I'm trying to get my writing more focused, more structured, and most importantly, way funnier. If I'm going to write a book, which is what I'm thinking I want to do, it's imperative that I get serious about getting serious and focused on getting focused.
I have a lot of interesting anecdotes from my time as a kid, swimming, going to shows, being a maniac in college, becoming a working adult, having my mid-life crisis early and going to film school, becoming a filmmaker and film festival organizer, teaching, traveling, cooking, domestic life, etc. etc.
But what is the common thread that binds these elements together? What is it about this giant collection of the mundane with a twist of absurdity that people can relate to? What is it that connects me to the world at large and would compel folks to spend a bit of money and a not insignificant amount of time to read about the largely boring, but sometimes strikingly bizarre series of events that constitute my life on this planet?
It's most likely depression and anxiety. That's too obvious though. They're common conditions and widely covered in this day and age. I mean, there's a month dedicated to mental health!
I'm a member of one of the most privileged demographics of people on the planet. I white, cis, straight, married man from a middle class upbringing. I realize and understand the nature of this privilege. I work to undermine the system that perpetuates this pervasive privilege and use aspects of my privilege to give underrepresented and oppressed people a platform from which to speak.
Again though. That's too easy. Too obvious. Way too rife with opportunity to needlessly offend and undermine the very thing I am working at. Add to that, that there are people doing work and creating art dissecting these issues who are vastly more invested and insightful than I am.
Maybe the common thread is how I sabotage myself constantly, almost willingly, knowingly despite being fully cognizant of the systemic advantages available to me?
I often wonder if I just sucked it up and dressed how people expect me to dress, cut my hair the way people expect me to cut my hair, got the real job that people expect me to have... maybe I'd be less depressed, less anxious. Maybe experience a moment or two of true happiness or content. Not this constant slog of trying to maintain a state of being just ok. Neither happy nor sad. Neither angry nor jubilant. Not constantly frustrated. Just ok. Fine.
I recently wrote about my experience with depression and anxiety. Not as a cry for help because I am actively working on it by going to therapy and discussing medical options with my doctor. It was more of a way to address it head on, look at myself more directly, and hopefully take another step toward minimizing the effects of this piece of shit condition.
Going public with my depression produced some interesting results.
A lot of people empathizing and sympathizing. Understandable given the pervasiveness of depression.
A handful of folks very kindly offered me their ears whenever I was in need of them.
A large number of people were flat out surprised by my public proclamation of depression and anxiety. Shocked because they had never seen it in me before, never saw any outward display of the affliction.
A lot of people had advice. Well intentioned, but misguided advice. Have you tried this? Have you tried that? You know what works for me when I'm down? I like to go on a long run when I'm feeling low.... from a person who knows I have no meniscus in my right knee and running is not an option for me. (Here's a hint... being down or sad from time to time and dealing with depression are not remotely the same things.)
That's the big thing though. Depression is not just sadness that makes you wear black and listen to downer music. It's not something you want to wear on your sleeve. It's not something you're proud of. It's a state of being that you not only try to hide from others, but you spend a lot of time trying to hide from yourself despite its omnipresence and crushing weight almost every minute of every day.
Frequently for me, it takes the form of a guttural scream that just sits inside my chest with no way to let it out. It manifests itself as very real physical pressure that can't be relieved. This is why super angry metal helps me with anxiety and depression. When that scream manifests, Reign in Blood, or Master of Puppets are the only thing that seem to help in lessening it. If I can't allow myself to scream as my body demands, at least I have James Hetfield or Tom Araya handy to do it for me.
Basically, people dealing with depression become very adept at hiding it. From ourselves and others. It makes me feel enough like shit that I don't want to burden others with it. I'm not a narcissist or a sociopath, so why inflict this on others... at least in non-constructive ways?
Dealing with this, getting a handle on it so I can grow personally and improve my relationships with others is my number one priority in life right now. Writing has helped a great toward this end.
In writing this piece here, I think I've taken another step toward developing my focus, but that scream is building in my chest, and my inner critic is screaming at me... "This is a stupid idea! Who are you to talk about these issues? Literally anyone else on this planet is more qualified than you to tackle these topics. Why don't you shut up about this, play a little World of Warcraft, and go see a movie? Appease my whims!"
Ok inner critic, you scored some points today. I am going to play a little WoW. I am going to see a block of short films. However, I'm also going to do the dishes, publish this article exposing you, and then probably have a nice glass of wine later while watching Futurama with Kasia.
For those of you who have been generous enough with your time to slog through these ramblings of mine, I'd love to hear your thoughts on what the through-line is in my writings.
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