I have to be super offensive for a minute.


You are probably not someone’s fix for depression.

You might be something that makes the days better, you might be a shoulder to cry on, and you might be their support….


….but don’t get mad and puffed up if they have a moment of depression. Don’t be salty just because they still have it.

If you know somebody who had it and got over it, that’s great. That’s them. Don’t tell that to the person you’re with, who is still going through something. Whether it is chemical or circumstantial, whether it is BOTH–don’t fucking compare them to other people. That makes it WORSE.

Why do people get so offended when you have depression?

“I’m here, so you should be happy and better.”


I had these feelings before I met you. I had them before I even knew what they were. I could never afford to get help for them. I’ve been analyzed a few times. Anxiety, Depression. Simple, direct. I know what I have.

You are a wonderful person. You are also a very annoying and hurtful person at times. You’re impatient and don’t understand things a lot, sometimes.

I think this is one of those big things.

You cannot expect me to erase all of this overnight. You say “I don’t”, but the commentary says otherwise. You are here, yes. I am happier, yes. But this thing isn’t going away so fast. And it would be incredibly great if my “supporter” would stop commenting on it like it’s a series of paperwork or some annoying thing they can’t handle.

I hear the tired tone in your voice.

I hear the exasperated sighs.

I feel/see/hear the inconsideration.

You are not medication. You are not a mental health doctor. You are but one imperfect person. I ask you to be there for me, not make all these comments about why I need to be happy.

That also implies I’m ungrateful for you being here.

There are so many things, I think, that need to change between us. If people are willing to change. It seems like we care so much, we talk about doing the work, but the obstacles make it harder.

Traveling, opinions, moods, excuses, family traits.

I mean…

You found a way to cope and be stronger than you know. I find ways to cope. But sometimes it’s overwhelming. It just simply is.


that’s all I had to say.

I think I’m supposed to be smiling and suffering in perfect silence or something. People–most of them–would rather not hear that you’re sad in such a world of privilege. I see what I have. Trust me, I see it.

I see it.

Not every moment is dark by the way.

Not every case of depression is textbook.

You cannot always solve every problem.

Just be there for me. WITHOUT the snarky commentary.

Yes, it’s snarky.

I wrote a poem about what it’s like for me.

3 Months Time

Well, it’s been a million years since I’ve even touched this blog, and I decided to come here and blabber cuz there’s really nowhere else to go. I’m currently leaning very close to another Tumblr hiatus, frustrated with the scene and myself. Then I realized how…reliant I became concerning the site. It’s got so many things hooked up to it, and it suddenly became the “thing”. It suddenly became the informant, but also the source of a LOT of misery, envy, sorrow, and blah blah….I’m human.

I don’t like that feeling. In Buddhism, it’s what we call the “lesser self”. Boy, was she talking to me tonight. Telling me I’m lame because I’m single, telling me I’m pathetic because I haven’t had intercourse in X amount of years, and of course job issues, relationships in my face, folks’ happiness, and my favorite–weight weight weight. She topped the sorrow cherry by reminding me of my real life, too. Oh, what a pill! To make that long story short, it’s like I have an energy about me that makes people avoid me like the plague of plagues unless we’re forced to do group work. Maybe it’s how I look or whatever…so…there’s that. I’m a big ol bear just trying to educate herself–not cause trouble or drama or misfortune.

This is indeed a pity party, and I’ve crawled out the hole before. I’m sure I will at a later date, if not tomorrow. It just doesn’t turn off and on like a light. In any case, having these horrible and flawed feelings makes me cringe. Getting jealous and feeling like crap about other people’s successes and happiness…es…is a bad look all around. I just felt like, tonight, I couldn’t stand to be on the one social spot that actually made me feel okay about being fat, black, strange, and whatever else I’ve labeled myself as.

Other so called spaces just did not compare, and I felt like I was with “my people”. But in typical nyeeeh fashion, it just feels like these days…I’m my own little island, and even the slightest interactions barely get a hit. So I’m sittin there like “hey dude thought we were cool!” and “hey man, you’re always talking about how lonely and bored you are, so…what’s up?”

But alas, 28 is way too old to be caring about such trivial little things. Things that won’t matter 20 years from now. Just like all the shit that happened 20 years prior, although it hasn’t been forgotten. I envy those with the power to let go. It just seems like my lesser self loves to hold on and remind me of EVERYTHING, taking me away from happiness and consciousness of this current living space. So all at once, I just feel so heavy, invisible, alone, and useless. When I become useful, even that seems…falsified. As if my usefulness comes with certain things. Other than that, who am I? Some kid a man and a woman raised as their little hope….only to fail and some change.

In 3 months time, things have shifted. I did get into school. I don’t plan on dropping out or fucking up this time. I’ve drifted a ways away from my faith, knowing good and well what Daimoku does for me. I got appointed as the YWD of my district, but have yet to step up and BE that person. I hit the brakes on a lot of toxic things that were bad for me, but opened up a brand new can of acid to gargle down my throat. Writing has taken a break, as well.

Meanwhile, new poetry blog.

And that’s the report. Life is life, tunnels are darker, I have no idea who I am anymore.

Dreck, Table For One

  Well, I took a chance. I can finally admit I failed. I can finally admit it was a bad idea not only to self-publish my work, but to think for a second that anyone on this planet would want to read the emotional, horrible dreck between the pages. I didn’t want to say that to myself. I didn’t want to come with negativity, but that’s the reality. So, now what?

  As I watch other people beautifully float, create, and get the recognition, I feel like a vapid and terrible literary freak. I feel terribly invisible and ashamed I ever put ink to paper. What was I thinking? I went to my CreateSpace page and found that all four of the people who liked my book no longer liked it. It’s no different than the indifference to my weak advertising. Who was I kidding?

  When I think of all the effort, I picture myself trying to feverishly put wet pieces of paper back together. I see myself finally giving up, drinking the thorn-ridden poison of defeat. With each passing moment of trying to get someone to read this crap, I knew nothing would come. The faith rotted away. I had faith…for a while.

  I can’t depart from writing. I know that. I’ll always be writing for myself, getting few (yet always appreciated) likes. I never know what to do or where to present my work. I never feel like I’m good enough to go to any poetry read–whether it’s for PoC, for women, for Bisexuals, for fat women….just….who wants to read my shitty, sad angst, anyway? No one. Jeff didn’t even want to touch it, Darren stared at it and kinda liked it, and my dad is usually mortified by the dark honesty.

  This isn’t anything for anyone, and I’m standing in the middle of a cold, dying fire and a hot one. Cold, because sure why don’t I just stop and leave the writing and musings to the professionals; Then, hot, because again I can’t just STOP writing. How is that possible? It’s maddening. It’s corrosive. I want to do everything with this writing, I swear. I’m just frustrated and upset now. They say “don’t compare”, but obviously I ought to do something.

What am I doing wrong?