Personal Update

Where have I been?

In bed, mostly.

CW: this one is kind of a bummer, and there’s a whole lotta cursing

I’ve been hit by a truck, and that truck is called depression. I’ve been learning more about it, though I think I’ll never learn enough. And I’ve been learning about myself too, which also doesn’t mean I’ll stop being a complete mystery to myself anytime soon.

I was knocked out by my own perfectionism, apparently — whatever the hell that word means. I still am overwhelmed by it. This thing people have been calling “perfectionism” is… me. I don’t even like to call it that, but I don’t know what else to call it.

I thought perfectionism was something different, but the thing I’m talking about here, just so we’re on the same page, is simply “doing things right”. Or trying to. The problem is I’m going through a moment in my life when there are way too many fucking things for me to pay attention to, so “doing things right” takes a lot of effort. A lot more effort than I can handle.

Dealing with the disappointment of not reaching my own stupid expectations takes away my motivation to even keep trying. Which means I end up failing more. So that gets me even more disappointed in myself, which means even less motivation. And then the plane’s nose tilts down and the pilot starts calling “Mayday! Mayday!” And the land down there, once so tiny and distant, starts growing menacingly bigger. And I get smaller, hoping I get so small I disappear before crashing.

The stupidest part is, what do I even mean by “doing things right”? I don’t know! This “perfectionism” is kinda invisible. It’s just being a good husband. A good son. A good friend. A good employee. A responsible adult. Trying to make the least amount of mistakes possible (this one is probs the most stupidestest one). But also trying to develop self-discipline: exercise, write, read, study, grow. Trying to be better. Better than I am. Better than I can be.

So… you know… that’s dumb.

I’ve done burnout. That was a couple of months ago. Fun stuff. Don’t recommend. For the last few weeks, it’s been straight-up depression. My brain is shutting down. It’s like it’s saying “You know this thing you wanna do well and responsibly? Let’s just… not. What do you think of that? Maybe just take a nap. You can’t do that wrong.”

I’ve been submitting my brain to so much pressure and disappointment it just doesn’t even want to try anymore.

So then what? Relax, right? Stop trying so hard. Take that nap. Go play video games. Go for a walk. Watch a movie. Get drunk. But I mean, what’s even the point?

I’d love to do all of those things, but because I want to, not because I have to otherwise I’m gonna have a fucking mental breakdown. If you’re forcing yourself to take a nap against your will, it kinda takes away the relaxation of taking said nap, y’know? So I guess you can do that wrong.

I don’t wanna take a nap. I wanna write a fucking novel or whatever. And I want it to be good, god damn it! I wanna be healthy. I wanna do stuff! I want to be able to do the things I want to do! Except, of course, I don’t really wanna do anything right now. My brain doesn’t want to. Because I’m not healthy — that’s kinda the point. It wants me to take that nap. And I guess it’s right.

So you know what? Fuck this. All of it. Fuck me. Fuck life. Fuck you, dear reader — tenderly, and with love and consent, obviously. Fuck my expectations. And fuck your expectations, whatever my stupidly insecure monkey brain is projecting onto the non-existing version of “you” who is reading this right now.

I don’t mean “fuck life” as in “I’m done with life.” I just mean “fuck caring about it.” Fuck depression.

I mean, I’m done. This is exhausting. Who cares? It’s stupid. Fuck this.

I’m a privileged fuck, by the way, so don’t worry too much about me, if you’re leaning in that direction. This is not about pity, it’s just about me sharing where I’ve been. Read the title. I’m just telling you. I’ve been here, in this weird and boring place where it’s just dark and it doesn’t even look or smell like anything because that would be too much of a fucking effort.

But I have a loving wife. I have an awesome job with an understanding boss and coworkers. I have good friends. Not everyone can say that. So I have to do the right thing and recognize that that’s a big privilege, and I’m truly grateful for it.

I also have the financial security to seek help from a professional, which I’m doing, and it’s been helpful.

Everything is fine. I mean, I wrote this last sentence, so it must be true.

I’m still dealing with some stuff. Clearly. But we’re getting there. And I’m sorry to make you a part of this. But also, nobody forced you to read this. Unless someone did, in which case I’m extra sorry, but also extremely curious. I mean, who is forcing people to read the stuff I write? And why? It’s a new kind of torture, for sure. What have you done to this person for them to bring such a horrible punishment upon you?

Anyway…

I’m here. I’m alive. I’m well. I can still press keys on a qwerty keyboard and compile feelings from my brain into quasi-meaningful words in the English language so that they can be sent over a network of cables that cover the entire fucking world so that you can feast your eyes in this typeface a designer spent a lot of effort to create. Or some effort. Maybe. I don’t know.

What I’m trying to say is, if you don’t count the stuff that isn’t fine, everything is fine. And if you do count the stuff that isn’t fine, chill. Things not being fine is part of life, and you should stop giving a fuck. That’s what I’m trying to do, anyway.

Does this mean I’m gonna be back to writing any time soon? Nah. I’m off to take that nap. Unless I do start writing again. I mean, who’s to say, really? But, you know… I thought I should say hi.

Also, Zane, I’m gonna fucking finish the motherfucking 100 Story Challenge even if it kills me! I’m telling you! I’m so close, god fucking damn it!

And you, dear reader… thanks for submitting yourself to… whatever the hell this was. Take care.