Your Life Won’t Be Ruined

Err…okay…so I probably shouldn’t think about how long it’s been since I wrote a blog post…

No, I don’t need to think about that at all.

What I need to think about instead is what actually got me to wanting to write a post tonight in the first place…

It was a long — and kinda shitty — day at work.  All I wanted was pizza and a beer.  Or beer and a pizza.*

*Amazing, isn’t it, how changing the placement of just two tiny words can change the emphasis and imagery of a sentence…and don’t even get me started on changing one tiny word!  “My arms around her neck…” versus “My hands around her neck…”  Ahem.  Vocabulary and syntax for the writing-win, Alex!

At any rate, pizza and beer.  That’s where I was.  Yeah, that’s it…

I went music shopping tonight, while I was drinking.  Oh, it wasn’t the old-school flipping through albums and CDs that used to be such an important part of my life.  No, this time — as has become my norm — it was mousing through the electronic catalog that is Apple’s iTunes Store.

Crap, I don’t even own CDs anymore, let alone the old vinyl albums that took my music-virginity.  Gah, don’t even get me started on losing the visceral satisfaction of actually “putting on” on a new album!

Okay…crap…talk about squirrel moments…that whole 200-word attempt at an “intro” was one giant squirrel-moment!  But…well…at least it gets me started…

One of the songs I was listening to tonight had a line that resonated.  It was in fact a line that damned-well better resonate!  “You’re life won’t be ruined…” that song said.

Your life won’t be ruined…

Your life won’t be ruined if you accidentally buy the low-pulp orange juice.

Your life won’t be ruined if the Broncos lose by 24 points to the Chiefs.

Your life won’t be ruined if Britain leaves the EU…or if it fails to do so.

Your life won’t be ruined if Donald Trump is impeached, or wins the ‘20 election…or not.

Your life won’t be ruined…

Your life won’t be ruined.

As someone who has fought the twin demons of depression and despair; as someone who has questioned whether any of this shit is actually worth it; as someone who has sat on a branch with a bottle in one hand and rope around his neck; as someone who has known both highs and lows that most folks don’t get to experience, all I can say is this: your life won’t be ruined.

Part of me wants to write this post to reassure my friends and family — to reassure those who have learned, if only through this blog, of my struggles with life — that I “get it”, that I’m not quite as fucked up as they think I am.

But only part.

Most of me, however…

Most of me just wants to speak to anyone who is staring at the same forbidding terrain through which I have spent a lifetime traveling.

Your life won’t be ruined.

In spite of everything the judgmental and the superior and the vindictive can do, your life won’t be ruined.  Second chances are everything in life, and most of the world appreciates that fact.  Shit, most of the world needs that fact.  More than that, however, anyone who doesn’t believe in second chances is far more fucked up than any of the rest of us could ever be.

So go ahead and vote for whoever or whatever you like.  Win or lose, your life won’t be ruined.

Go ahead and try to write that novel or poem, or paint that picture or compose that song.  Win or lose, your life won’t be ruined.

Most importantly, however, go ahead and be YOU.  Go ahead and be honest with those who love you.  Whether they accept and embrace, or turn their backs, you will survive.  You CAN survive.  Your life doesn’t have to be ruined.

If you live in the closet and are terrified of coming out…

If death and suicide stalk your thoughts…

If failure is an everyday companion…

If everyone looks, or acts, or feels, different from you…

You can make it.  You can survive.  It might be hard…it might even be hell, but there is far more to life than now.  To quote a charity/movement I whole-heartedly support and believe in: “it gets better.”

When you get right down to it, your life won’t be ruined.

A Thank-You Note

There’s an old saying, “a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet.”  

Umm…no.  Just no.

775B2F31-2E6B-4EF3-8D02-9B54ACD10D5DThat is not a saying I can get behind.  A stranger is a problem…and a talkative & friendly stranger is a danger.

Yay for cynical misanthropy….?

That being said, I do have friends.  I have very good friends.  I have friends that even the lapsed-Christian in me is willing to call a “blessing.”  I have friends without whom I would, quite honestly — and quite literally — be dead.  

As anyone who has struggled with depression can attest, there is always that quiet, demanding urge to hide away, to be “left alone.”  When things go well-and-truly downhill, that urge can see you go days, or even weeks, without contact.  You ignore the phone…you ignore the texts…you ignore the emails…

It doesn’t matter who’s trying to get hold of you, your mind tells you that any contact can only be worse…

Oh yeah.

8069D7BE-D493-4FE3-AA60-52921C6D19A8I live in the freaking mountains, well outside of any real town or civilization.  I live where I can far-too-easily hide in the backcountry, in the isolation and loneliness that that little siren in my mind so croons about…

But I’m blessed with friends who won’t let that isolation stand, won’t let me fall into that trap.  Friends who insist on contact and communication and interaction, friends who won’t leave me the fuck alone…

Friends who have, more than once, saved me.

I wrote once before about holding on, about my need for those who can and will help me in spite of me.  I’m not alone…and that means everything.  As alone as life, and problems, can make me feel…I’m not alone.

And that’s why I’m still here to type this.

This isn’t so much a blog post as it is a thank-you note, a letter to those who have helped me to hold on.  To my family, to Don and Morgan, to Jonathon and Angela, to Billy, to Matt and Bill and Jason and Brent … to all those who have helped me to hold on, who have helped me to stay rooted in this world, all I have to give are my thanks.

I owe you my life.

To everyone else, I can only say this: there is someone in your life hurting, someone desperate and afraid and alone.  Find them.  Find them and help them.  You can’t make them “better,” you can’t “fix” them, but you can help them to stay rooted…you can help them to remember that they are not alone.

Whether it be trauma or depression or some other so-called “fault,” I don’t care what is the root of their problem, they need your help, they need your support…they need YOU.

No one deserves to live without hope or love, no one deserves to sit on a branch with a rope around their neck…

Musical Addendum — I’m posting below a song I have talked about before…the reason why should speak for itself:

 

Slipping Away

I watched a BBC documentary the other day.  Now, like most BBC docs, it was a pretty good program…but that isn’t what got me to thinking about this post.  No, what got me to thinking was one specific line/thought from the show.  It was a line that has stuck with me, a line that started thoughts knocking and thumping, asking — demanding — to be written:

“My life, it’s slipping away.”

When you’re young, a year is a lifetime.  The world is a parade of faces, both new and old, met amidst adventures and experiences and days that seem to last forever.

But that doesn’t last.

Life changes as you get older.  Life changes, but still you can hold to some of that enthusiasm and adventure and zest.  Still you can remember what is was like when a day was a lifetime.

But even that fades.

One day turns to another.  One week, one month, even one year, passes and you barely notice.  It all becomes about getting through from one day to another, from one paycheck to another, one year to another.  You don’t live, you merely survive.

Survival is not life.

When we were kids, we were promised so much.  When we were kids, we dreamed…everything.  It was all there, all in our grasp, an entire universe…an entire life.

And then it all began to slip away.

Slowly, sometimes, and far too fast at other times, those dreams — those hoped-for realities — began to slip away.  As we got older, as we matured, they slipped and faded.  We slipped and faded.

The days — the weeks, the years — are no longer a lifetime.  No, they have become instead something to be endured rather than lived.  They have become a haze of time with one moment indistinguishable from another, the simple ticks and tocks of a fading beat.

Life isn’t supposed to diminish as it passes, life is supposed to be more.

Life isn’t supposed to slip away, life is supposed to be lived.

At least that’s what we were told.

I can feel it, my life slipping away.

Keeping the Demons at Bay

IMG_0163IWSG Question o’ the Month: How do major life events affect your writing? Has writing ever helped you through something?

Do you know, I almost forgot it was time to post for IWSG? My head has been “out of the game” for a couple of weeks now, and a certain passive shrug of acceptance has set in. Acceptance of fatigue, acceptance of frustration, and — worst of all — acceptance of my struggle to find the energy and time to write.

Oh, the words are still there, but lately it’s been harder and harder to crack through all the bullshit to get at them…

I was sitting around today, not doing much of anything. I was tired, I was bored, and I had no intention of doing anything. Finally, I forced myself out for a short hike. Now, keep in mind that where I live is not…err…civilized. Hell, the closest thing to civilization is an hour’s drive away. When I want to get lost, when I want to recover, all I really have to do is walk five minutes out the back door.

Rocks and trees, wind and sun…all the greys and greens of the Colorado mountains, broken only by knots of gold as the aspens huddle together, holding on to the last of their leaves.

I needed that hike.

I wrote before, when I was still living up in Yellowstone, about how getting out into the wilds is (usually) enough to renew my failing balance and energy. That hasn’t changed. A hike — even a short one, like today — is enough to get me in touch again with those words that can sometimes seem so far away.

It also helps me to hold the demons at bay. When frustration and bitterness begin to turn to depression — as they always, always do for me — one of the only sure answers is to hike my way out.

Which brings me to the IWSG question I listed above. There really is only one other way out, for me. Only one other way to keep at bay the demon of depression, and that is to write my way out.

“Has writing ever helped you through something?” the question asks.

Every single day.

I’ve lived with my personal ghosts and demons for so long, I don’t even notice them anymore. Until I start writing, that is. It is only through writing that I can truly recognize them, and only through writing that I can (temporarily) exorcise them.

Expressing my thoughts and emotions through my fingers — whether on a keyboard or with a pen — has helped me through more shit than I care to really talk about. I don’t care to talk about it, but I will write about it.

Writing has helped me through the suicides of close friends, through the destruction of my soul and the hardening of my heart, through the worst times of my life…it has helped me, even, through my own dancing flirtations with suicide.

Take away writing, and I lose all those fights.

Take away writing, and I wouldn’t be here.

When I was young, I would lose myself in the stories I read. In the machinations of the court of Amber, in the adventures of Pug and Tomas, in the interplay of Garion and Belgarath and Polgara, in millions of words by thousands of authors. But never — even in the worst of times, even when I needed escape the most — never did I lose myself like I can in the fluttering ghosts of my own characters, and in the words of my own stories…

Addendum:  As ever, there’s a song for that (in my world): https://youtu.be/D6-EUSvJchI