Returneth From The Drudgery Of Isolation, In Isolation, I Isolated Myself In.

Let’s try this.

Writing is hard. Not currently, that is a completely different beast. I mean in general. To look into the depths of your stewing think box and extract the exact right verbiage for the situation and to connect over and over again. It is a thankless process too, nothing in me feels an endorphin rush if I do the thing I want to do, it is more knowing that I did the thing that will release me from the panic that slowly starts to build as the words pile inside of me like grain in a silo that is just about full and no market to send it to.

It is not completely without merit mind you, knowing that I have placed a thought, especially a happy one, into someone’s head is a delight for me. I write in a very particular way that people seem to humble me by enjoying, so I try to do my best for myself and them and produce that which I feel would make all of us the happiest we can be with the situation.

You’ve heard the half-hundred metaphors I have used for the words and stories in my head. From the ever-popular airplanes to the less spectacularly worded ‘fuckton-o-things’. They are always there and when they are not pressing against me like a surging tide, they are slowly gathering more and more of themselves so the next wave of them might just break over the lip of the wall of my brain and end up just like the ones you are glancing at now.

I am overly wordy, it is a choice and not a curse. I always have felt the need to say in fifty words what could be said with a non-verbal nod of assent or even an extended middle finger on both hands, preferably after a clever pun about turning something up. I like to see words flow across the page and enjoying them like a multi-course meal that finishes with the perfect dessert of point, or a comical lack of one. It is not for everyone and to them I wish fair feedings at a restaurant that serves their choice of fare, this is mine and I will serve and enjoy what I like, no exceptions.

This morning, which I am fairly certain is a Sunday, the children I call waterfowl are quietly entertaining themselves and the grumpy old man has yet to come down from on high to impart sagacious wisdom on the youth of the world whilst simultaneously telling them to extract forthwith from his front grass patch. Given the state of affairs, it is going to be the same day it has been for months now, and I suppose it is okay because trying to make it anything else is a catastrophe waiting to happen.

My head is firmly attached and, with a little help from a Dragon I know, even shrunk a little. I got a fairly decent amount of sleep so I even feel vaguely human for the first time in a fair bit. Now mind you the cocktail of medicinal powders and tablets I consumed last evening cannot, at all, be repeated for at least another 10 hours, so let us hope the facade of mental and physical health holds up to scrutiny for at least that long.

Speaking of cocktails, while it is a little early for one as I am writing this, mayhap I shall treat myself to one this evening if the pain has not escalated to biblical, don’t look back, proportions. If it has, well, there are always the days that end in Y that come after this one to look forward to.

Tomorrow, with a lot of caveats, I am going to try creativity again and see if I can produce something that I am vaguely happy with. I will try a new thing, as I am wont to do because there are no expectations if I start with a blank canvas.

I’ll also talk about the other thing tomorrow is other than Memorial Day, a very, very not-so-good thing that I need to talk about from time to time.

One thing at a time though.

RAWRZ

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.

IF I Were A Betting Man, Which I Am In The Worst Possible Way, I Imagine I Would Be Seeing A LOT Of Posts From the Overly Caffeinated Bear Today

It’s funny how many people are doctors when you are afflicted with a thing they believe they know more about than you do. As awkward as the timing is of me writing this, this has nothing to do with the current COVID health crisis, know it is the usual rant that we are going to go into today.

It’s not just a headache. It has never been just a headache. It will never be just a headache. It is not a take a Tylenol and suck it up buttercup situation. It is not something that I can always just power and pose my way through until I get to the safety of my bathroom floor or bedroom darkness.

In the last couple of months, I have been getting a lot better at not retreating like a turtle when it hurts at a certain point. I am. However, when all you can think of is vomit and death, maybe that is when you need to go and lie down for a few and see if you can reset the cranium case to a vaguely normal level.

No, I will not go into how bad it hurts, or any of that. You have ignored me for more than a decade, I think perhaps you would have got the point if you were going to get it by now. So, instead of shaming you and educating you like I have been doing all this time, I am going to pivot in my head, stop writing about this and tell you a plan I have.

I am getting 18 bottles of wine tomorrow because that is what awesome is experienced as by us lowly motherfucking mortals. Terry ordered some bad-ass cheeses that came in just the other day and I am going to act all fancy and shit and have a fucking cheese tray with sweet, literally and otherwise, ass wine for dinner tomorrow night and there is nothing you can do about it because I am a motherfucking adult and if I want to have wine for dinner I fucking will.

The next morning, I will be recording my impressions of the wine in a jovial and light-hearted manner and there is also nothing you can do to prevent me from doing this because that would infer I give a fuck about what you think in regards to my recording preferences.

In addition, like a Warrior Princess I know, I am all up in a Serial Killers podcast and am horrifyingly and yet refreshingly surprised that there are as many of them as there are. That and all sorts of other shit I have been meaning to listen to for goddamn years and for some reason my unemployed ass thought I had “no time” for. Fuck all of that shit in its shiny metal ass. Notice my proper lack of apostrophe use in the last instance of “its”, yeah, English bitches.

In case you hadn’t notice, the goddamn caffeine kicked in about paragraph five and it is fucking on now.

I talk to all of you that I can damn near every single day. Every single one I can. Yup, I forget to message you sometimes, or sometimes I have some shit going on, but most of the time it is me messaging you because that is what I do and anyone who has ever smiled at the stupid RAWRZ! I send every morning makes my motherfucking day. I never actually expect anyone to respond right away, I mean, you are busy people doing busy people things, I GET IT, I do.

Lonely Island is an awkwardly awesome motivator, but now I am on to Lil Jon and LMFAO with Shots so it is on, in all the best ways things can be indeed not off. A hundred some-odd decibels of music an inch or so from your eardrum is probably bad, but you only live, well, however many times it is now, right? It will be Confusion by New Order with that sweet Remix action.

Oh yeah, to get back to the beginning. Yes, I still have a fucking migraine, but in the spirit of doing my life a little differently, I am ignoring the best I can and enjoying my goddamn morning to the motherfucking fullest.

RAWWWWRZ

Processes

It is a Sunday. On Sundays, there is football and scrambling to finish the things that have to happen before the crush of Monday morning. It is a normally relaxing day though. The little laundry that has to be done is usually done long before the end of the evening and the day comes to a very comfortable and gradual end. Everyone heads off to the domains of isolation we all crave to some degree throughout the day and eventually sleep takes us all and the cycle begins all over again, except this time without the two weeks off that they have just had.

I usually head up earlier than everyone. My head is usually doing something awful that time of night because my body knows it is time for more medication and, like the addict I have ever been, I shovel the handful of pharmaceuticals into my mouth and swallow a quart of water and lay flat on my bed and stare at the weird crack in the ceiling that is somehow exactly ninety degrees with nothing over it to pus down on it. If you have ever been to my room you know exactly what I am talking about.

I don’t count sheep or do math problems in my head anymore to try and get to sleep. I just let my brain do the things it needs to do to wind down to the point where I can close the door quietly to my conscious mind and slip down the back stairs to the subconscious and get a few hours of rest before I hear the alarm and run back to reality and get everyone.

Sometimes I play the game where I rethink all the life decisions that I made and see where I would be if I hadn’t. Other times I try and pretend I died and see what everyone else would be like without me there to be an influence on them. Other times I win the lottery and spend as much as I can in my head before the farce of it all catches up with me and jolts me back to reality like a choke chain on an unsuspecting dog on a walk. Most of the time though, I think about all of you.

I think about the times we have had together, the times I hope we have together and the times I know I can never have, but think about anyway because no one ever said I was a smart and sane man.

I sit down in front of the keyboard like I am now, I pick a single song and play it over and over again in my head to help me love myself in my thoughts. Today it happens to be Mr. Brightside by The Killers. Most days it is something by Otep, Green day has been a pretty heavy favorite as of late as well.

I write the words. Sometimes they are pretty, sometimes they are my heart laid bare and no matter what they are I can feel the stress of things leaving my body if only for a few minutes as I write things and I can feel my lungs try and finally take that deep lungful of air that my true self never knew I needed until I took it.

That’s my process. That’s my day. My night. My Always.

Vampires, Migraines and Writing. A Normal Saturday I Suppose

.Worry not, Thankfulness is not over, I just need a day or two to compile thoughts into a coherent form, until then, you get the normal inane blathering that I give you and that should slake the blood lust raising from the coiled beast within that threatens to violate the tenants of the Masquerade and bring the full force of the Camarilla as they order your final death.

Sorry, I have been reading my White Wolf library and Vampire: The Masquerade was this morning’s selection. I mean, it is pretty words I suppose but there is a certain substance to the whole thing that is missing to the thing, on the whole, however, that is a conversation for the three people in the world who may care about my feelings on that matter.

I do hope all of the Gentle Readers out there had a pleasant holiday, I am still enjoying the being able to wake up after a quarter to four thing. Although I was up before then today, then again I also went to bed at six last night because my brain was rebelling again. It is calmed somewhat, if not gone. The Excedrin Migraine certainly helps a little, even though it butchers my stomach something awful if I take it without food. Mind you, as I write this I am taking it with a large cup of coffee and no food, so just because I know I should not does not mean that I will not.

The little folk are up and ranging about, I have already written about a story about the darkness that is in Prague’s Old Town. I am drinking coffee, college football is later and, no matter what my brain tells me, it is indeed not Sunday, but instead the day before that, Saturn’s Day.

I think I will write some fictional things today. Siobhan was spoken of yesterday, but only in passing and she is not a fan of being a secondary character in anyone’s story. I will punch myself in the head and see what other goodies come out and see if they are worthy of writing down.

I guess, for now, I will go back to pretending I care what my computer looks like and clicking on links that may or may not lead to the eventual deletion of all my worldly data stores.

Rawrz