This is not a story but a personal musing. I hate the feeling of sadness, I always think of what little I have to be sad about. I have my health (I could spend more time in the gym.), I have my mind, I have people who would probably care if something bad happened to me and I have all the time in the world to work on my hobbies/passions.
So why is it that I feel so unfulfilled? I don’t think it’s just a mental illness or something like that but there is some underlying wrongness to everything some days. Like that this very moment all I can think about is just stepping out of my home and walking into the distance, what befalls me just befalls me.
While that shit is artsy and emo as hell I know I won’t do it because I am an internet junkie and time without my copious amounts of anime and podcasts would make me more miserable. I get like this sometime, it’s a part of my own dealings with the black dog. I’ve been told to take medicine to fix my pooch but I tried it before and…. Let’s just say I didn’t like the side effects.
My black dog is bit a friend but more like a grumpy stray, when I need him he is there to ground me against the massive amount of unrealistic expectations I have as a writer and a person. He is willing to bark when my ego gets bigger than my skulls capacity to hold but even the worst dogs have their good points.
Now when it comes to days like this? I wanna kick the unruly hound in his ass, nothing is going wrong, nothing is broken and yet I can’t focus or get anything done because I feel so damn tired. It’s annoying as shit and I’m fighting against it using the only power I have to deal with depression. Anger. Pure and simple, it’s much easier to deal with depression with sheer violent anger towards anything. Hatred at least feels good, yelling releases endorphins and such science stuff.
I’m going to write today, and I’m going to write good because even if I feel like I just want to spread out on the floor and let time take me. I got shit to do and being a bitch doesn’t get my novel done, my six-pack on my gut, or fixes anything wrong. So fuck depression, fuck that black dog with a cactus, fuck my own tired body, and fuck everything that isn’t pushing me forward.
With the love of a burning tire iron to the face of depression,