind. Even got praise for it on occasion, called an expressive and thoughtful writer. Not that I'm fishing for that. In fact, it appears I'm far rustier than I thought I'd be. Life was easier then, or at least it felt easier in comparison to now, even though it was largely the same. Except I had my own bathroom. Sorta. 

But that is the purpose of this mess. Maybe I can find some sort of relief through this form of expression. At the very least, it may help me to further understand myself in my far more advanced age and stage of mental health, which is far worse than it was twenty-plus years ago when I used to make comic book references in posts about Rocky 4, or mope about my loneliness, or how I got a bank to send me a cease and desist letter. Because they're jerks.

And also it can serve as a tracking device, a chart: how was I feeling yesterday? Last week? Last Month? And maybe if I start this now, when feeling properly motivated, and make it a habit, perhaps it will allow me to sort of chart my depression cycles, triggers, patterns and anything else that may help me to improve myself. Maybe entertain a person or two as I do so. Hopefully not engender pity. I never wanted pity or sympathy, only to be understood. 

So, that is the point. Write about whatever is on my mind in some sort of attempt to further understand myself and express myself to you, the audience (whomever that may be). 

Welcome to Notes From The Depression Years, which is a reference to both a BoySetsFire record and a Dostoyevsky novella, because I am a hack.

Also, my coworker and I have been implementing a new system where we both get longer breaks, so I figured I'd go back to my roots and write at work. I'm sure I'll get better at this again.

.....

The other night, I had some moments of introspection. Nothing terribly earth shattering, but it made me more fully realize something that I believe to be true about myself.

I was walking to the train station the day after Valentine's Day and saw a discarded rose on the sidewalk, and it made me profoundly sad. Just the image of it: wet and cold and discarded on a sidewalk. Not in the sense that I saw the rose as a unique object, only seeing it's meaning and the way that meaning had been dismissed. 

Here was an object that had a connotation, a metaphor, a purpose one day and then rotting on a sidewalk the next, and I imagined it had been given with love in mind...but even more likely it was part of a bouquet and just fell off, something not even remotely as dramatic as the possible scenarios I my over-active imagination can (and often does) come up with it. 

But it made me sad. A symbol of love one day, refuse the next. And I admonished myself briefly ("What a silly thing to feel sad about," I muttered to myself, like a character in a Tom Waits song) and then thought "well, sadness is kind of my natural state."

It's quite a thing to be sad all the time. To have that be your default. And I don't necessarily think that entirely has to do with anything diagnosable, either current or potential, but rather with a philosophical state of perpetual empathy that I have felt since a young age.

When I was in 7th grade, we had a field day and I played with a baseball bat and the teacher took a photo of me smiling and swinging said bat. Like a low angle closeup. A few days later, she gave me the photo in a frame and told me she thought my Mother would like it, because it showed me being happy. 

Now, this is a nice gesture, but it made me realize even then that something was "wrong" with me, because the gesture and the meaning behind it meant that, if this photo was somehow special because it depicted me happy, then that meant I normally wasn't. The teacher believed I wasn't happy and, by extension, believed my Mother also knew I wasn't normally happy.

I have no idea what happened to that picture. 

Anyway, the point is that it has always been this way.

But as I was walking away from this discarded rose, thinking about the eternal, enigmatic sadness that I have always carried in my chest and on my back, I found myself thinking about how the fact that I am perpetually sad does not alarm me nearly as much as the idea that other people aren't, and that is a strange thing to realize. The world is a really sad place (even beyond modern politics), filled with tragedy and emotions that most of us really don't want. They say everyone is going through a challenge no one else knows about, and that's true, so why isn't everyone experiencing this weird melancholy that I am? Don't you see how very sad this existence is? 

Maybe some do. I'm sure some do. But I can't stop seeing it, and I can't stop feeling it. 

There were a few stray pieces of thought that came to me in those few moments, mostly 1.I often feel guilt at not having fun as often as other people (in fact, attempts to create fun often make me feel worse, because I cannot seem to enjoy things the way others do, and I worry I am damaging the fun others are having), 2. I find media that may be heartwarming to some others very sad (I thought about a montage in a Futurama episode: Leela discovers her parents are mutants and not aliens, and it depicts her parents had always been there behind the scenes, loving her even though she didn't know they even existed. This is meant to be sweet, but it made me very very sad because it meant Leela had lived a very lonely life. And don't even get me started on the fucking dog) and 3. I have empathy for damned near everything so much that it hurts, and all that comes down an idea about identity. I found myself thinking about how the hardest scene in the hardest movie ever (Martyrs) was when a tortured girl had her hair shaved off. The character is literally flayed alive at the climax of that film (spoiler alert!), but the hair is the hardest part for me. She has no idea what's happening or why, but this symbol of her identity is stripped from her. 

I frequently feel extremely isolated because I feel badly about every bad thing I've ever done, about how others feel, and about how others feel about me. But it has more to do with the idea of doing harm to someone emotionally or psychically that keeps me awake at night. Physical pain often can subside, but emotional pain is eternal. It leaves real scars. And I work so hard to protect others from that scarring that I sometimes find I no longer know how to even express myself properly, nor how to protect myself. I'm just exposed all the time now. So I try harder to close myself off? 

This has not yielded a single positive result for anyone. In fact, I begin to suspect that my cautious, aloof nature has made me far more alarming to a passive spectator than any rudeness or aggression could cause, and it certainly doesn't help to make me feel any less isolated, nor am I actually further protected. 

I often say I hate people. And I do. But I also love people. I can't not love people, at least on some sort of basic level. Of course I do, otherwise I wouldn't be twisting myself into knots trying desperately to not offend, bother, hurt, or otherwise do harm to literally everyone I ever meet or talk to. 

I have no idea if this makes any sense whatsoever. But I guess it doesn't have to. 

I guess the idea overall is that I need to work on expressing myself? So maybe this journaling thing is a good idea? I don't know. But I know I have an easier time being understood in writing. It's far easier than speaking. And maybe there is a correlation to be made between the livejournal days and a stronger feeling of connection to the world outside of my small, isolated one. I know that, if nothing else, I have worn myself out as an audience to my own thoughts and so they need to go somewhere else, even if that somewhere else is nowhere else. 

Maybe I can exorcise a demon or two here. 

There are millions left to go, but maybe I can have just a few less.