The Ever Rising Tide

You’ve seen this before, I just thought I would throw my take into the fire I suppose, I have nothing else to do, so I thought I would analyze my mental health for the internet. I have worse things, so at least this is something I am vaguely interested in.

There are no trigger warnings needed here, I am not going to talk about the Bad Dark, just what the face of it all looks like.

Any of you who have ever met me know that I love to both laugh and make others laugh. I am not particularly funny, I know a stand-up comedian, that motherfucker is funny. I am self-deprecating and I suppose that is humorous in its way. I digress, however.

Even when I am in the middle of the deepest laugh I can have, tears streaming down my face and various floods being ejected from various orifices of my body, I am still very, strongly, deeply, clinically depressed.

When I am walking around the supermarket with my new bandana face mask necessity and I am breathing in my self-produced humidity and I am smiling at the pharmacist and the cashier, I am still having a panic attack that I will crash into. Not when I get home, not until much later when I am alone and it is dark. Then the panic will wash over me like waves that bring it higher and higher until I choke on it and curl up in a ball and simply submit to it all.

When I am sitting in my best friends living room, a human being I trust more than nearly anyone who has ever lived, I know the exits, I know how to get home with no money, I have an exit strategy because that is what I have always needed and you don’t shut off decades worth of paranoia, if it were rational, it wouldn’t be paranoia.

You’ve seen me finging right? You know, fingers finging? Tapping the tip of each finger against the tip of my thumb. Sometimes I count, other times I multiply, sometimes I do days of the week or some other repetitive so my brain can match the absenteeism of my hand movements, trying to fight back the things I don’t want just then. The migraines, the panic, the agoraphobia, claustrophobia, or a thousand other things.

I can be talking to you, laughing with you, lifting you in a hug I never want to let go of, kissing your forehead, drinking with you, eating my best friends food, holding the woman I love, sitting with my kids on my lap, or I can be alone in my bedroom.

It will never leave. It is dark when the light goes off, the eeriness of quiet in the city neighborhood, the shock and awe of a thunderbolt.

It is there.

It is always there.

Today Is About Her

I think I fell in love with her the first time as I was sitting with her on the phone while at work. She was having a massive panic attack and was literally under the counter at Tim Horton’s where she worked because of course, she worked at a Tim Horton’s. She was so scared, so very alone at some hour far past the time where most people get coffee in the middle of the night. She wasn’t scared of being there alone, or robbers or any of that, she was simply scared and she called me to help her with that. Being me, I made her laugh. I made her laugh until we realized she had used the store phone to call me long distance, back when things like that mattered and she promised to call me when she got home to make sure I know she was okay.

A few hours later, home with who I would later call my Elder Duck, she had just got out of the shower and drank some of the coffee she had been making all night and called me. It was a much more subdued, yet pleasant conversation. I am pretty sure she was embarrassed by calling me earlier, but I never once ribber her for it, up until the day she died I never mentioned it again actually. We talked about how abysmally cold it was where we both were, I was in Kansas at the time, and all we wanted to do was curl up with one another and get some much-needed sleep for both of us.

No sex talk, no flirting, just a scared human being calling another human being who they thought would be able to help them through a tough time.

The entirety of the time we were married it is what we excelled at with one another. Even if we were outrageously pissed at the other, which admittedly happened a lot more than it should have, if there was ever a point where one of us went past a place, we would simply know. Whether it was a look, a hitch in the voice, or suddenly needing to leave the room. Not out of anger, but fear.

We would stop and just be there for one another.

So on Mother’s Day that is what I am choosing to focus on, that is what I am choosing to allow into my mind and my heart, and I am pretty sure it will get me through the day just fine.

A Piece In Which I Speak On Biblical Things Purely For Clickbait For A Story I May, and Most Likely Will Not, Write Later Today.

In the first book of the Christian bible, other than the “God just went click” moment, there are a few things that confuse me.

Yeah, my turn.

See, there is Enoch, who is the son of Cain and Awan who he met in the Land Of Nod.

There is Enoch, the great-great-grandfather of Noah.

Finally, there is the city of Enoch, which either Cain built and named after his son, or Enoch built and named after himself.

Now if we ignore the massive plot hole about the people of the Land of Nod existing at all when the only people, ever, lived in the Garden, you may wonder why the great-great-great-great grandson of Adam and Even was named the same thing. If you don’t care, welcome to the main point of what I am doing today.

Why is it that they, and they can be anyone, biblical or otherwise, throw shit like this at you and expect you to sheepishly open your brain and accept it like the drivel and pablum it obviously.

I mean, I was almost a priest and I thought it was kind of stupid then. I mean, when you throw in the Apocrypha books like the Apocalypse of Moses, which sounds like the best metal band ever, it kind of explains all sorts of shit, but no, not enough.

I suppose you can use Common Core as a replacement for anything biblical as it is just as obtusely written, but others gripe about that better than I do.

On a lighter, or a darker actually, note, I think I have a story brewing in the brain hole. I am pretty sure you can ascertain what it may entail based on what I am writing here, plus the fact I have been watching an obscene amount of Supernatural lately.

That’s for later though, for now, caffeine.

Oh Yeah, Migraine Day too…

Ode To The Needle; Or How I Need To Stop Kvetching And Just Go And Get More Fucking Ink.

So, what better way to start a Saturday than by discussing the xenophobia and racism of the father of modern horror.


Well, I have this long-standing theory about the pantheon of Northern Europe Heathenism as compared to current societal norms?

No again huh?

Well, I mean, I can talk about tattoos?

Okay, I can do that, way to read the room Bear.

I don’t have enough tattoos, I can tell you that much. I get that people don’t like them, that is fine, those people are wrong and will not be spoken about in this because of this is a happy fucking place for happy fucking people.

Do you know how you leave yourself a note to call Aunt Judy to ask her about the book you wanted to borrow? Tattoos are notes you leave to yourself, forever, to remember a specific way you felt, or a specific place you went to, or a thousand million other things. They are the ultimate in personal expression and they are the delightfully painful reminder that there is nothing permanent on your flesh unless you choose for it to be.


I have ink covering mine, and I have it covering it in a certain way and it means a certain thing to me. Why? Other than Cthulhu being cool? It is because that scar is a reminder of a horror show portion of my life whereas Cthulhu is a literal horror show. See? Well, I mean it doesn’t matter if you do, because I do, and that there is the beauty of it. It can be anything and everything and it is YOURS and no one can take it away from you.

They will try.

They will belittle you and make fun of you and you simply turn your perfectly illustrated skin away from them so you can have them kiss the delight of your ass. Unless it is your ass, and then you can tell them to fuck themselves in a much more direct and honest way, right?

I miss tattoos. I haven’t had one in a while now and I suppose it is time for me to bite the bullet and to find an artist I trust as much as I did my last one. It will suck, but there is a draw to the ink and the pain that I simply have a very hard time ignoring.


Allow Me To Dust Off This Old Chestnut For Your Perusal. Also Known As A Passive-Aggressive Cry For Help?

I have a horrible habit of letting people kind of make me do things. Insert the “You’re the Bear” commentary. I’ll wait. Done? Cool.

I have this ingrained need to help people. I need to help them as much as I need to breathe and it never occurs to me, except in situations precisely like this one, when I am just allowed a moment to think, that there will always be people willing to take advantage of this fact. My good friends, hell even my kid of friends, don’t do this, it is those people on the edge of things, the people in your orbit yet not close enough to you every day to say hello, you know the people I am talking about here. it starts with a little favor, then a bigger one, and so on until I gave that fucking bitch two grand and I didn’t even realize it until way too late. Or when I let that cunt move into my house, destroy a relationship, and kick ME out of MY house. All because I needed to be the White Knight riding to the rescue.

I have learned a few things over the years.

For starters, all of the People in My Heart are not helpless. I am never going to be their Obi-Wan, I am not only okay with this, but it is also a principal column of my sanity. When you make me realize that I am not SUPPOSED to help everyone, my mental health gets a massive boost and I can be as normal as whatever that word means to me.

These insidious motherfuckers though, they worm their way into me because I am about as soft a touch as ever has been. I assume they won’t lie to me, because, I mean, we’re people, right?

No, no we aren’t.

So yet again, and I know some of you are sick and tired of me having this epiphany, trust me, you are way less sick of it than I am of having it. Yet again I sit here with the decision made to, while not necessarily hardening my heart to those in need, perhaps inspect their motives just a little deeper, maybe ask a question or two. Why? Why Me? Why would you possibly need me to look up flight times when you have the internet?

Basic things.

My Tribe knows this does not apply to them, however, I am saying it so I can show them it does not. Friends help friends, it is a cornerstone of the whole word.

For now, more caffeinated bean beverage, maybe with a lot of extra wake up juice added.

Maybe meaning yes.