Patron Blog #5: Watching My Every Sound

It’s been a bad few days. Come to think of it there are many ways in which it’s been an altogether bad few months, I would be tempted to say 2016 was a bad year like everyone else has been saying, and no doubt much of it has sucked. But I did spend the majority of the year in a safe home, even if I just couldn’t make it work in the end.

The depression has been REALLY bad for the past week or so. About a week ago I spent several hours sitting on my bed, listening to some of my favorite sad songs in Audacity, slowing them down to play at 0.70x speed. There was this hot pain in my chest and stomach, and I wondered if I was going to be sick. It was grief that I felt. I don’t know what I was feeling grief for. Maybe for my hope. Maybe for my life in Delaware. Maybe that in the end I’m back here, jobless and living with my mom, with no goals in sight.

I thought about college and how I never got to live my dreams there. I never got to live in a dorm room with a roommate who shared the same room, and do all those silly roommate things, and become friends with him. I never got to make lots of friends and be part of big groups wrapped in blankets watching movies in the dark. I never got to have dramatic breakups with boys on campus, and fuck three guys at once while trying to keep it down in our room. I never got to go to class in my pajamas, to stay up studying.

I just… sat here. Sat here and got fat and got diabetes, and my testosterone dropped to dangerous levels and my viatmin D failed me, and my depression got deeper, and the depression meds made my hard cock go soft, and my eyes drooped and fell, and I sank and sank and sank. Sank into mud, into the earth, into a warm well of sadness and sat at the bottom and looked up defeatedly at the sky above.

I’ve tried to write. I’ve failed the last couple of days. I mean, I wrote. It’s not even that bad. But the inspiration wasn’t there. I waited too long to write. I keep trying to push through but there’s so little to work with there. I can write the scenes just fine when I’m speaking them aloud to myself in the shower. But on the screen when I type… I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I don’t know about anything. I got angry at my sister and slammed on my breaks in the middle of the road and told her she could shut the fuck up or get out of the car. I was so ashamed of myself for pulling such a white trash move. I felt like my mother.

My mother is near, and she sucks my soul from my being, like a vampire. I’m so empty, so empty, so empty.

So empty.

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