Drinking Bourbon that Isn’t Mine

Technically it’s mine since I bought it, but I bought it for my cousin’s kid. He’s 20, which is not the legal drinking age here. It’s 21. I hold the belief though that if you’re able to go and die in a war that you don’t believe in then you should be able to get plastered (even while going to die in the war you don’t believe in.) So I bought the kid a bottle of Wild Turkey.

We had every intention of partaking tonight, but I wasn’t feeling it today for the most part. I woke up in a shit mood, just one of my moods that I have. I had a doctor’s appointment with my neurologist and we discussed my migraines and seizures. I had had a migraine the night before and informed her of this so I’m switching meds again. The medication she is putting me on comes with some serious side effects so I’m a bit concerned about that, but we’ll see how it turns out.

I got home and popped a couple of my anti-anxiety meds and smoked some weed just to see if it’d put me in a better mood. It did after a while, but it also made me tired. I fell asleep around 5 and woke up around 9. Now I’m awake and bored. My cousin nor his kid seem to be anywhere around so I just said, “Fuck it. I bought the booze so I’m drinking it.” Sorry, kid. You missed out. I’ll get him some more eventually, but tonight is my night to drink and forget whatever is ailing me.

I don’t even know why I’m blogging right now seeing as I have nothing to say. I jotted down a lot of my thoughts in my journal earlier and pretty much said everything that was going on in my head. I wonder about when I die and when someone is reading my journal what they’ll think. It’s not just a bunch of “woe is me” shit in there. I’ve written down parts of stories I want to complete. I’ve jotted down ideas for comics I want to start. Tonight I just wrote down a conversation I was having with myself in my head and wanted to put it on the record so to speak.

Right now I’m drinking this Wild Turkey and blogging, trying to make myself tired enough to go back to sleep because that’s the only relief I seem to get from the world around me, a world that I don’t think I belong to anymore; a world that I don’t think really wants me in it anymore. If there’s one thing I took away from the acid trip a couple of weeks ago it’s that this isn’t all there is to it. All the bullshit we have to go through on a daily basis, all the stress, all the worry, none of it is going to matter in the end. We’re all going to die and none of that shit goes with us (at least as far as I know. I’ve never been dead before.)

I had a friend that died the other day. He died for a minute or two and was revived. I asked him what happened. Is there a heaven? Did he see a bright light? No. He said he saw Randy Travis. So apparently Randy Travis is the afterlife and we’ll be sitting around and listening to “Digging Up Bones” for eternity. At least I enjoy that song.

Ramblings After My Psychiatrist Visit

I saw my psychiatrist yesterday and laid everything on the table that had been bothering me. I was honest, which I never have been in the past with any psychologist or psychiatrist I’ve had … not fully anyway. I have to fill out a little questionnaire every time I’m sitting in the waiting room as I wait for her to call me into her office. “On a scale of 0 – 3, how are you feeling today?”

“On a scale of 0 – 3, how hard was it getting out of bed for you?”

Things of that nature. Three being the most difficult. I answered three on everything except the suicide question because I know from past experiences that when you’re feeling suicidal, you never want to tell someone you’re feeling suicidal. I wouldn’t even tell any of you I’m feeling suicidal. One day you just won’t hear from me anymore. Deal? Deal.

If you’ve been following my blog then you’ll know things haven’t been going as smoothly as I’d like. I told her this much. She asked what had been going on. I sat back and took a deep breath and was forthright. “I just wake up every day and think that I’m done with this whole thing,” as I motioned with my arms. “This whole life bullshit. I’m done. I’ve had enough. I’m not going to kill myself when I get home. I’m not going to kill myself tomorrow or next week. I’m just done with life and what it has to offer. I’m not impressed. I get the gist. We wake up to do the same thing day in and day out, especially me. Nothing ever changes. Everything stays the same. The only thing that changes for me is what kind of confrontation I’m going to have with my grandmother that day because she doesn’t know what reality is anymore.”

It’s nearly impossible for me to get out of bed most days. I have to drag myself out of bed. The first time I do it is to just take a piss, but then I climb right back in and go back to sleep. All I’m doing is looking for an escape, and I told her that much. I just want out. I don’t know what it is to be happy and I’m not sure if I’ve ever known that. She asked if I could go back and change anything at all what would I have changed to set things on a different course to happiness. “I would have told my parents to use a rubber because I sure as shit didn’t ask to be brought into this world.” I think that’s where the problem starts. Too often we have people bringing in other people who are full of emotional and mental issues that they were born with and that could have been prevented by just not being here in the first place. Now we’re stuck here unless we decide to check ourselves out or someone or something does it for us. At this moment in time I lack the constitution for suicide, but in a few years’ time … who knows?

Anhedonia is a real bitch. I was thinking that was I was walking my dog an hour ago. I miss my old dog Denver. I miss how he’d wake me up, excited and ready to go for walks. I miss everything about that dog. I have a dog now that I ended up with just because I have a soft spot for dogs in general and she was being treated poorly by her owner. She’s the opposite of me. She loves people, but doesn’t like other dogs. I love dogs, but don’t like other people. I can’t introduce her to other dogs and hope they’ll enjoy each other’s company because she wants to be a cunt. I was walking her earlier and just thinking, “I just wish I could get rid of you.” I felt terrible for thinking that, but at times I’d like to take her to a no-kill animal shelter, but then I’d feel like an asshole and I’d feel that way for the rest of my life because I’d just be one more person in that dog’s life that gave up on her. It’s just not the same with her as it was with Denver. I want Denver back, but that’s not going to happen. His ashes are going to continue to sit in the urn in the living room and all I have are memories.

That’s something else people say that doesn’t help ever. “At least you have all those good memories with him.” Those good memories just start to remind me of what a great dog I had and how he’s no longer here anymore. Memories aren’t always a good thing. They’re rarely a good thing because they remind you of a point in your life when things were better and then you shake your head and realize you’re no longer in that moment anymore. It has passed and it’s never coming back, but you have to keep going on without it.

Am I making progress with my therapy? I don’t know. It’s nice to have someone to talk to and I’m glad I was able to get my meds refilled. I’ve been without them for a while now so I’ll get them refilled at some point today and get back to you once they’ve worked their way back into my system. At this point, right here, right now, I just want to be in a coma for a few months. I want complete and total silence and darkness. I don’t want to be conscious or think about anything. I started to ask my doctor to prescribe me some kind of drug – any kind of drug – to just make me feel … nothing.

Dead Before 40

I don’t know how to describe what I feel. I’ve been told that I write well, but when it comes to writing what I feel and how I react to certain situations I’m not sure how they come across to other people. I’m bipolar. My manic episodes aren’t what you think of as manic. I don’t go on these huge spending sprees or let loose and go crazy. I’m kind of simplistic manic. I’m calm and collected. It’s “hypomania.” I’m not full on manic at all. My sister is full on manic. My dad was full on manic. I don’t get those symptoms. I just feel a little better than usual. My mood is elevated more than normal. I’m not sure how to describe it.

I’m up for doing adventurous things, but nothing too risky. If someone says “Hey, want to climb a mountain today?” Fuck yeah! Let’s do that! I can carry on with my daily life when the hypomania comes along. It’s when the depression comes along that I don’t feel like myself. The depression is what gets to me. I’m just now coming out of a depressive episode which has lasted for about two months now.

I explained my moods to my psychiatrist. I go from feeling normal, which is like getting to the top of the rollercoaster, but then it plummets tremendously and I don’t know what to do with myself. I relate it back to my dog, Denver. Denver was my best friend. I had him for 14 years. He was a puppy when I first got him. I’d take him for walks every single day, twice a day. I enjoyed my walks with him. However long he wanted to walk, that’s how long we walked. I’d let him sniff whatever he wanted and just let him go about his merry way. That was me when I was feeling normal. When my depression crept in I knew things were different. I’d try to pull him back toward the house. I’d get impatient. I wanted him to do his business and let’s get back so I could just go back to bed.

Now that Denver is dead I don’t feel the need to get up for anything anymore. I sleep all day. I look at my phone and see messages from friends and I just have no desire to reply to them. There’s nothing I have to say and nothing they can say that can make things any better. I want life to just stop. I want a pause. I want an end. I want an out. I truly don’t know how to describe what I feel. I think the best way to put it is that I don’t want to feel anything at all. I don’t want to hurt. I don’t want to feel like shit about shit that I can’t control.

I think about things from my past that have been said and done and I ruminate over them and obsess over them, wishing I could take shit back. Do people that I hurt remember that I hurt them? I’ve said some stupid shit in my 32 years on this planet to people. Do people think back on stupid shit I said to them and have a good laugh about it? We all like to think that we don’t care what others think about us, but deep down I think we really do. I know I do and I have no reason to give a shit. Why should I give a fuck what I said to some asshole in kindergarten? I do, though. I give a fuck and I wonder if they think back on what I said and have a good laugh about it.

I like to think there’s an unspoken rule that things that happen or things that are said when we’re drunk don’t get mentioned when we’re all sober the next day. I know that’s not true, though. Friends of mine subtly bring up shit that I said or did years ago when I was hammered and I quickly change the subject. I don’t want to be reminded of what happened back then. It just brings up bad memories that I’d much rather forget.

I think I’ve gone off topic as I tend to do. I just know that I beat myself up when it comes to what I’ve said and done in the past and I wish there was some way I could fix that, but I don’t think that I can. I think that’s why I try so many drugs – legal and otherwise – to try to fix myself. I don’t want to remember a lot of what I’ve said and done in the past. The only solace I find is in the fact that I’m going to be dead before I reach the age of 40 and none of this is going to matter in the slightest.

A Guide to Driving Yourself Crazy

I don’t know if you know what it’s like to be aware of what tomorrow is going to bring for the most part and still be terrified of it. I know what I’m going to do every day. There are no surprises and I prefer it that way. Surprises aren’t always good. A part of me prefers the monotony of my life. It’s safer. I think I’ve mentioned that I’ve become more and more of a shut-in as of late. I would rather not go anywhere and risk getting injured or worse. What a contradiction coming from someone who wishes they’d never been born in the first place. Just because I wish for non-existence doesn’t mean I want to die at the moment.

I’ve mentioned before how death never bothered me until recently. Now it’s all I can think about. It’s why I stay in the house. It’s why I don’t venture out more. I’m terrified of trying anything new. I hate going new places, unfamiliar places. I hate that I’ve gotten this way and I don’t know what to do about it.

I dread when friends ask me if I want to do something because that means I’m going to have to step out of the comfort of my own home where I feel safe. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I leave. Any number of things can go wrong and I start playing these scenarios out in my head over and over again. We could get in a wreck. We could get robbed. We could get shot by some asshole that wants to be famous by killing a few dozen people. See? Any number of things can go wrong out there.

I don’t think I can truly convey how real this fear is of mine. Any time I do manage to work up the courage (and believe me, it takes a lot for me) to go out somewhere I’m looking for the nearest exits in the event something goes horribly wrong. I have friends in other countries that I’d love to visit, but I’m afraid I never will because all I can think about is the plane crashing into the ocean and myself drowning even though someone assured me I’d be dead before I’d actually drown, but still … given my recent paranoia that something terrible is going to happen to me or a loved one, I don’t want to risk anything.

This all leads to such a boring life for me now. I dread when people want to play catch up with me. “What have you been up to as of late?”

“Me? Oh, nothing. I sit at home in constant fear, afraid to go out into the world because I don’t know what’s going to happen from one day to the next. I could get shot, stabbed, run over by a car. I also drive myself crazy because I have no control over what happens in the lives of those I care about, and I have to live with the knowledge that at any moment someone I love can be snatched away from me, but enough about me. How about you? How have you been? I hear you’re doing quite well for yourself while I’ve been having nervous breakdowns for the past three or four months. What’s it like to live a normal life and not dread what’s coming tomorrow?”

The Beauty of Non-Existence: Anti-Natalism Chronicles XII

Do any of us really know what happens after death? We all have our varying beliefs, but no one really knows until they’ve experienced it, and it’s not like any of them can come back and let us know if they’re having a good time or if the whole death thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m sure it has its ups and downs like anything else. You no longer have to worry about bills or your health, but you’re also missing out on shit that others are doing that maybe you would have enjoyed if you were still alive.

This is another argument for putting an end to procreation. None of us know what life was like before being brought into this world and none of us had a bad day because of it. I don’t remember anything about being a year old, being in the womb, and I most certainly don’t remember anything before that. Nothing bad happens when you don’t exist. It’s when you bring people into existence. That’s when problems start.

I’ve been struggling as of late. I’ve mentioned it a time or two. I’ve slipped into another depressive episode and can’t shake it. Another day has gone by and another one is going to come and go tomorrow. I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring or what the next few months or few years are going to bring. I just know now more than ever that time is ticking away and there’s nothing I can do about it. I suppose I could kill myself, but that would leave others behind and I don’t want to do that, but the thought crosses my mind time and time again. I was doing so well with keeping the suicidal thoughts at bay, too.

I would never have had these problems had I never been born. I think we’ve seen a movie or a television show where an angel or ghost of some sort comes to a person and shows them what life would have been like had they never been born. These mediums always paint existence in a positive light because we all want to feel better at the end of the day. That’s why we turn to sitcoms and banal shit such as that. We want to feel better. When I lie in bed at night, I don’t feel better. I feel like things would be better without me here.

If it were up to me, I’m talking about being in the spirit realm or whatever came before I was conceived, I would have told my parents to think twice about deciding to have a child. If I got to have a look at everything that would happen to me and see how it all turns out for me in the end; the good, the bad, the ups and downs, I believe I’d choose not being born at all. It’s the constant worry of what’s going to happen from one day to the next. No one has to worry about that when they don’t exist.

No one has to worry at this moment. I’m not going to do anything drastic. I don’t even know how many of you out there still read the dribble I spill onto this fucking site. I’m not longing for death. I’m longing for never being born in the first place.

Forget It. It’s Sooze-Town.

I’ve noticed my social anxiety and depression have gotten worse as of late. I can’t listen to anyone because I’m too focused on all the shit going on in my head. I have kept it all bottled up for weeks now, and I realized that maybe I should just write everything down that’s going on so maybe I can have it all in one place as kind of a go-to if I need it when I see my psychiatrist in a few weeks.

I don’t know why it started. I was doing so well with my medication, but I started talking about things that don’t really matter with my psychiatrist in order to avoid what’s really bothering me. I do that more often than I’d like to admit. I’m prone to keeping things bottled up like I always have. I know that talking things through helps, but sometimes I can’t make myself do it. I feel like my problems are insignificant, like they don’t matter.

I find it hard to sleep at night because of all the thoughts that go racing through my head. I’m 32-years-old and I have nothing to show for it. I’m terrified of absolutely everything these days and I’ve become a shut-in basically. I can’t drive due to epilepsy, but I want to get out of the house so when the opportunity arrives to go for a drive with someone I always go, but I stay in the car. I can’t bring myself to get out and go inside anywhere. All the people make me nervous. I get nervous being surrounded by so many people and then realizing all those people making me nervous makes me even more nervous. I break out into a sweat. I start fidgeting. I pace back and forth.

I’m not getting any younger and the thought of death is always in the back of my mind. I know we’re all going to die and I used to be accepting of that fact, but as I get older and realize my time is running out I’m becoming less and less OK with it. I’ve always had a great relationship with my mom, and she has always been the one constant in my life; I fear something happening to her and never seeing her again. I don’t know how to shake these feelings. I dread the days she goes to work. I dread the times she has to fly to another state for work. I have this constant fear that something is going to happen to her and I’m not going to know how to handle it.

Then there’s the fear of something happening to me. I know when I’m dead it will all be over for me and I won’t know any different, but it’s just the thought of being dead and thinking about those I left behind and the impact it will have on them. My dad committed suicide fifteen years ago. My grandfather died three years ago. My mom’s boyfriend died almost two years ago. What’s my mom going to do if something happens to me?

It’s stupid, but I think about what happens after I’m dead. I think of things I’m going to miss out on when that happens, trivial things. I won’t be able to see my family or friends anymore. I won’t be able to read another book. I won’t be able to watch the shows that I enjoy. No more walks with my dog. No more sitting outside and enjoying the weather, watching the cars go by. Life goes on long after we’re gone. I want to leave something behind so that I can be remembered. I just don’t know what. I want to be remembered. I have this fear of being forgotten.

It’s like that one scene in “BoJack Horseman” where he says, “Is that life? You’re there, you do your thing, and then people forget.” That’s what I fear the most. I want my life to mean something. I don’t want to be forgotten. What do I have to do to make some sort of impact? I don’t want to just be another name on a tombstone. I see all those tombstones in the cemetery – names of people I never knew. I wonder if other people remember them. How many people go and visit those graves? After a while when the initial shock wears off that your loved one has passed, you visit the grave less and less. I guess I just have a fear of being forgotten. I want my life to have meaning and purpose, but I don’t know how to make that happen.