Get Over That Depression, Dude!

Hello yet again. My boy Timothy is ringing me but I’m busy writing this. He suffers from depression. He gives it too much credit in my opinion. I want to slap him across the face, hold him upside down, and shake the miserableness out of his bones. He’s too powerful with it, it rubs off on people. He gets hurt over nothing, he’s too overly sensitive, I wish he would man up and say something like this: “I am not getting depressed anymore: Depression is bullshit.” But he doesn’t. He says: “Depression is king. I’m depressed, and so will you be.” Or something along those lines. He doesn’t say that exactly, obviously, but that’s what I infer.

He’s heartbroken over the loss of his Indian mother. Her death devastated him. I wish she would appear to him on the edge of his bed and share some quality spirit time with him, to let him know that she’s okay and that their special love bond is still strong between each other, as it should be. Maybe a visitation from the other side would stop him rambling on about how crippling the effects of degenerative mental illness can be. Andrew Tate says that depression doesn’t exist to him, that he refuses to accept it. Timothy says that that is because Tatey has a Bugatti and loads of women. To be honest (tbh), I don’t know whose argument holds the most sway.

The creature assassin under my bed appears to have gone. Maybe an operative took it out. (We’re not talking about factory operatives here.) Maybe it was in my mind, though I doubt it, because it stank the whole pad out. Rodents and other beasties that slither and crawl move quicker than the eye, they are always one step ahead, so it’s hard to determine. You must think I’m mad, not knowing what’s real. I think it comes down to what our minds can accept as real. Did somebody really put a genetically-engineered lab-created assassin monster into my apartment to kill me, or did I imagine it all off drugs? When put like that, the drugs option seems like hokum. Imagining scenarios off drugs…! It’s real, man! IT’S ALL REAL!  Get over it, deal with it, and move on. There’s no such thing as psychosis!

I dream of meeting another TI (Targeted Individual). Are you one? That would be sweet. We would get along like a house on fire, I know it in my soul. We could share our afflictions and try and discover who has had it the worst. I think that’ll be me, but I’m extremely open-minded about your plight also. I’d enjoy hearing about it. We could discuss the severity of our demises over some alcohol, with a smoke or two. I’m trying to give up smoking.

Ah well then, it’s time to wind up the blog post at its typical length. It’s been a blast as is per usual with you, My Precious White Voider. Have a bash at the White Void yourself. Even better, let me know about it. Via your mind or another method. x

 

Snapping Out Of It

My promise to the mirror failed me and let me down. I have since reopened the Celluloid Corridor and used about ten times since. Until today, the day when I decided to snap out of the looming depression, my life has been boring yet chaotic dismal disarray. I’ve just walked out of church, and I needed it. The sun fell through the leaded glass during fine song and lifted my spirits. I need lifted spirits to keep on facing what I need to face.

I’ve just, recently, since the last time I blogged, over the previous two or three weeks, been mad gung-ho for bombing illicit drugs. I call it poison, not a drug, due to the negative effects it wreaks upon the body. I mean it is amphet, what else can it be, but it’s just so strong and dirty. I’m ashamed and embarrassed, obviously, writing of this nature has no good reason to be on any blog associated with my name. But as we keep saying here, we’re always dead honest about the news feed we put across. Aren’t we, boys and girlies? Yes we are!

It’s sad and tragic. Or maybe you’re thinking: What’s this guy’s problem, it’s only a thumb of speed? If you think I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, then you should see me crying in bed. Only messing, I hardly ever cry. You know what I mean though…sad in bed. Not functioning. Not doing the things I was doing only last week. Not even eating. Wishing I didn’t have to breathe. Clinical depression does my bleedin’ head in. the word ‘depression’ makes me want to cry – not just for myself, but for the many sufferers currently going through it also. If you are one of them, or if you have any other kinds of mental difficulty, or if you are or know of someone who is going through technological harassment, then please accept my nod of condolence across the airwaves.

I may be a failure to myself sometimes, feeling sorry for myself with the Celluloid Corridor (those god-be-damned interracial babes!), but I don’t deserve this life of perpetual bedevilling aggravation. The lower I feel spiritually, in myself, the harder my perps stick the boot in. My kidneys are burnt out (immense pain), my throat has a presence inside it (not that far off the kidney pain), and my parasites have been breeding by laying and hatching eggs (where do you talk about that one?). Not to mention the reappearance of rodents in my flat (great). I’m half-inclined to believe, alongside my perps, who deliver permanent 24/7 voices into my private skull, that my life isn’t fair to me.

Where do we go from there though, into wallowing? I’d rather get G-UNIT again, and back into my training. The weight has fell off me lately, as that awful poison has stripped my appetite. Today has been the first day I’ve chomped on a brekkie in over a month. I’m hoping this is the start of something new. As you can probably tell by the writing, it was only six or seven weeks ago that I was bouncing around in a rarefied state, looking a little barrel-chested, large and in charge. Now I feel like a junkie whippet with a workload ahead of him. I’ll try and let you know how I’m getting on in a week or so, trying to reel back in the losses and transfer them into gains again somehow. Wish me luck in prayers and I’ll send one straight back at’cha.

Recovery has been over too. There’s no bonding there. I realised on my way over here to the library that you are possibly my best bond. I’ll say anything to you. I hope that your problems are nothing like mine. If they are worse, then please pray into any available light for strength. If they are negligible, then count yourself lucky and appreciate the rest of your day (or night). Perhaps you are a bullet train driver who burns the candle at both ends and never leaves the ‘DeStruCt’ button alone. If so, we should have a drink together – and that’s another thing…8 weeks off and then back on it because of Charlie. It used to be decent fun and pennies well spent but now it’s a terrible disgrace to mankind. Whenever I waste cash on that nose garbage I want to batter myself for months afterwards. Don’t forget to remind me…it’s only money…but for crying aloud, when’s it ever gunna stop? I was 44 the other day. I really should know better. I swear I’ll be in a better place the next time we (I) talk. You too x

Depression

 Beating The Mattress

What is there to say about depression that hasn’t already been said? It’s almost fashionable now to have gone through depression, if you’re a celebrity. Look at Ruby Wax – a champion of depression. They all think they are cool to talk about it because it associates them with today’s troubled youth. It connects them with the kids. The book Prozac Nation made being depressed almost trendy. I myself used to buzz off it as a teenager. I thought I was special because I was depressed. But being depressed ain’t really cool: Being depressed is total shit. In my understanding, being depressed goes hand in hand with staying in bed. Spending too much time under the sheets is a massive clue. Not wanting to face the living room, never mind the outside world, is another. You’ve lost interest in the TV, especially during the daytime – if you’re up, that is – and Facebook is full of happy prosperous people uploading their insulting happiness, so why would you want to bother with that? Showering or even brushing your teeth is out of the question because you have no special dates on the horizon – or any social events whatsoever, for that matter – so what’s the point if you’re not going out anywhere? Nothing to do but roll over and find a cooler part of the duvet to snuggle up into. And the longer you leave it to get up, the harder it becomes. And say you do get up, eventually…what then? Just what the hell are you supposed to do then? Prepare a meal? No. You don’t need much sustenance when you’re only lazing around all day. Better to graze on some simple sugars and indulge in junk. After all, you deserve it because you’re depressed. And a crappy diet is just more fuel for this all-consuming depression. I suppose you could get dressed – lol! What for? To sit around in the living room all day? What’s the point in being all dressed-up with nowhere to go, and nobody to go with for that matter. No, better to stay in your sleeping clothes. After all, you’ll probably be going back to bed soon. There’s simply nothing else to do. Apart from go out, of course, but ha, where to? Where the hell are you going to go, feeling like this? One peek through the window makes you realise that the outside world is like a different realm – that’s where all the busy happy people are, and it’s not for you. So, what to do about depression? The answer is easy…you’ve got to snap out of it. It’s as straightforward as that. Nobody else can do it for you. You’ve got to make a snap decision that you are refusing to feel like this anymore. You’re not standing for it any longer. The world is a state of mind, and depression is a mere changeable mental state. So do a spot of cleaning, put a CD on, get dressed, go out somewhere, anywhere, and get manic. Do something, and when that’s done, worry about what can be done next. One thing at a time. One day at a time. It doesn’t matter how small or meaningless it is what you’re doing, at least it beats the mattress. Get obsessed about doing things. That’s the key. Doing stuff.