Faking it. A quick guide for the literals.

You've never know real despair until you are forced to have a very candid conversation with your best friend (who is also your dog) (who is also your ONLY friend) about depression, as she she drinks bathwater off the floor after loyally following you to your second shower of the day. As you blatantly lie to her snout and tell her you are okay, when you are in fact, falling apart.

It isn't that you are in denial or embarrassed. No. You just cannot bear to have your furry counterpart bear witness to even an ounce of whatever this feeling is. It's my own fault anyway. I'm not one of those people who are unaware of the collateral damage of their actions. I am one of those who are fully conscious of everything I do as I do it. My mind has the ability to send thoughts in and out faster than the speed of light, so trust me when I tell you I have plenty of time when it comes to premeditation. And that is the very thing that causes me to come down so hard on myself. I can never say  I didn't know. I always know. I just do it anyway.

I think if I ever had to even attempt to explain to anyone just how extensive my thought processes extend, this would be a perfect example.

I have recently taken up regular meditation. It helps with so many things and I really do find that I get a lot of relief from my anxiety with  it. I am, for all intents and purposes, a natural worrier. A clear mind for meditation isn't something that comes natural to me. So to aid in that process, I started using some guided meditation videos I found on youtube.

So the way that works for me is that I lay down in my bed and press play and close my eyes, listening to whatever directions the narrator of the video gives. Sounds simple enough right?

Hmmmm...not so much.

So this new video I was using uses the Angel Gabriel as a point of focus. I'm not a particularly religious person, but I have always admired the Angel Gabriel since I was a kid. (he was just so cherubic)  So anyway, the narrator tells the listener to imagine the Angel Gabriel in front of them.

Ok here goes.

I close my eyes. Trying to imagine an angel making its way through my bedroom doorway.
Breathe....
Wait what? Hold up. An angel in my bedroom?   Has this lady taken into consideration the size of the average doorframe and the actual wingspan of an angel?

Focus.
Golden light. Long Shimmering cloak.

My mind starts to wander again.

What if he knocks something over with his wings? Where will he sit? Will he want to sit? What will my dog think? Does he like dogs? Do Angels like snacks?

The narrators soft voice prompts me to relax and breathe deep.

 Um hello has anyone noticed theres an angel in my room.

You get the point. It's a disease. Call it anxiety. Call it paranoia.Call it depression. Call it anything you want. The wheels are always turning in this egg of mine, and I have come to accept there's no way I can pretend otherwise.

Until next time...

Back in the saddle

I figure now is as good a time as any to start this up again. It's true. Writing is a form of therapy. Especially if you are someone like me. Too proud to succumb to the magic of big pharma, yet still too raw and vulnerable to be accepted by the outside world.

I stayed away for a long time. And honestly, I don't know why. I was scared I had lost my drive. And the thing is looking back, it wasn't just the drive to write that I lost, it was my drive to live. To keep going. I'm not saying I wanted to die, don't get me wrong. I'm saying that for a while, nothing really mattered in my life....(well one thing did and we will get to that later.) And if I had to be perfectly honest, if I had to imagine, this was a feeling probably far worse than the feeling of wanting to die.

I'm 37 years old and I just Googled "mid life crisis". I'm willing to bet that if I searched long enough, like past the second page of the Google search (no man's land), I could pull up some kind of article where someone my age fell apart.

I just want to get to my happy ending.

So where should I start? I think I read somewhere that the best place to start is actually right where you are. I'd like to think whoever said that was onto something, so here goes nothing.

(Insert cliche warning label to describe yourself here)

In order to really start writing I think a certain part of you, albeit a miniscule cell of your being, has to believe in you. Lets face it writing isn't for the faint of heart. It takes dedication, persistence and a shit ton of bravery to expose parts of you in any creative outlet for that matter. But there is something very deliberate and conscious about writing that enables you to continue the act over a period of time. In that exists the ability to trust yourself and be able to listen and believe in yourself enough to share your thoughts with the rest of the world.

Even if you actually suck in real life, a part of you must be totally convinced of the opposite in order to be able to pick that pen up and write.

I only know this because I've felt it, if only for a while. Which is what I was leading up to. This belief, this speck of blind faith and hope that is your lifeline to the rest of this God forsaken world, can actually vanish. In an instant. Just like that.

And not until it's gone do you begin to realize its existence, the importance of its existence, and how hard it is to get it back.

This is where my story begins.
This is where I am.

Start here .......