IT SEEMS THAT READERS ACTUALLY WANT TO SIGN UP FOR A SUBSCRIPTION OF SORTS.

OK. cool.

Those Behind The Depressed

Those Behind The Depressed

I am not sure, but I think this may be the first post I have ever done that is not at least a little bit funny. I apologize. Will come heavy with the dick jokes next week.

I think I'm losing my mind. I started this blogging shit to provide an outlet for creativity. And also to give me something to do with the copious amounts of free time I have lately.  I haven't been home since November, and it looks like I am going to be here until December.

It's funny. I used to be one of those people who thought longingly about days on end spent in hotel rooms.

...If I only had that kind of time to myself…

...I would sleep and lay around…

...would love the time to just be with me…

It kind of sucks though. But I never present myself in that way. Mostly because I think that people don’t actually want to know what is on my mind when they ask me how I am. And also because I don’t give of myself in that way.

I talk to my people back home and they envy me. No. Envy isn't the right word. They begrudge my travel. Using phrases like “must be nice” and “it's going so well for you.”

But they don't get it. And to be honest, they have been begrudging aspects of my personality for years.

The prevailing idea that this shit over here is all sunshine and lollipops is really only having the effect of pissing me off.

Consequently, the phone conversations get shorter and shorter. The texting becomes more infrequent. Because I don't need it. I don't need the passive/aggressive nonsense from 8000 miles away. It wears on me.  

It's my own fault though. The contempt I face from my siblings, mother, and immediate family is directly my fault.  

You see, it is my strength that they despise. And it is my fault because I have allowed it.

I always present myself as happy and content, regardless of surroundings. Because that is my role. I am the rock, in my personal/professional life, that everyone either anchors themselves to, or breaks themselves against.

I’ve never shown anyone in my family my humanity. And as a result, I am not treated as a human.

They can use any words against me. There is nothing in their arsenal that is off-limits. They can be as shitty as they like. They can make statements to me that they would never utter to someone else in their inner circle. They can do all of this to me because I have facilitated it.

In being the unbreakable, unflappable, immovable object that they can absolutely rely upon for their every need, I have given them license to go for broke. The blatant nastiness I pretend to be oblivious to is astounding.

And each veiled insult I pretend to miss leads to the next one. Less veiled and more cutting.

They have actually begun to make casual assaults on my mental stability.

They say things like, “Well, I am not having a very good day, but you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Or

“I was so good yesterday, but today I am back down again. It must be so nice to be like you. You’re the same everyday, aren’t you?”

Or

“Depression is a disease! Just like cancer or Alzheimer's. But you’re too damn serious to get sad.”

These are words I have been on the receiving end of just this week.

And it makes me wonder when the narrative changed.

I grew up in a time when letting something get to you was tantamount to disaster. One did not allow the school bully to know when his jibes were hitting home. One did not show weakness, or pain, or hurt. To do so was ensuring that everyone had the ammunition they needed to wreck your day at any moment they chose.

Letting it be known that you had a weak spot was to be avoided at all costs.

But that has changed hasn’t it?

Now, fragility is the new normal.

And for people in my inner-circle, depression is their badge and shield. It is their blanket excuse for everything wrong in their lives.

Depression is responsible for their weight gain. Depression is the reason they didn’t get that promotion. Depression is why the fucking lawn isn’t mowed.

To these people, depression is their crutch. And they despise me, all while needing me, for not being as fucked up as they are.

And that’s my gig. No!

Don’t gloss over that point.

Take what I just said on board, and pay attention to it.

My job is to be their unshakable foundation. As long as I am rock-solid, then they are absolutely enabled to be quivering emotional sacks of shit.

My strength allows them to be fucked up.

And I am the asshole.

See how insane that is?

I honestly thought it was just my family though. But over the course of the last few days, my Twitter feed has been littered with militant fucking pussies shitting on people who challenge their mental health statements.

I’ve been watching quietly. Following along silently. Reading the initial statement, watching a gentle rebuttal, and then seeing the vicious counter-attack.

I don’t get it though. Why would you make a statement about your fragile mental state ON TWITTER, and then expect no one to challenge it?

Don’t fucking say that you’re trying to raise awareness. We are fucking aware! Awareness is plastered all over everything.

Don’t say you’re looking for support. There is no fucking support on Twitter. If you’re looking for support then look to goddamn Facebook.

So why Tweet about your fragility? I believe it is to spark outrage and cause drama.

If so, mission accomplished.

It is simply narcissism. Depression becomes a crutch when it is based in selfishness and laziness.

But, the questions that these depressed narcissists never ask themselves are: what about the people who aren’t feeling too great about themselves, but suck it the fuck up anyway? Are they depressed too? Or is normalcy the ability to feel like shit and still produce?

I ask because I’m looking at myself. I’m not happy. I am not at all happy. I have not been home in months, and I will not be going home for months. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal, sat in my chair, seen my kids, driven my car, slept in my bed...etc. I am in a foreign place, surrounded by foreign things, people, and smells. I don’t know anyone. I don’t go anywhere. I wear the same clothes everyday.

And I don’t care about a fucking thing.

But, I get up in the morning. I shower and shave. I make my bed. I go to work. I go to the gym.

I live my fucking life in the way that I expect myself to. I’m productive. And most importantly, I do not burden anyone with my own personal misery.

Am I not depressed?

I don’t think I am. I think I am just pissy because I am not in a situation I want to be in.

I think we can agree that I am not depressed.

So, what would I have to do to cross that line between unhappy and depressed?

Get a doctor to say the word?

Lay in bed for a week?

Cry like a bitch?

Shit on my family members?

What do I have to do to be officially depressed? Because I want to be one of the cool kids. I want a swanky mental illness. I want an excuse to be a fucking tool to everyone I know.

In the meantime, I will just keep on being the rock everyone needs. I will continue to afford everyone the ability to be bitch-made pussies. I will continue to be oblivious to their shitty comments. And I will continue to just be a responsible fucking adult.

The takeaway from this rant should be awareness.

I wrote this to raise awareness.

I want everyone on the internet to know that behind every sorry-ass, sweat-pants-wearing, crying-in-the-bathroom, depressed motherfucker out there, there is another sorry motherfucker who works and grinds and acts as their emotional fucking tampon.

#supportingthepussies shall be our banner. And we have been ignored for far too long. Arise my people! Demand rights!

The right to not listen to the “ill” whine!

The right to be proud of our success!

The right to occasionally have a shitty day without having to stop complaining to console some depressed motherfucker!

We are the support behind the depressed, and we have been forgotten for too fucking long.

I’ll begin printing flyers….

 

Crawfish, New Orleans, SEO, and Aqua Velva

Crawfish, New Orleans, SEO, and Aqua Velva

Robert Kraft, Prostitution, Typing, and Failed Sex

Robert Kraft, Prostitution, Typing, and Failed Sex