Every night I come home with the faint and irrational hope that something will be different, better, changed, fixed. Where did I go so goddamned wrong? How did it get to this point? This isn’t worthy of an entry. I’m just talking to myself. The blog has been delinked from my fazigu.org homepage. Only visitors to tijuanabibles.org seemed to have found their way here. I talked to her about the situation tonight. I don’t know why. I know all there...
My father kept a picture of Jesus on the console of his car. It was the Anglo Jesus we Americans raised as Christians know so well, with the soft flaxen locks and the blue eyes. This was after the divorce, and I remember seeing the picture there and asking him about it on one of his weekend visits. It was to remind him that “God is his co-pilot.” He wasn’t always a Christian. I have vague memories of him explicitly...
Last Friday, like every Friday, we ate out. Summer hours are over at work, so I got home something after 5PM. I ordered pizza within a half-hour or so after arriving. We ate at about 6:30. Apparently, that is too late. I’ll spare you the details, but it was too late, and I fucked up by waiting instead of ordering ahead. So, this week, I tried my damndest to get the dinner on time. But, lo! I had forgotten I...
How do I write about something when that very something saps me of the will to do anything? Really, I should stop bitching about this and do something about it, right? Just snap the hell out of it and be a man, live life. Sure, you’ve got problems, but we’ve all got them, and you’re better off than most. You’ve got two beautiful girls, a good job, a roof over your head… … I just don’t care. Apparently, our toilet...
As has been pointed out to me, the love of ones offspring is not an accurate metric of ones success as a parent. A kid loves her daddy if he beats her, molests her, ignores her. Kids just love their daddies — at least while they’re kids. They don’t realize how much they hated him until they grow up. I have a problem with discipline. That is, I don’t. My volume ratchets up, my cadence becomes rigid and stern. I...
This was the ultimate RYO tobacco for me. Here’s a rough translation of the manifesto on the back of the package: Black Death shag is a direct protest of smokers against strongly increasing intolerance. Black Death smokers want to preserve their rights and avoid becoming social outcasts. Black Death smokers keep the following principles: Smoking is a human right and must be respected in accordance with the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights; The choice to smoke must be...
This night, as per the title of this post, I’m living good. Ani wanted a playdate. Usually, I dread such things, because it means her going door to door asking if anyone wants to play with her, and Christ knows what it means to me. Am I supposed to come over and linger at the sidewalk as she does what kids do? I hate to just send my kids to a house and let them have at it. But tonight,...
What the hell am I going to talk about? I might as well start with the most recent event of note in my life: electro-convulsive therapy. For years I’ve “struggled” with depression. No, that’s not right. I lay beneath depression as it pinned me to the floor and anxiety piled on top. A few months ago, I stopped taking all of my anti-depressants (Pristiq and Abilify) in hopes of exorcising the zombie in me and bringing out someone who enjoys...
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2 responses to “Shock Therapy”
Very interesting reading from someone that is suffering from depression..i have been for a few years..but i take my meds..after reading ur page i better not stop..be in for just 3 days once so it was not to bad..i hope ur getting better..i thought i would leave a mess so u knew ur not alone in how u feel..and i also wanted u to know someone is reading ur posts ..ok
Yvonne
Thanks, Yvonne. We all know we’re not the only ones who feel this way, but it’s easier to believe when a fellow traveler says hello.