Downs

Listening is hard. Watching and absorbing and witnessing a person's experience as they're recalling it to you is taxing, especially if their experience creates an automatic emotional response in you. To remain objectively non-judgmental and yet remain involved in the conversation is nearly impossible in close relationships. Listening to a person with depression and anxiety, when they're having a severe episode of either, cannot be done in my family. I keep hoping then relearning this painfully. It's so much easier to listen to someone's problems when you've already judged them for what they're doing wrong to cause said problems, patiently waiting for them to stop talking so you can tell them. This is why I read. This is why I write so very little and am afraid to write. Goddamn judgment and advice and "here's what I or someone I know did when they went through this" is as personal as it gets in my environment. They must think the "shoulds" and "should nots" make you do "good" things which make you feel "good" and then you'll be "good", which is why approval and disapproval are the only form of communication that seems appropriate in times of distress.

I went up to be with my sister as she was due to give birth to her new daughter last week. I wasn't particularly involved, trying to get space and withdraw as much as possible to avoid attention and advice. Since I was actively trying to kill myself two weeks ago, which was both simultaneously encouraged and stopped by my parents, things have been a little tense. (That's not a cry for help, kindly don't treat it like one). I started reading a few books on depression and mental illness in general, which has provided some relief in that it occupies my mind with a sense of familiarity to the pain. I can listen to the stories of others, knowing that nothing they're doing is causing them to feel like absolute shit. I understand the drugs, treatment, substance abuse, revolving door doctors, shit relationships and all of it without judgment. I provide for the words of a book the way I wish my words were provided for, and it's a relief.

However, something happened up there that shocked my family more than me. My sister's daughter was born with Downs Syndrome. We all learned about it one day after the birth. My brother-in-law cried immediately and I shortly followed, but the rest of the eyes in the room were dry. My parents and my sister didn't shed a tear. This is how my family deals with things, we don't admit them, because the first to admit emotions is the one who needs help, is the weak one, and needs to be told what they should do about it, which solves everyone's problems. Later that day my dad talked on the phone with the rest of the family, telling them in a rather optimistic and upbeat voice the diagnosis and that things were going to be fine, but explaining that my brother-in-law was having a harder time with it than the rest of us because "he was crying and pretty upset". Hahaha!! Bull-fucking-shit. That's when I started laughing out loud, which was only just behind the smile that I wanted to have on when I first heard the news about the baby. They looked at me like I was nuts.

Non-depressed people will find this absolutely selfish and abhorrent. That I felt a sense of relief at seeing my family get hit with heartbreaking news. That I wanted to smile and laugh at the idea that their severe sadness was coming appears sadistically sick. It was a victory for me, for emotions, for depression. I wanted to smile from ear to ear and say, "It's coming for you. Welcome to my world." It was a relief that something was causing sadness instead of purposelessness. That an actual real event was sucking the energy from you, slipping motivation from under your feet, gnawing away at your self-esteem that you should be doing something about this but are unable to. How simple to understand! How easily unembarrassing and unshameful! I was quite smug. I wanted to ask them, "I'll bet you wished you knew how I felt and dealt with things now. Don't you wish you would've listened better?"

My sister went into her best mode of compassion with herself, admitting she was in shock and thinking about what she did or did not do "good" to make her not feel "good" and have things not be "good". My parents trying to reassure themselves that nothing was wrong and that we can "work through" this. Grief was felt as a strange companion, as though it's an unwelcome fly to what should be a joyous occasion. Somewhere they know grief is the guest of honor and perfectly fits with the situation, but those who acknowledge it are "having a harder time with it than the rest of us" like my brother-in-law. Their motives are good, they care and are trying to care and that's worth something, but not at the expense of acknowledging the poor effects of it all.

Funny enough, these events resulted in me being treated a bit better. They're not asking constantly me with concerned looks what I'm doing today, nor are they trying as much to not-so-subtly manipulate me into doing what I "should" be doing (Gee, isn't it a beautiful day outside! It's a great day to go shooting/hiking/running/play soccer!! What are you doing today Ben???). I'm left alone instead of having my status ground into me like a bad report card. I'm reading more about depression, sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop, listening, and finally now writing. Quite poorly, but writing.

Moving Out

Eight weeks ago I was laying on my couch all day. My kitchen sink was clogged, the garbage disposal broken. Dishes were piled up and growing fauna with the heat. The vacuum was sitting upright in my living room, but hadn't been used in months. Sunflower seed casings surrounded the floor around my bed due to late night dinners that were never cleaned up. Laundry lined one wall with no means to wash it because my washing machine was broke. Computer/electronic leftovers taken from piddling tinker ideas lined another wall. A chair was overflowing with junk mail. I was downloading movies and TV shows to watch all day when I realized I was stuck.

Saying "I'm depressed" can mean many things. It can mean "This sucks" or "I'm sad" or "I'm overwhelmed" or "I don't know what to do with my life". Common phrasing usually indicates an existential crisis, not a mental disorder. It almost never means what it should: "I have depression." I'm totally fucking disabled to do or think anything. In my opinion, no one should ever admit to a mental illness because the "outside world" misunderstands that someone with a mental illness is crazy. That we have a fundamental life fault. Loving intentions from family and friends use the phrase "I'm depressed" in the same meaning, despite their intention to help. For reference and fun, see this post from Hyperbole and a Half. Basically, I have no reason for being the way I am, but I am depressed. No excuse. No reason. No chemical imbalance. No medication. No drug addiction. All guilt. All shame. All embarrassment. All the time.

Help cannot be found or even sought for when you're stuck. You need a first. You need to feel severe pain or severe pleasure to shake you from the mental mud. The first step is a step backwards. Destroy something, shock yourself, boom the immediate. Your first step is necessary but cannot be used except as a first step (so they say) it must be cut off immediately after taking your second. Alcohol, drugs, jumping in ice water, kicking someone's ass, etc.

I destroyed my pride and called my parents for help. I boomed the immediate by throwing away almost everything I owned. Then I moved just to get unstuck.

Bad Therapy is Bad

When you know what you should be doing but you're not doing it, someone telling you what you should be doing is not helpful. Likewise, someone telling you to think positive thoughts whilst avoiding negative thoughts because it's better for you is not helpful. Telling someone to do good things and not do bad things is not helpful. Telling someone to exercise and take pills to solve their problems is not helpful. Telling someone that they're choosing to listen to their "bad self" as opposed to their "inner self" is not helpful. Telling someone they're choosing to continue to be abused by people in their past is not helpful. Telling someone their lack of faith in God is a choice for treatment that they're neglecting is not helpful.

I was told all of these things by my therapist today. There is so much more fucked up shit that he told me as advice, not to mention the emotional support I gave him to deal with his grief from his wife.

It's funny that people are told to tell suicidal people to "seek help" when the help available is so full of shit. Think positive! The Lord provides! You'll only not believe unless you choose to, then it's your fault. Fix yourself, you can do it! Your inner self is awesome but you're choosing to listen to the devil inside you!

Fuck these therapists.

Note

The situation has gone beyond critical. "Suicidal ideation" was just the initial stages. I guess this is one of the many suicides notes I've already written in my mind tonight. I'm sorry is all I can think to say.

I'm glad in a way because no one will have to deal with what I've done with my life any more. I'm glad the pain will go away and that I don't have anyone to pass it on to. I'm sorry because I know the impact this will cause on people who care about me, who tried to care about me, but despite their best efforts couldn't help. But at least their pain will be temporary. Their grief will come and go and eventually fade. But the pain will end.

My pain doesn't have an end. It comes and goes and stays. It lingers in the good times and crushes me violently in the quiet normal. It's like I've exposed myself to a fatal disease from the risks I've taken and now I'm trying to bleed myself healthy. I'm just choosing to end it with the ultimate transfusion. It's either this or a permanent IV with regular happy chemo for the rest of my life, just being miserable but alive, which is somehow the "good" way to do it.

What can describe this? Pushing a snow shovel in a straight line until you're in a tunnel so deep and dark you've forgotten the color white. I cannot remember the last time I was happy, except when I was last good and drunk, but that only makes me feel guilty. It's like I slowly became a meth/heroin/coke addict but my drug dealer is my own brain. Understanding would be nice, but that seems to much to ask for. I can't even explain how painful this is.

Seek help they say. Well, fuckers, what haven't I tried yet? Any drug cocktail mixed with some type of group/individual in/out-patient therapy I haven't done? Did a new edition of the same book come out? I don't know how many times I've rolled this stone up the hill, but I don't think anyone could hold it against me for long that I finally just let it roll me over. Suicide may be painful for others, purely hedonistic for me, but one thing it's not is immoral.

Every Doctor Thinks I'm Compromised

This is a sweet satisfying confession. Everyone I know, everyone who claims to know me, everyone involved in my life; believes I'm either an alcoholic or a prescription drug addict. This is my fault as I confessed as much to everyone as part of my treatment. Once an addict, always an addict. This is one of the 12 steps. Addiction is a disease, right? Unfortunately no, no it's not. Confessing to being an addict was a part of my treatment, but it wasn't part of my disease. Let me explain.

I can list the prescription medications that I've been prescribed on/off again since I joined the Army in 2006. I can tell you how many loved ones I've confessed depression/anxiety/addiction to. I can tell you I've been in treatment for depression/suicide many times after my Army deployment. I can tell you how many insane asylums I've been in since 2009.

I've been addicted to over 16 different prescription medications since 2008, none of which were classified as "addictive" by my doctors. I've seen 21 different doctors who prescribed these 16 "non-addictive" medications to me, despite my specific requests to not be prescribed "addictive" medications. All 21 of these doctors prescribed or renewed these medications, which I became addicted to. Treatment didn't work for 4 fucking years. All of my doctors forbid me from drinking alcohol as a treatment to withdraw my medications. I drank alcohol anyway and withdrew from all of my medications.

In other words, FUCK. YOU. ASSHOLES.

As of today, August 8th 2012 I am no longer addicted to any medications. I haven't swallowed a single one of my 16 pills since May 2012. EVERY DOCTOR SAID I WOULD DIE IF I STOPPED THESE PILLS. I've been drinking alcohol to cope with the extremely body withdrawal bag of mind-dicked shit fucking goddammit asshole 16 pills I've been taking for 4 chucklefucking years. I ignored it. I ignored 21 doctors and began to withdraw from my 16 medications from April of last year to begin this process. I hung-up their phone calls, trashed their letters, ignored their prescription bills, wrote off their threats of cancellation of insurance/treatment, disregarded their "no-cost" offers of admittance to their psyche ward, etc. In other words, I've been in pain for months, without "doctor" help, and I'm proud of it.


I AM PRESCRIPTION DRUG FREE. No doctor can say I have not been through any known treatment. No doctor can say I haven't been on any particular pill. No doctor can bill me for a prescription. Name a drug, I've been on it. Name a VA/Army doctor, I've seen them. Name a psych ward in San Diego, I've been committed there. I've succeeded and I'm proud.

No one can say I haven't pursued help.

Introvert Time

The only other single person left in my entire family, up to and including my third cousins, just got out of surgery for her breast augmentation. I've been at my parents' house for just four days this Easter holiday and I'm already grasping at straws for self-worth. Don't get me wrong, I love my sister's/cousins'/extended family's in-laws. We get along great and I enjoy their company. But what the fuck can I do about the criticism and judgment coming from all of my aunts/uncles/parents/older generations?

For example, I'm sitting here typing a new blog post on a computer while the rest of the extended family is out to restaurant lunch. A lunch that was announced at 10:30am by my mother. A lunch many people invited me to. A lunch that many people reminded me of. All of this before 11:00am. I didn't want to go to because I enjoy wearing pajamas all day. An invite-rejection lunch that received glares of concern and vocal disapproval of my desire to be alone. Mothers, sisters, uncles, cousins, and in-laws all voiced their negative feedback of me staying at home.

I've been with these fuckers and all EIGHT of their kids, for four days straight without a single conscious moment alone. The only time I've been alone is during sleep. Some of the diaper changes I've done would make Satan proud (honestly, I've never seen a person shit more than they could paint of their body weight. Have you ever seen a person create a volcano of shit from their asshole to their neck? I did yesterday.). Leaking diapers, sheets and clothes soiled in piss, milk/formula bottles constantly being filled and washed, hundreds of toys that lose interest after 5 seconds, naps that cannot be predicted, maintaining a cheerful and patient disposition at all times, and I grilled up a lobster/steak dinner for the adult family just last night. And yet, I'm not allowed to be left alone for lunch today?

Granted, fitting-in has never been a part of my repertoire. But I absolutely love my family of kids. A quote from the oldest kid in my extended family this weekend, "Uncle Ben is my favorite person. He cuddles good." I don't care who you are, when a child announces that to the entire family during Easter dinner, it's a heart-melting moment. Why don't the adults in family understand such a simple analysis? What greater maturity do they have that a child cannot see?

It's because of my honest flaws: I'm single and not going through surgery to enhance myself. I'm a prescription drug addict. An alcoholic. A blunt asshole. I've been in therapy. I've told my family these things. My hair is cut too short in some places and too long in others. I don't consider myself a Christian as they do, even though I still believe in much the same things. My morals, ethics, traditions, and culture are flexible without personal motive. In short, I didn't follow the my older generation's advice and while the rest of my family does, I'm left out in the open. Without penis/breast implants.

Last conclusion, I need to refocus on my self-confidence and self-esteem while I'm here. So, I just went out and bought some strong cigarettes, two bottles of liquor, and a few computer/electronic parts to work on for my parents. Once the family gets back from lunch I'm going to take care of the children and tell the adults to fuck off while I use my introvert time. Let them gossip and dramatize everything they want while I enjoy what they deny should exist. Am I the only introvert or just the only male in my family? If my family actually learned from their own children rather than "raising" them, they would understand both their children and me better. I really don't understand what the fuck is going on with them.

Happy Times

Happy times are good days; an accumulation of the good hours of minutes of moments when you detach from those things that make you feel bad to enjoy what makes you feel good. For a few in a row you do whatever pleases you. I think it's important to remember these times. In fact, it might be the biggest lesson learned in life that one remembers the good times over the bad. To not have regret and guilt over present events is "responsibility" as our parents taught us. Tricky though it is to trump shame for presently feeling good about something previously done bad, it's worth the sacrifice. Nothing is better than using your present abilities for good. In short, we live our lives during the moment between inhale and exhale, between breaths and moments. I hope that makes sense to you.

Whenever I look in the mirror I see way more than I wish, but both you and everyone does. This is why we try to change. I've seen dogs and cats puzzling to do the same. I see everyone I know wanting to be seen for more than they are. It seems sad at first, then humorously silly, then overwhelmingly pointless, and finally greatly satisfying. It's satisfying to me because it's expected and absurdly normal, as in not alone, not average, but simple and understandable. I see those things that I love in others and it makes me loveable. We have so much common with our sadly silly pointless simplicity.

But it is difficult being such a unique specimen so different to my environment. I'm perfectly lonely, but still alone. For example, I currently feel the sudden urge to throw a bunch of glass bottles at my neighbors satellite dish just to see if I can hit it. I also want to build a rifle from scratch, including smelting the metal into forged molds for all of the parts, just to see if I can do it. I want to create and destroy just about everything I see and touch. I want to play extremely. I want live extremely and I won't settle for less.

In fact I don't think anyone wants to settle for less than their extreme expectations of desire. They're motivated beyond the mirror image that they see and want. But I have yet to meet someone who can match my life expectancy. The girls I have known and loved have settled for way less than me. My friends and family are consistently shocked by the events and beliefs I enact with passionate devotion. Such amazing irony! It's a shame I cannot trust their love because they don't understand me.

If you're like me, no one will ever know you better than you know yourself. But you are not like me and you never can be, figure out your identity and let it ride out into maturity. Happy times will find you easy as anyone you see. Point being, you'll never live a life like me. And fuck, I'm awesome. I just a wrote a haiku. ;)

Almost Forgot

I never thought it would take me four years to remember her name. It was Anna. Her eyes fit her name well. I swore I would never forget her from the first day I met her, but I've apparently spent the last four years trying to forget her. Until yesterday I had no memory of her, none at all. Then I saw someone who looked exactly like her, in a park, while I was playing bocce ball. I wish I hadn't remembered. I wish I had the choice to forget.

Four years ago I was called to the front gate ("ECP1" - Entry Control Point) of Bagram for a VIP escort. I saw her standing there in a position I'll never forget. Ravaged? Torn? Broken? Destroyed? It wasn't so much that her body had been shredded with a machete as much as it was the vacant look she held to me. It wasn't the blood streams on her legs or the whipped shreds of her skin. It was her eyes. Those goddamn eyes. The word "rape" doesn't describe what they did to her internally, but I could see it all from where it was hanging out. At first I thought she was a local national (Afghani). Then I wondered why they would call me to escort a local national from the gate to the hospital. Then I realized who she was. She was one of us.

I cannot describe the horrors that had been done to this woman, this person, this human being, this life. I spent two days with her and, up until yesterday, I had completely forgotten about it. Forgetting about these experiences doesn't scare me anymore, not nearly as much as the memories. She was butchered and then put back together. As if she was an animal successfully hunted, cleaned, and carved; then the hunter suddenly reversed the process. The strange thing was that they left her face entirely intact. I don't understand that.

I carried her into the hospital room. Or I tried to. She was hitting me and flailing and screaming the whole way. Goddamn blood. No matter how gentle my voice and words were safe, no matter how softly I held and covered her exposure, no matter how I tried to comfort the trauma. The trauma could not be helped by me. That was the kind of shit that cannot heal, the kind of trauma you never live on from, if you decide to live at all. After the first 16 hours of being her "escort" I left her strapped into the hospital bed, with legs and feet bound by leather straps. Her name was Anna and I'll never forgive myself.

Why did I help strap her down? Why didn't I disobey my orders? I should've never let a torture victim be tied up. I should've never left the room. The next day she was gone. The goddamn CIA came and "recovered" their "agent." Fuck. She was 24 years old. An American. A person from my home state. And she was utterly destroyed.

Some memories deserve to be forgotten, no matter the cost.

Hobby's Habit

It's 5:00am, almost. Let's see how long it takes me to write this post about yesterday. I spent the day mostly cooking. Started a batch of chicken thighs in the crockpot by 10:00am complete with chopped onions, garlic, tomatoes, black beans, pinto beans, Miller Lite, and a sweet white wine. Looked up entertaining internet stories/pictures while watching the cancelled detective TV show Terriers until 2:00pm. Chicken was done by then so I shredded it (fucking hot) and put it back in the crockpot with some hot sauce of my own making. I can't remember what nor how much of what I put into it, but by 5:00pm that shit was delicious.

After dinner/lunch/breakfast I had a cigarette for dessert, my first of the day. Fucking dizzy stars man. Decided to watch Celebrity Rehab with Dr Drew so I could relate to people. Two episodes later I decided to watch porn and masturbate, then got into bed to continue watching the series. By 9:30pm it was clear that I wasn't going to sleep without chemical reflection. Got up, poured myself a rum and coke, watched some philosophical gaming lectures, and began to think.

At 11:00pm I was sufficiently warmed up to play some strategy games. Two drinks down I fired up StarCraft 2 and began to play. It's now 5:14am. I lost one game. Six hours. I'm not tired. I'm hyped, mentally. I don't know how I end up accomplishing so much by practicing so many dysfunctions.

Just thought I'd let you know.

The Story of PBoD

The following is a background to how I got my gamer tag/name: Pink Bunny Of Death, or PBoD for short. It was first published in part during my junior year of high school, when I was a part of Yearbook class. It occurred as a "fake advertisement" story in the ads section in order to entice readers to look at the ads. Since then (1997), I've used the Pink Bunny Of Death as my username for everything from Counter-Strike to Halo to StarCraft 2. This is how it all started:

A fluffy bunny flopped his ears and ate. Nothing paid him mind as he frolicked amongst innocence and flowers. The darkness of the dirt didn't bother to contrast with the whiteness of his fur, because he was just so freaking cute. When your tail hole is a sumptuously swaying cottonball, you've got the whole world wrapped around it.

Amongst the fluffy floppy frolicking of joy and peace came a bloody serpent. No really, the snake was bloody. I don't know why. The little bounds of rabbit feet came plummeting down accidentally, luckily escorting part of the snake's body to Shangri La and the other half to Elysium, instantly. The bunny's wet nose snuggled against the bloody snake as best he could to seek signs of life. He nudged, he poked, he thumped the Earth down one hop at a time; but it appeared to be of no use.

Suddenly without warning, a split tongue slashed its way toward our bleached puddle-jumper. The snake coiled and sprung out chasing the swaying cottonball. With his furry innocence now pricked by the taint of pink, he bounded to help from a nearby giant hoe. The hoe swung down violently against the food below, fueled by the male vengeance of a domestic dispute regarding toilet seats. The bunny cried out with all the voice of his ears and feet, which unfortunately, was understood as a "WWWCCHHHAAAAAAIIIIII!!!!" by the would-be rescuer.

The next blow by the hoe was of a different sort, involving teeth and a blade of death aimed at his vital organs. Fearing for the innocence of his swaying cottonball, our hero leapt into action to defend himself. An unfortunate birth defect had replaced the once-white bunny's herbivoric two front teeth with those of a canine vampire, which resulted in severe persecution during his Junior Hop years. The misfortune continued as the man mistook the fluffy pink vampire bunny's fleeing hop toward his face as a reason to die. The man's long shadow shrunk to none near instantly, before the bunny even landed to twitch his whiskers on the ground beside him.

The two lay still. The bunny, wondering what the violent sex act just happened. The man, dead, with the toilet seat status and the hoe no longer an issue. But wait! The hook, I mean, the hoe! Well the hoe fell on the snake and the snake died.

This is the end and beginning tale of the terrible, veracious, monstrous, hideous, ultimately inconceivable Pink Bunny Of Death.

No, my Yearbook wouldn't print cuss words. Yes, this is the original, circa 1997.
Hope you enjoyed it.