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And another depressive post from me…

I have a tendency to get depressed around this time of year, and life has just been…meh…lately.

My brain is basically telling me that have never been able to be happy sober, and a lifetime of damage and bad experiences have left me with little hope of acclimating to “straight” life.

Christ, that looks so melodramatic written out. I guess I have a few people I could ask for help, but it’s just so against my training to show weakness. Like, fuck, I volunteer, even strangers talk to me about shit that’s worrying them (downside of being in public frequently, I guess…) I’ll buy homeless people breakfast but I can’t tell people I’m really thinking about getting back into drugs and letting that be a passive suicide versus living in the damaged vessel that is me in this dying world?

Life just seems to be a complicated variety of meaninglessness, I can’t really see much point in anything… it’s not like I’m going to be able to change things for myself or others in any meaningful fashion… there’s so much hate and division in this country… it’s all so overwhelming.

So many of us are cruel, and there’s so much unnecessary suffering that just isn’t looked at or listened to.

It’s not like no one tries connecting with me, I just kind of stall and act polite but disinterested until they go away. I’m sort of reconnecting with someone from back home, but they might not be the best choice for “sober” and “happy”, but I’d be lying if he wasn’t intelligent and simultaneously seems to understand me.


I mean… I’m managing a respectable life, but I feel like my soul is dead. But maybe I always feel like I’m on the edge of a break down, but what kind of a life is that?

I’ve never been able to think of the future in any considerable fashion without verging into a panic attack, even in high school.

Maybe I’m just not made for this world.


Double yay

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So today I’m bored enough to give you a tour of my apartment.

It’s finally starting to look like a somewhat normal human being lives in it rather than being the closest a human being can come to being homeless with an apartment.

Be prepared for much grey/black/white.

My bed. It is splendid.

Bessie Smith and William S. Burroughs may be forced to cohabit on a wall, but they can’t be forced to be friendly to each other, either.


It’s a shower curtain with a giant octopus attacking a ship.

What a metaphor for life.

The ship was prepared for disease, dissension and pirates… but it didn’t see the giant octopus coming!

Orson Welles in “The Third Man”….also, boots.

Front room. Completely unused, but still nice to have. Gives me a semblance of normality.

Tiny kitchen. Starting my awesome glass teapot! This is where the food magic happens. By “magic”, I mean rice, spinach, chicken, and variations of spice.

This palace could be yours as well, for a mere $465 on the west side of Milwaukee.

Also, I’m almost down fifty lbs. Pretty shocking, lol.


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Saw my best friend, Julie, yesterday. Hopped a greyhound, got there in the morning and we went to the beach.

It was so nice to be with someone who’s known me for a long time…we gel really well as people, and it’s good to have a friend that is so smart and caring.

Being in nature again was wonderful. The beach was gorgeous.

Living close to downtown like I do, I see a lot of concrete and’s nice to see so much green and trees.

She’s due on November 24th, and having a boy. I’m so excited to bean aunt. New life in the world. Wow.

I’ve been struggling in general, depressed, stressed out.

Not even sure what’s going on…think opening up to new people is hard for me, especially with my past.

It’s really hard for me to enthusiastic at all, especially romantically, and that’s almost becoming it’s own issue. Like I feel better alone but that makes me more depressed.

Idk, feel like things are running their course with my romantic situation… I’m in a dark place with little hope. I’m not excessive with it, but it certainly alters my ability to be enthusiastic. The guy is super enthusiastic and ambitious, and encouraging even, but I think I’ve been so emotionally distant and concealed that he’s giving up.

Honestly think he’s too,um, not damaged for me. Like I have tons of weird shit and negative experience that I don’t want to just lay on him.

Haha. “This isn’t going to work, you’re just not fucked up enough for me.”

Ultimately, though, it was good to connect with someone. It’s a reminder that I’m still alive…one of my friend’s seems to have cotards syndrome, which is the belief that you are dead.

While I don’t think I’m dead, in some metaphorical sense after giving up drugs/alcohol and my last relationship, and maybe even dating, I think I thought life was over.

It’s nice to know that I can still function in the world, even if love is difficult for me. Hell, I don’t think I ever had the normal capability to feel loved. I could/can love, but almost never feel like it’s returned.

Oh! Bought my first piece of art for my apartment this weekend.

From headhunterapparel on Etsy.

Reading “the best minds of my generation”, a print form of Allen ginsbergs lectures on the beat Generation. It’s covering Burroughs right now, Allen’s insight into his internal conflict and self hate really add more layers to his writing…

Burroughs is so sardonic, removed, controlled and logical, but it disguises deep emotions…the man was an inveterate outsider, no wonder I love him.

“Barbie Doll” – Marge Piercy

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This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.

In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker’s cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn’t she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.

“The Mother” – Gwendolyn Brooks

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Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.

I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed
I have contracted. I have eased
My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
Your luck
And your lives from your unfinished reach,
If I stole your births and your names,
Your straight baby tears and your games,
Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,
and your deaths,
If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
Though why should I whine,
Whine that the crime was other than mine?–
Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead,
You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you