I haven’t been writing a whole lot these days. Even the daily entries have lagged a bit. I have mentioned in other writings, in poems even, that I’ve been given an antidepressant and have been taking it for the last month. It really seems to help. It does sort of flatten me out though.
I used to be angry all the time. I kind of liked it. It was as if the angrier I was the more stuff I could get done and the better I’d feel about my day. Generally speaking, I wasn’t mad at any one person or even anything, I was just burning fuel like a jet engine and moving from place to place and task to task with a whole lot of: “What the **** else ya got?!” pouring out of me.
Turns out that I’m just anxious and a bit depressed and all of that sort of thing presents in me as anger. Not just run-of-the-mill *******-ness, but almost an incendiary rage. There were times that my family said that I was a real drag to be around. And, we’ve all been a family for almost 20 years now. My wife and kids are very tolerant and kind people. I am lucky and I know this.
Now that I’m eating one of these little green pills every morning, I feel better. I feel a little blunted and I don’t really seem to care that I’m not writing as much as I want to on most days. However, I have continued these entries in this manner as I have for the past several days as they are important and always have been. Maybe one day I can chuck the pills, but right now I find that it’s easier to deal with this flat feeling than to feel like I’m not able to be happy or to feel like if I am happy then I must be doing something wrong.
To feel like I’m doing something wrong if I’m not raging? What an odd thing to have thought of to write down in this notebook. Maybe I’m being stupid and not dealing with some of my own *******. I don’t know. I thought for a while that I was all keyed up and such because my mom had passed away last year. I don’t think that’s it, because Angela and the kids have often asked me why I’m so mad all the time.
I think that what has happened, is that some bleakness took hold when Ma died and I started worrying that Pops would be next and that it would be a short time in between their deaths; thusly I would be an orphan. 44 years old and fretting about being an orphan? I guess. Anyway, fretting about this line of thought brought on a truckload of anxiety and here we are with a bottle of little green pills.
I tried to convince myself that I was being weak for taking them. I complained to Angela that I wasn’t writing like I wanted to and that was making things worse. I said something similar to Pops when we were together recently. He reminded me that I had said something about just having to try harder.
I haven’t been going out and walking around at night too much. Watching the people who inhabit those gray spaces that I like to talk about is one of the best ways for me to get to something worth writing about. I’ve not been going to see much live music of late either. I’ll have to get that happening again as I miss it, but I have enjoyed several weekend evenings at home with my little family, my crew. Plus, I’m not as tired over the course of the whole weekend.
Coming home at 4am and being completely awake and unable to sleep more by 7am can be a real drag. But, I always like the conversations that I have. I feel like I get to let people see who I really am for a bit here and there and I get to see who they are too. Some of the people I know that are in bands I go see play these days are the same people I’ve known since high school. I know I’ve mentioned that in here before, but I keep thinking of how we really don’t know each other all that well. I used to feel like I was being fooled or otherwise ****** with when those people proclaimed their fondness for me. I chalk that up to how paranoid and ****** up I was in high school myself. I always have chalked it up to that and now, as I’ve aged, I’ve redefined my parameters of friendship. We don’t have to see one another every day to be good friends. I used to believe the exact opposite.
I like people. I always have. I think that Pops did me a great service by making me feel like I had absolutely no reason to be shy. Ever. Ma did me one better by making me into someone who won’t take anyone else’s ****. Ever. To be honest, as you know, I am very shy unless I am comfortable with whomever I am with. And, I don’t talk as much as I pretend to when I’m doing so on the stage at Unplugged. I like to keep to myself, but I like to throw myself out there too. I do it so maybe they will too. It’d be easier if I knew who they were. Hopefully, I’m sending enough good juju out there that they can find some commonality, which we all need.
Yesterday, I found a tract of text in the restroom at the hospital. It was Islamophobic drivel. I kept it in hopes that it would get me fired up to write about how ****** up that sort of fearmongering is. The paper talked about the scientific inaccuracy of the Qur’an and how The Bible was so much more scientifically plausible. What?
I thought about it for a while and figured that I’d just end up starting a debate that I’d lose interest in participating in long before it ended. It’s like that math problem thing that talks about arguing these days. I’m prepared to let people be gloriously wrong. 1+1=5? Correct! Bye.
Not a poem. Parts of journal entries from this month. I thought I'd type them up to see if it helped. It has so far. Thanks.