I was going to write something about Adam West and pretend to be a huge fan of his, but the idea of chiming in with the latest RIP fad made me sick. His death both surprised me and saddened me, but it was my 10 year old son (raised on Batman) who took it the hardest. I realized I wouldn’t be able to genuinely write a full legitimate article doing the Caped Crusader any justice, or maybe I just didn’t feel like it.
Sometimes I wake up and I just hate myself to pieces. I look at the man in the mirror and I want to deck him in the face with my scarred fist. I tell him how much of a failure he is, and at his age, he should have a career, fuck, he should have a degree. I tell him that he wasted his life and continues to do so each day.
Some days I wake up and I hate every scrap of anything I’ve ever written. I just want to give up and throw all my work away. I ask myself, who the fuck is going to read this shit? But I don’t throw it away, in fear some dumpster diver is going to have a good laugh at my latest attempt at pretending to be something. I tell myself I can’t write—and then, I don’t write.
Days like today, depression is my best friend and he wants me all to himself. The worst part, most of the time, I have no idea why I feel this way—I just do. My brain is wired differently I guess, because some days, this dark cloud is kicking it on my shoulders shitting all over any accomplishments that I may feel.
I am so incredibly hard on myself and in many ways, I am my own bully that I don’t know how to stand up to. It doesn’t take much to get him going and for him to be crowned champion of the inner debate. I cower and bow down and let him take the reins.
I am deeply flawed, and days like today suck. But I manage somehow, I always do. I’ll probably veg out in front of the TV (which never makes me feel any better) or crawl into bed and pretend to read a book while staring at the floor. I am real good at making something positive into something negative faster than a speeding bullet on days like today.
I sit here at my desk aware of the other beings in our home, but beyond parental duties, I feel no need to connect with these people, not today. I sip my cup of coffee and wonder, am I sharing this private info last minute because I have no new crapy fiction ready to post, or do I generally feel the need to share this and get it off my chest?
There is nothing really to do to combat days like today. I just have to grit my teeth and ride it out—endure the rest of this crappiness. Some days it passes quicker than others, then I feel normal, and my fingers dance across the keyboard once again creating more words for me to rip to shreds the next time I wake up on the worst day of my life.