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 All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
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Obshchak Some torn to the ground ▼ Read here some old blog entries...  2018 Highlights ▼Brian K Compton   -- ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif) Short answer, mostly relatable. |
| I have suffered from this malaise that I can only term as depression since I was a teenager. I forced my mom to take a picture of me the day I felt indifferent, couldn't smile. Whatever chemical it was that makes one happy was in short supply and she couldn't understand why I wanted to have a snap for posterity. I felt as though I could look back on it and figure it out when I got older. Still don't know why I struggle with bouts of melancholy. Maybe, it was just hormonal. But I've lived twice as many years as I was old back then, and I cannot shake the fits that anchor me to this wheel of life that takes me wherever it choses to go. When the ride is over, I get off and try to get a handle on what happened and move on. When I was a teen, I penned a poem that still sums up how I feel today. Mom and I were both astonished by the result and could not figure out how I managed to pen such words... Mine is a lonely life I choose to live I want all of human kindness without wanting to give I seek refuge in my mind hiding words people seek to provoke When they find the words unkind it's me they seek to revoke What do I do; what can I say? Why is it when I need a friend they all seem to turn away? I'm unaccustomed to making conversation I fear the words I want to speak Because people find them unfashionable my words are myself, oblique. That is to say, I cannot find empathy in this world. Sometimes, my mom called me an 'odd duck.' I was treated as different, even though I felt normal. Social conditioning taught me that I wasn't meant to commune with others. I was too emotional, open about my feelings. I didn't know how to make small talk because I felt it was not what mattered. The greatest social injustice is to repress a young, fragile mind into mediocrity. When I try to rise above it and find my own unique style, I was rebuffed. So, I insulated. All of the feelings trapped inside ate at me. I learned to become drepressed, not knowing how I fit in. And, no one knew how to help me because they couldn't relate. Mama's odd little duck grew up and waddled into a world of imagination, discovering writing (like poetry). Eventually, I turned writing into a journalism career. Then, while a member here, after having been away from my professional career for some time, I was hit with an odd epiphany about how desensitized and ignorant reporters, especially in television, appear to be. And so I offered this... Just a matter of moments now, the depression will come. Camped out here on the precipice of pain, we will wait now for the rain. Growing darker, the winds of discontent will be an ominous indicator of how troublesome this storm can be... ...We're live, waiting on depression, the result of unexpressed aggression. Are you safe in your houses tonight? The blackening sea swells below. There's almost no sign of wildlife. We'll try to pan our camera so you can get a look for yourself... ...Depression is violent, unpredictable, killing unsuspecting people yearly... ...Here to keep you informed of the forthcoming peril that is depression... ...Make sure you are safely bunkered, hide in the hollows of your heart, hold on tightly to something, a loved one, preferrably with strong shoulders. Perhaps, seek professional help, someone to steer you to safe harbor... ...There's so much we yet don't understand, no one indicator can give us a clue, why the violent storms keep returning. Are you safe in your houses tonight? Here it comes. Can you get a good shot of this? We'll attempt an interview, maybe get a soundbite... No? ...I'm live, just another victim reporting. Walking through this writing community, I realize now that many of us are inspired to write, to express in this format, because we cannot have our feelings be heard and understood. Now, I realize, I can at least pull up a bar stool and commiserate with others who struggle. There are messages from people all over this website who have discovered coping skills. I have been off anti-depressants for some time, replacing it with exercise. My rotator cuff surgery set me back and I've been feeling that old pull come and tug on my psyche again. It makes me feel helpless, reminding me that I have not accomplished what I've dreamed of doing. It makes you feel worthless and yet I know that I am not. And when this ride is over and I have come out of what feels like another deathly spin, I'll walk away from the accident scene stronger and wiser because it can't kill me. I may be an 'odd duck' but I will find my way back to the pond to swim again with my mother and bath in the remembrances of a woman who built me a shelter for life.
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| She brought me Kleenex when I broke down and cried yesterday. I hate the offering of the tissue. I much rather prefer someone to wrap me around my shoulders and whisper in my ear it's going to be alright. And mean it. Times like this I wish my mother was here to console me. She might've been the only person on this earth who ever truly understood me. Yes, my mother. My dad envied our relationship because we could always talk and sort things out while I was growing up. There was an emptiness in my life then and there is a void in my life now. I cannot explain why I feel so alone in this family, but I do. I should feel thankful for all that I have and all that I could strive for. But from an early age I was told I had so much ability artistically and with my mathematical skills. I just did not have the right mentor to help me carry forward a plan for my life. I was misguided and misdirected, bouncing from thankless occupation to dead-end job. I have yet to find my true calling, some salvation that will relieve the addled brain. I'm also reminded there are others who suffer worse than me. I can empathize, but I can't save them if I can't save myself. Though, helping other people seems to cure what aches in my heart just a little. I cried last night because I told my wife I have had thoughts of wishing I were dead because I feel I'm stalking an empty wasteland, finding no home for my talents wherever I roam. I reject comfort because it does not fill the void, the ache that will likely continue until my dying day. I don't want to toil in anonymity any longer. I find it difficult to appreciate what I've got. There are little moments, but not enough deposits in the emotional bank. I've witnessed other members lying by the waysides I've traveled here. This site is like a beacon to them, but not all find salvation, their true calling. I worry they set themselves up with too many expectations to be a contributor, role model, someone to rely on. And like me, try to appease others and lose sight of true goals. Where are those mentors who can help them stop jumping through unnecessary hoops and train their talents toward attainable goals. Many don't suffer from melancholy and depression like the few of us, unable to empathize. If only we could realize true goals, find satisfaction in our deepest abilities to feel and emote artistically on these virtual canvasses laid out before us. Where is the happy medium? |
| I was going to do one of those "what have we learned today" type blogs but then my mind went blank. Just taking life day-by-day, trying to keep it on an even keel. Keeping it positive and putting my focus on the things I enjoy in life. My muses don't consort with me these days and I am only forcing out words onto the screen that I am not connected to. I have been searching for years for that one true friend who could be a part of my everyday life. The cyber community does not suffice. But it does allow me the life-support I need to feel like there are real people out there with similar issues and similar goals as mine. By being away from writing.com so long, I became disconnected with the folks that have been in my corner. And I realize I'm all alone. I'm making a few new acquaintances. I'm not going to get my hopes up but perhaps some friendship will click soon. I just hope that I don't alienate anyone with my ignorance again. Just meandering through this website makes me wonder what I need to do next. Too many diversions took me away from the core of the writer I once yearned to be. It's too easy to get distracted with the trivial stuff and not keep my eyes on the goal. I have never been very disciplined to begin with, especially with setting goals. Times like this I just want to do something selfless for someone else. By giving, I can at least fill a part of me that is empty. Reviewing has been a good way to get some of the gratification I need, but it doesn't fully fuel the desire I have to achieve something great. I need somebody in my corner 24/7 and it's not going to come from anybody in my real world. I want to write the novel. |
| It wasn't supposed to be my morning to get up early. But they left the door open to the bedroom, and the noises of children getting ready for school and the sounds and smells of breakfast being made woke me up. I groggily hoisted myself out of bed, back stiff and shoulder still stinging from my physical therapy session yesterday. Once I'm awake, I decide it would be nice to spend time with the family. I bring down my iPad and sit at the table quietly, checking on the weather and this website. No one really acknowledges me until my wife starts cleaning out the fridge. I was supposed to throw out spoiling food last week, but with my poor eyesight it is so discouraging to scrounge around and find all of the things that need removing. Now she was doing my job and showing me things should've been taken care of, including a container of moldy chicken that probably has salmonella. Next thing I know, she's ranting that it was now all over the cabinets, ceiling and floor. The cats are trying to lick it up. I offer little help because I am still in a daze. This further invokes her ire. She says she should be at work. I think I should still be in bed. (Note to self: Exploding leftovers--must discover more and perhaps write a poem  )She turns into Nietzsche's super woman, if I can borrow that psychology term loosely. I respect her greatly, except when it comes to her powers of empathy, which she lacks. I guess I'm just a henpecked husband. I sometimes get the spine stand up to her, but I don't like to do it in front of the kids. Meanwhile, she always points out my flaws and faults in front of them and sometimes they act like my parent. So, I take the backseat, step in when I'm needed, and the rest of the time just take a lot of mental abuse. Now I just need to finish my coffee so I can get to the chores of the day. I know she will be smiling and happy when all is done. I thought this was going to be a humorous post. Maybe, I just need more coffee and possibly some Vicodin. ********************************************* Just over an hour later and she's hollering for me from the basement. She needs me to bring her pair of slip-on shoes. Muttering under her breath, I see her standing over a broken light fixture that fell when she was trying to clean the basement pantry. The cats are in the mix again as she needs a broom to clean up on the floor. What is it with her and exploding objects? I want to get my physical therapist prescribed home workout routine over with, but I can't relax with all her busy-ness. She's all over the house and in the places where I need to go and be at one with my brain. I want to stretch, I want to meditate and I wish I could take my meds but I know I should not. Now she has discovered that a jug of water was cracked and leaking, seeping through the boxed foods on the lower shelf. She says 'this must be God's way of saying I need to clean today.' And also, she said, 'you're lucky I'm not a crier' like her mother. I told her I would prefer the crier right now. Then, she enters the closet to get out the vacuum parts and the contents of an Easter basket falls on her and onto the floor from the top shelf. I am snickering behind her back. She says she knows that she will be able to laugh about this later. She'll be texting someone something humorous later. For now, I must bear the brunt of her agony. Just hate that she thinks it's okay to make others feel like sh*t when she is having a bad day. I |
| Know what I wish? I wish I could remove that part of my brain that jumps to conclusions. Maybe you know the moments: when I try to guess what's going to happen next in that movie or what you were just about to say when I rudely finish your sentence because you paused. I know it annoys you, but these sensations cloud up my thought process. I feel like I'm going to put that book down one chapter in because my mind stops absorbing the text and begins writing the supposed ending. I'm processing all kinds of information at once, just so I can be over with something and move on to the next. I would make a horrible detective, except that I force myself to sift through all the facts to get to a conclusion. Only problem is, everyone else has already cleared the metaphorical crime scene. I draw conclusions, recollect the facts, see I was wrong, rush to another ill-delved ending before starting over once more. That's a bit what reviewing is like. If I cannot absorb an author's work, I step away when I clear my head and start again. Biases fill my head before the end and I have to remind myself just keep looking for clues. But my head keeps telling me why this scene or that character were written before I can get done. I'm not letting the work as a whole wash over me, so I have Siri read it to me so I won't be overly engaged. Then, if it hooks me, I read with her. Then, I go back and reassemble the evidence and see if it points to my earliest conclusions or if I have a defective assumption mechanism. It's fun to think you know everything and can be sage enough to see something coming. I wish I had these assumptive defenses when I was the kid in school who got cornered, bullied and beaten if some other kids were having a bad day. Eventually, I developed this knack of trying to be ahead of the pack seeking quarry. |
| I hate having to send her to the bus stop in 10 below zero temperatures. There is already talk of canceling school on Monday with temperatures reaching 45° below zero. Not too motivated to go outside today. Glad I do not have to work in this weather. Fortunately, it's going to warm up to 25° in the day I do have to work, Saturday. |
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