A Guide For The Professional Depressionist

I have been a depressed for many years and, though I have had many relapses, I feel that my experience has given me enough insight on how to be a professional depressionist. What is a depressionist, you ask? A depressionist is a person who knows that the purpose for which they live is to be entirely and tirelessly depressed. In fact, for this entire year I have been unfailingly committed to depression. As such, I am writing this guide for anyone who wishes to live out depression with commitment.

First, avoid sunlight. The sun is a bright, warm object that typically shows up in most parts of the world every day. It is a scientific fact that people who live in milder climates are typically less depressed. A good depressionist must avoid this. In fact, it is best to avoid the sky altogether, since even the moon and the stars at night may cause a shift in self-perspective which takes away from the many causes of depression (we'll get to how you can embrace those later).

In general, we must avoid all things that cause a complete change in any sensory experience. That is to say, no sense of ours must be overwhelmed or shocked by anything. Neither sight, sound, smell, taste, or touch should be affected in any dramatic sense. We must learn to live in a simply gray world, a world of distant unidentifiable noises, a world of slightly dirty air, a world where we only eat lukewarm water and a world where nothing is soft, hard, itchy, hot, cold, or comfortable. No orgasms, either. The best way to accomplish this is through a mindset of all thoughts leading to a state of aloneness resulting in a lifestyle that is filled with isolation and avoidance. Anything that interferes with such an experience is to be considered a sin if we are to become professional depressionists.

On the subject of sinning, we must mind ourselves to have the best of perspective judgments and the worst of history of wrongs. This is a difficult balance to accomplish since it is all one-sided. One good tip is to continually tell yourself that your memory is damn near perfect, well-rounded, and fair to all parties involved in it. In this way, you can both believe that you are intelligently judging yourself and constantly reminding yourself of all of your past failures. Another way to accomplish this is to simply believe that you embrace all forms honesty, especially with yourself. Hence, the best you can do is to remember all of those things that have turned you into the completely fucked up human being you are. Both of these tips will lead you directly into the seemingly bottomless abyss known to all professional depressionists as home.

Now, here are six practical skills you must learn to do every day to depressionize yourself. An easy acronym is to remember these by is B-L-A-H-H-H.

B – Blame Yourself
L – Loneliness
A – Avoidance
H – Hopelessness
H – Helplessness
H – Homely

In order now, we'll start with B, which stands for Blame Yourself. You must strive every day to be good, bad, great, stupid, etc. and for every day that you are not, you must blame yourself. For example, try to feel or act a certain way all day, like happiness or sadness or accomplishment, and when you cannot, Blame Yourself for all of it. Remember, you have the best of judgments and the worst of failures. Your perfectly recorded track record of everything in life speaks for itself. It's just that easy.

Next on the list is Loneliness, which is an emotion, and one that we must accomplish feeling whether there are people around or not. The key to controlling the Loneliness emotion is to pay close attention to your negative thoughts about yourself, others, and the world at all times. For example, if you are hurt or if someone is angry with you, then you probably deserve it. If you want to talk or be yourself with someone else, remember that no one you know can be completely trustworthy or loving. Besides, you don't really deserve such a person in your life anyway. In fact, no one in the world can be completely relied upon for anything. A simple fact to remember is that everyone is flawed (especially you) and as such, you shouldn't really be interacting with anybody. Loneliness has no one to affect or be affected by.

Avoidance is unavoidable on the road to depressional abyss. We've already talked about avoiding changes to your senses, but we can generalize this to avoiding everything in the world that is real. I recommend starting this practice by continually lying, exaggerating, being two-faced, fake, or just being an undiscoverable mystery. Children shouldn't talk to strangers and, since everyone pretty much is a stranger in one aspect or another, we should continue to practice that general rule as adults. A quick and short way to practice Avoidance is to become addicted to something that negatively alters either your mindset or activities. Become an alcoholic. Look up depressing websites. Look at or listen to things that remind you of painful memories. Whenever you start to barely feel discomfort, let it become instinctual for you to choose flight over fight, and keep running deeper into it.

Hopelessness can be a tricky thing, so I need to be quite clear here. In order to become truly hopeless, one must pay far more attention to the largest of hopes rather than the smallest. What are some of most heartfelt hopes you've had in the past that have never been fulfilled? Realize this absolute fact: hope is just a plan for future failure. Give it up like you did with drawing, painting, musicianship, or practice when you were young. For example, instead of hoping for a specifically small success today, hope that your entire day goes exactly as you want it to. Dream Big!!! You're virtually guaranteed some disappointment, which when dwelt upon dutifully, leads to those grand dark shadows below.

Helplessness is similar to Loneliness but with a slight twist. Despite all of the negative thoughts we maintain with regards to ourselves, others, and the world, sometimes we might be offered an opportunity for help with coming out of depression. In these times we must specify our negative thoughts towards the help we are being offered. For example, if we have an opportunity to pursue professional therapy, we must remember than every professional therapy must undergo psychotherapy themselves in order to practice therapy. So, if we're going to see a “professional” who lacks adequate experience in depression themselves, how can they possibly help? They cannot. Likewise, you are a very special and unique person, how can anyone possibly hope to understand you, much less help you? Specific negative thoughts about help are the butter to our burnt toast. It won't really help.

Acting Homely every day is probably the simplest and easiest task we can accomplish every single day. Picture an ugly, mutated duck and simply act like it. Shower? No. Brush your teeth? No need. Clean clothes? Fuck no. You're butt fuck ugly and nothing is going to change that. Constantly change your sleeping pattern so that you end up not even being able to pass a sobriety test. Homely is disgusting to all, and that's where the heart is.

Let's review: Avoid the sky and your senses. Believe yourself a master of memory and judgment. Have faith in negative thoughts about yourself, others, and the world. And finally, practice BLAHHH every day.

Happy Depressing,
The Professional

Fuck the World

That's right, fuck it. Fuck the World. Fuck the clicks. Fuck the society. Fuck the institutions. Fuck the culture. Fuck the lies. Fuck the religion. Fuck the rules, the norms, the mental illness, the foolishness, and the evil.

Yes, this is anger. Congrats, you're brilliant. Fuck you too. Fuck the psychology that recycles patients by brainwashing their perspective and releasing them back to an unfamiliar reality. Fuck you military tough fucks, you're more fucked up than any government, cult, or society that has ever existed anywhere. Fuck the asshole males, too fucked up to help themselves and throttling the nearest woman to fill their gravitational need of pheromones. Fuck the women that try to be saviors, especially, fuck them. Fuck their stupidity and their friendship that lasts only as far as the next guy or the previous. Fuck the saviors in general. There is no saving, no rescuing, no heroes in this world. You people need to get the shit kicked out of you just to realize how strong you are without this bullshit. Fuck you fuckers. You fuckers fuck up the fucked even more by fucking with them. Fuck the givers. “Givers”? Jesus Fucking Christ. Takers. Takers! You fucking take from everyone with your “help.” Shut the fuck up.

Fuck the friendships. Fuck the words. Fuck the actions. Fuck the daddy issues. Fuck the mommy issues. Fuck the issues in general. Fuck the whole fucking childhood. Fuck the past, the present, and the future. Fuck time. Fuck the questions. Fuck whether or not our souls live with us until we turn back into dirt or whether they leave us to go to another dimension altogether. Fuck the answers too. Go fuck yourselves.

Fuck the pain. Fuck the melancholy dust that settles on everyone's life each second they don't live up to expectations. Fuck the suffering. Fuck finishing this fucked up post.

Hopeless, Helpless, and Alone

For the past three days I have been wearing headphones. They are big muffs, very soundproof. I've been staring at a black rectangle, with a few smoke breaks, one meal, and some drinks of water in between. I have shut the world out of me, just as it has just me out. I have been squinting and squeezing my eyes so hard at times, but I still haven't been able to shed just one tear. I sit in my room with a box fan cooling me off while I sweat out the heat. When I go to bed, I point the breeze in my direction, so when I wake up from nightmares covered in sweat, I feel more sad than frightened.

On the black rectangle I watch things, things that keep my mind and senses out of my environment. Scary things, fighting things, mysterious things, alien things, unreal things. I switch between them pretty rapidly. My face feels like stone, sore for keeping the same position for so many days. My neglected facial hair, feet, armpits, clothes, ears, they itch. I feel as though I am going blind, both to color and the existence of all things. My mind feels dead and my body is functioning without any purpose, every day, all of the time. I have become disgusting, whether or not I was disgusted with myself before, I am now. Formerly, I was accused of many doing many bad things, including having mental problems. Some were true, but most were not. Some bad things they never knew of. My therapist once told me that I am now becoming and doing the very things they accused me of.

Speaking of, my former therapists described my current lifestyle as “avoidance” and “isolation.” These, they said, were symptoms of depression and anxiety. I am no longer allowed to see these therapists because they expelled me from their program. They said my smoke, coffee, and bathroom breaks were “avoidance” and “isolation.” These, they said, were symptoms of depression and anxiety I was apparently not supposed to have. Wait, just there, I just felt something. Anger. I guess that's good, right?

Now, I fear that it would cause me more trouble, and thus more pain, if I called for help. If I turned myself in to the proper authorities, what would they do? They would drug me, perhaps tie me up, sedate me. Once that happened, my recovery would take longer and it would be that much harder. Emergency service do me no good. Oh, how I wish I had a family I could talk to!!!!!! I wish I had people to empathize with me. To seek me out amongst the pain and torture devices that hold me, trap me, and keep me in solitude. I am locked in solitude, stuck, and without relief, or even hope of relief, from any direction, not even above. I am thrown myself off of the throne of grace, whether there was one to exist or not. I am angry that I have not been spared this ludicrous suffering. Damn them who could've spared me, and then damn myself, for I have no where else to go.

Ego Trip

I am a force to be reckoned. Everyone who meets me for the first time seems to know this immediately. I am both a lover and a fighter. Look at my history, my full resume of actions, and you will see this clearly. I have battled both the internal and the external. In college, I fought my philosophy professors who challenged the establishment of religion or theology in the modern world. At the same time, even just hours later, I would attend Bible study and challenge the notions of faith without knowledge, experience without insight, interpretation without perspective. I have few loyalties.

I can hurt people. I am dangerous, and make no mistake of understanding this, safety from me is never guaranteed. I was genetically hardwired as outrageously passionate, strong willed, and mindful. Give me a scholar, a scientist, or a theologian to fight and I will learn their weaknesses and expose them frankly. Hand me a machine, puzzle, or any tangle of knots that I have never before seen and I will see them through. Offer me one to love and I will pour onto them more affection than any poet with song or Buddhist with delightful appreciation. Offer me one to hate and I will go straight to the heart, the self-worth, and the futility of their life. I love a challenge. I would face any Goliath.

My attitude is unrealistic. I have lost more battles than I have won. I have scars, both internal and external. I fought a trained Rottweiler in 5th grade, leaving my arm and back permanently scarred. I have fought deep depression and hopelessness, leaving stretch marks of starvation and gluttony on my back, stomach, and legs. I have fought the bottle, emptying it into myself and flinging it into the street to hear it shatter. I have fought the pills, under blankets and in front of white coats. I have sent myself into more challenges than I can possibly survive, and yet, here I am.

I have stared into the abyss and the abyss has stared into me. I have spent days in absolute solitude with the question of why my life is worth living. Just opening my eyes and sensing the world around me, I have no doubt that I was made for it. Made, made in this exact way, for it. Even with personality altering drugs, hypnotherapy, professionals of identity that put me under a microscope and surgery, I am like I was made to be.

Radical Acceptance

This will be my most deliberate post. I will carefully consider each word, each phrase, each tone, each thought and emotion. This is a radical acceptance of my reality. It is a reality far from my approval, but that's what makes the acceptance so radical. This post might seem like I'm talking to myself, which I partially am, and which the reader might find partially boring. However, at very least it will be honest. This post will take some time. I might need to step away, to relax, to smoke, or to just breath. But I know I can do this. I have been writing my entire life. I have expressed my deepest pains, composed pages of complex philosophy, and even doodled a time when I had no words to describe it. I know I can do this.

I am in pain. I am in pain, but I'm learning not to suffer. I have been in pain before and the suffering came as a result of nonacceptance or judgment of it in my mind. Suffering, the conflict and obsession over the pain, prolongs itself. I learned this dysfunction early in my life, and I lived through it, just as I do so now. My parents, my family, my childhood, was an environment in which I was treated without respect, without understanding, and without support. I was the only boy. I was the adventurous one, the trouble-maker, the risk taker, the rebellious one, the inappropriate one, and the one who did not belong. I have so many memories of events reinforcing these hurts that I have blocked them from my memory, with the only way to retrieve them being a partial hypnosis therapy. I was surrounded by a family of girls and was trained to be emotionally sensitive and vulnerable. The transaction between my family's invalidation and my emotional vulnerability made for a disastrous self-esteem. It left scars. It left me hungering for validation, attention, respect, and love.

Some people would not have reacted this way. Most people would probably have reacted differently. But they are not me. I reacted this way, and in this way I grew up. I grew up with strong passions, emotionally adventurous and vulnerable, looking for love. I grew up strong willed, forcing myself to live up to the highest standards, looking for validation. I grew up smart, thinking, reading, writing, listening, and talking my way towards respect. I grew up with silliness and humor, blissful in attention. I grew up with scars. These scars made me who I was, my baseline personality. At times, they are both my strengths and weaknesses.

The circumstances I faced going to war played heavily on both my strengths and weaknesses. Unfortunately, most of my experiences hit me hardest where I was most vulnerable. Treated without respect, without understanding, and without support. For this I felt ashamed, a flawed and failed soldier, and one who did not belong, like I was taught to feel. It left scars. I have many memories of events reinforcing these hurts that I have blocked from my memory, only coming to me in flashbacks and nightmares. Because of this, and like before, I need help. I need the help I learned to pursue through friends when family could not provide it. I need the help I secretly pursued on my own through professional therapy, because I was ashamed. I need the help of an emotionally challenging adventure and success. For this, to grow up once again, I need both my strengths and weaknesses.

It has been six months since my return from war and I have made little progress save for the past month or so. Group therapy, four different therapists, three days in a psych ward, and hours of my own research. Two medications to help me sleep, one to disarm my nightmares, one to partially sedate me during the day, and another to alter my depressed mood. After going through more types of medication than I can remember, I have somewhat settled on the right combo. After experimenting with various types of therapy and therapists, I have somewhat settled on what works for me. With a cocktail of powerful medication and a therapy mix of dialectic philosophy and Buddhist meditation, I am coming to rediscovering my baseline. I learned my unique strengths from my unique weaknesses. Some people would not have reacted this way. Most people probably would have reacted differently. But they are not me.

Face The Reality

I don't know if I'll ever get back to the way I was, and the truth of that fact is more than I can bare. I can barely remember it now. I think Hell is a place where one day delivers enough pain to make you feel like you've been there for eternity and lost yourself. So traumatic that nothing else matters, nothing else can be remembered, and nothing else can be felt.

The doctors: the psychiatrists, psychologists, even the orthopedic specialists, all of them, tell me that I will probably never be the same. Not that same is what I want, just that I expected to grow in a positive way, rather than become partially insane. My personality is undergoing a complete transformation into God knows what. I am afraid of myself. To say that I don't know myself would be an almost sadistic comment. I have no idea who I even was, who I am, or who I will be. I am scared of all of the answers to those questions. I simply do not want to be me.

I am stuck in the Grand Canyon rut of personal identity. What I feel and what I think battle each other like they're in the most righteously desperate of wars over the truth of me. The feeling side is winning by a dramatic margin. I fear that I have lost everything that I was, everything that I am, and everything that I will be. I used to be so many things, so many things that so many people thought were good, and each of them I now mourn as if my soul has given up all attachments and I am now left with this pathetic shell of a person.

I have run out of tears many times this week over marathon hours of shedding them. My eyes are sore, left with the salty crystals, blurry vision, and rashes from rubbing away my times of reflection. I have forgotten how to smile, swallow, and sometimes breath. I am beset with the effects of fucking up my life for no good reason. It grieves me so deeply. So deep, that I feel it without even thinking. So deep, that I could reflect on it all day and never feel it fully.

This faceless depression seems to be of a different strain that I am used to dealing with. It is confusing and painful in way that pain is not usually felt; not with a clarity of mind, but a clouding of all senses. Any pleasure I feel tends to rot so quickly that I barely remember experiencing it. And I know it is this breed of depression that makes me cast a dark perspective shadow, and that I have no control over it, but I wish I could just face it. I wish I could just face the reality of my life.

No Thanks, I'd Rather Hide

Under a blanket, under a tree
Under a rock beside a stream
Under a bed, with a skirt
Under the neck of my t-shirt

In a cave, with a narrow mouth
Under the sand with a straw sticking out
In a bottle, with a cork
Covered in straw with a pitchfork

Behind a computer, behind a desk
Under the desk beneath the foot rest
Wrapped in toilet paper, in the shower
Playing video games past the hour

In the coffee pot, with dark roasted blend
Somehow between the paper and the pen
Between two cups, stacked in each other
Under the feathered ass of a finch's mother

In a shell, in a shelter
In an asylum with white-washed helpers
Under a log, in a fire
Warm and cozy in the highest spire

No thanks, I'd rather hide
Than get up and go outside

Hold On, Just Hold On

These were my last therapists words to me just before I left her office. I'm beginning to think that therapists are not as much like doctors as I originally thought. I do not mean to insult the profession, but there is much that many therapists do not understand. Like lovers. Unlike listeners. In fact, I have had more therapists than I've had lovers and less listeners than I've had therapists.

The story for me now is that I'm holding on. Holding on and reaching out. I've begun to dabble again into spiritual experiences, which in the past, have provided much healing and peace for me. I'm currently reading two books: one on prayer and the other on listening. I just now realized there has been a hole in my approach to prayer even more so than there has been in my past listening skills.

Here is how I reasoned it: Prayer to God often comes in the form of somewhat grocery lists of needs and desires. After all, God is there to help us, no? On the other hand, listening comes in the form of selflessly minding the other's thoughts and feelings to the point that one forgets their own and focuses on the speaker. Now, given that God (or whatever you call him or her) is the foundation for truth, and that he or she also has a will for us in the form of love, why is there so little listening in prayer?

I know it sounds weird. I mean, what do you tell a person who says God speaks to them? Do you ask them the secret of their drug cocktail? I would certainly feel that way. That is to say, I would feel that way if I were completely sane and had all of my shit together. Egos spike quite higher when they are stepping on others. But I don't, and I'm not, so on we go.

What would happen if we took time to get comfy and pray. Who in their right mind says prayer has to be some sort of ritualistic recital? Get comfy, quite down, and listen to God. If he is who he claims to be, then he will speak to you. If he is not, or simply doesn't give a shit, then you'll hear nothing. And it is here that I need to make a distinction. A simple one, between, let's say, eastern and western religious philosophies.

What I propose in the above paragraph can only be done with a Judeo-Christian approach. Most eastern religions require the emptying of one's self in prayer, detachment from all things, and a sort of raising up or branching out of the mind to relate. In the western Judeo-Christian approach, prayer requires the filling up of one's self with God, a deep dependence on him, and a sort of selfish focus wherein God reaches out and in to you. Not exactly Sunday school stuff, but I thought I'd make the distinction.

So, given a God who is truth, who loves us, and wants to help us, I neglect to see why listening to God in prayer could be considered as absurd as I once thought it was. Imagine actively listening to the Truth. Empathizing with an almighty heart that loves you. Reflecting those emotions as though they were a person speaking to you and you were giving them their full attention, complete with reflecting facial expressions, tones of voice, ears filled with their intention.

I know I am reaching here. Reaching out, holding on, just holding on. But I might, just might, actually believe this.

Reckless Endangerment

I think my death will be rather violent. Call it morbid curiosity or just wishful thinking. I do not want to arrive safely at my end. Whether it come while I'm in a bed or in some foreign country, I'm not expected a peaceful transition to wherever or whatever comes.

My body will probably be covered in scars and tattoos from life. I'll probably be screaming, either something like "Yee-haa!" or "Oh, shit!" Not all of my senses will be working correctly since most will have been overused and maltreated during the course of my life. My hands and feet will be callused more than most fire walkers and construction workers. My skin should have parts where hair no longer grows as it used to. I'd better arrive at this finish line with more than one broken bone and torn muscle. I hope I can eat damn near anything. My ears should have at least 50% less capability than when I was born, while my eyes should have at least 50% more. I hope I will have some permanently dislocated knuckles from good fights and tweaked ankles or knees from good hikes. All in all, I want to be damn near broken.

Let's see. I want to have loved and lost, loved and won, and sometimes barely loved at all. I want to have deep laugh lines, tear trails, some frowned-out areas, and experience scars. I want to have felt every emotion, deep and broad, for a long period of time. My heart should be just about worn out by the time I reach my end. Perhaps that's how I will die, who knows? When I start laughing my last, crying my last, or making any inadvertent noise whatsoever, it might just give out. My heart will have been torn and rejoined, stepped on and puffed up, gloomy and glimmering. It will have beaten more and faster than any athlete, slower and more purposeful than any monk. I want my heart to ache, yet be soft and easily humored, just like I want my eyes.

I could probably edit this and add more (and I still might), but there it is so far. I want to be utter worn out when I die, ending as helpless but more helpful than I began it.

ABC Worksheet - Homework #2

This is going to be ironic. You'll see. My last therapy session I was given an "ABC Worksheet" to fill out every day. Under the "A" section for "Activating Event" I am supposed to write about something that happens, under the "B" section for "Beliefs" I am supposed to write about what I tell myself about the event, and under the "C" section for "Consequences" I am supposed to write about how I feel.

Two things you should know. First, I take two milligrams of Klonopin per day. I am also on Paxil, which as you will note, gives you cravings for alcohol. Second, I am not supposed to drink alcohol, both due to the drugs and the moral impression I give my "support system" about my recovery. So, let's begin with the worksheet for today.

Currently, I've had two Captain and Cokes on ice and feeling pretty damn good about myself. Not really, that's a lie, I feel terribly guilty because I am drinking.

Section A - Activating Event: I am drinking and want to drink more.

Section B - Beliefs: I am an alcoholic. I am an unlikeable loser and failing recovery. I should be stronger (I am a soldier after all), but I am quite pathetic as both a civilian and a soldier.

Section C - Consequences: I feel guilty and ashamed. I feel used. I feel out of control of myself and deserving of disregard and disrespect.

See the irony yet? I have a problem with drinking and wanting to drink so I'm drinking and writing about wanting to drink. On a piece of paper. On a blog. Is this really treatment??? Seems silly. But we're not done.

At the bottom of the ABC Worksheet are two questions. The first is this: "Are my thoughts in 'B' realistic?" Now, how do I really answer this? I'm on drugs that give me cravings for alcohol, yet I shouldn't drink, and so I feel guilty about it. I'm on drugs that give me these cravings, bad ones. So, I think I should honestly answer "Yes, I am a medicated, functional alcoholic." Now, who exactly and "realistically" likes functional alcoholics? Who thinks they are making progress in recovery? For whatever root reason, alcoholics drink to cover it up or coop with it, as do I. Now, who ever felt that alcoholics were decent citizens? Not me, I pity them. Like I do myself, I guess. Or perhaps I'm being too polar with the issue. Whatever. I need a refill, straight up this time, before I get to the next question.

Ok. How can I avoid thinking section "B" in the future?

....

I don't know.
I just talked to both my sister and my mother about this question. Both of whom agree that I do not know how to be loved. They're concerned and want to help me, but I just don't know how to accept their help. Great. I guess I'll just wait for the therapist to tell me.