I just found out that I lost a friend I had grown to know very well over the past three years to suicide. We worked together on a few shorts in Maine and he always seemed happy (well, as much as any of us anyway). He had recently been taking care of himself; eating right, working out, and working towards his goals. But in the end, his thoughts were too much for him to contain and he took action albeit in the wrong direction.
I’m devastated not only because we lost him but sad that we feel so isolated in a world full of lonely people. If only we could get together more, talk more frequently, and learn to break away from feeling ashamed to reach out then this wouldn’t happen as often as it does.Read More »
I wrote a post yesterday about working through a depression regarding my financial & creative funks. The response was overwhelming, to say the least– well, on Facebook; I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get people to comment directly through WordPress. I wrote a post about the nurses’ strike one time that elicited several comments, but that’s about it.
The reason for the follow-up is that I wanted to demonstrate the effect that these responses can have on an individual experiencing such a low. We all scroll through Facebook and ‘Like’ or ‘Haha’ or ‘Sad’ or ‘Wow!’ a post about kittens and Trump, but we rarely talk to each other and never ask how anyone else is doing.
WARNING: This chapter features some vulgar audio clips from my past.
My nomad status returned during the month of March, akin to my brother and I’s younger selves as a divorcee’s child. It was hard not “reminisce” shuttling between Dad’s, Mom’s, and the apartment. I knew I had to be happy and spend as much time with everyone as I was physically able. I mean, after all…
I WAS HOME! FOR GOOD!
But the connections were there. We threw a massive party, just like the event when we were released back into our Father’s care after our foster run.
My brother and I rarely got along while staying at Lori and Todd’s, but I had hoped that after this deadly ordeal, our fighting days were over. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
My legs were getting worse. I couldn’t stand up without that same unbearable pain shooting up and down my legs. I had to get into just the right position to be somewhat comfortable, even while hopped up on morphine.
I needed something to do; I was getting stir crazy and normal television wasn’t cutting it– hell even the PS2 wasn’t cutting it anymore. As much as I loved this new room, 864, there wasn’t anything to do.