I did it. Is ‘not make yourself depression spiral’ a merited act? Is it worthy of praise? If so, praise me. DM me on Twitter. Send me a pair of pants to show that you’re proud of me. Mail me a card saying that $100 a month can be mine if I tell you that I need it – but if and only if I acknowledge that I need it. Try and buy me. Buy interaction with me in order to make up for the childhood you fucked and a lifetime of anxiety, depression, and mania you gifted to me.
Sorry. I don’t know why that became about what it became about. I was originally here to pat myself on the back for doing what I said I would do. The script I wrote today is by no means a triumph. It’s a 4 page gonzo caricature of myself. I think that much is obvious. And I use the term ‘obvious’ in reference to non-existent third parties who may be reading it having had no prior personal interaction with me. It’s obvious to them. To anyone who knows me, it’s probably obvious who the OFFICE DRONE is from the moment OFFICE DRONE appears on the title page. But that’s okay. It’s an example to myself that corroborates to myself that I, myself, am at least channeling my manic depression into something useable. Of at least slightly more substantive value to the world than these blog/journal/diary entries.
It feels good – even if I think the output from today is bad. Here I am, journaling after having spent part of the day writing a script. It started as a very literal interpretation of ‘write what you know’ along with a healthy dose of ‘no backspace key.’ It’s the same approach that I take when I’m writing these blogs. They’re unedited. I force myself to not edit them. In the beginning – especially when I started putting them up in a visible place – I wanted to edit. I bet if I went back right now I would be annoyed that I forced out what I did. I bet I made some kind of swirling, conceptual posit on society or the world. I did that for the benefit of myself, through the reader. That has no personal value. This, the words I’m writing right now – notice the lack of proselytizing – is valuable.
Today has been good. Genuinely, actually good. I came home and whipped up dinner in a quicker manner than I think I ever had. Broccoli, chicken, and carrots stir fry over rice. Fia helped with the rice. Everything came out about as right as one could reasonably expect. I also have food in the fridge waiting to be cooked up for the rest of the week. This weekend has some mini-road-trip on the docket. It’s partially for me, as I’m the one forcing her to go with me to some stupid, po-dunk Florida town to get fried chicken from this place I remember. She’s going to be happy just going somewhere. I hope she is, at least. I think she is.
Fia is taking this ‘financial equality’ thing more seriously than I expected. She’s
the one buying the Airbnb for Father John Misty later this month. It took me by surprise. She set out to surprise me, so that worked. My initial reaction, though, was shame. I felt like I guilted her into doing that. Stepping back from that, I know she just wants to play a more equal role in the relationship that way. I told her that I think, without consciously meaning to, I’ve grown bitter about paying for more of the expenses. Food, specifically, and how both of us like to eat out. That lifestyle is more than sustainable for one person, but literally doubly as hard when it’s for two people. On the other hand, though, I like to be the provider. I’m at least comfortable in that niche. On the third hand, though, it feels good that she wants to contribute more in that way.
It just feels like a lot of steps in the right direction. I’m tentatively letting that scar tissue build up again. This time I’m not trying to tourniquet the wound as schrapnel flies overhead from in-progress bombing runs. The warfare has subsided. Both sides called for a cease-fire, for there were far too many lost on either side. Any more of this may result in a loss of life too great to justify fighting for either cause.
Or another metaphor for depression and suicide. I don’t want to leave Fia. I’d be sad if I couldn’t be with her anymore. That’s a new one. I’ve always been so afraid of being alone again without her, and that the dependency that fosters is damaging. That may still be true, but it’s a sobering thought that if I killed myself I would, in the instant between the deed and the end, be sad that I wouldn’t be with her anymore. Maybe that’s the kind of loneliness I’ve always truly feared underneath it all.