An Aesthetic / Anaesthetic

“So may your river never dry
And may your mouth never lie
And may you be satisfied to never know why
Sometimes someone just wants to die”

– Damien Rice, “Lonely Soldier”

It’s a well-documented fact that cases of depression, anxiety, and other mental illnesses are on the rise – hardly surprising, given the very general, very all-encompassing clusterfuck of current affairs.  People – young people in particular – have been instilled with a very legitimate sense of anxiety and responsibility for the future of our planet, seemingly bombarded with new crises on the daily.  Environmental, political, economic, racial, virulent: you name it, we have it.  Taking this into consideration, it’s almost a good sign that people are feeling the effects: if everyone was still happy-go-lucky we’d probably have to move “blissfully ignorant and dangerously uncomprehending society” to the top of the list.

You could argue that the rise in statistics is also a reflection of the rise in awareness, a diminishing of the stigmata which have surrounded mental health issues for so long.  Society is less hesitant to acknowledge or label the reality of depression.  People are recognizing and addressing the signs and symptoms more readily, both in themselves and in others.  All of which has amounted to some profoundly positive changes, the fight against depression making leaps and bounds of progress all within the span of a decade.  Unfortunately, as has been proven time and time again, humankind has a tendency to take new things and run with them – and then keep running.

Dark humour is far from a new discovery, but it is one which has found new life and popularity among the mid-lower range of the Earth’s age spectrum (I keep trying to say ‘young people’ without sounding like a middle-aged man, and I’m profoundly aware that I’m failing miserably).  Partly as a coping mechanism, partly as an outlet through which to express feelings which might best-case result in extremely awkward conversations, worst-case have you locked up in a mental institution, and partly simply due to the fact that it’s downright hilarious.  Any comedian can testify not just to the power of shock value but the medium through which conversation on otherwise uncomfortable and taboo subjects can be broached.

In addition to the resurging popularity of dark humour, there have also been more complex, less quantifiable cultural shifts in how mental illness is viewed.  Cases of entertainment mediums being accused of trivializing, romanticizing, and even glorifying the struggle (one notable case being the controversy surrounding Netflix’s original series “TH1RTEEN R3ASONS WHY”).  Ongoing distortions of the defining lines of mental illness on social media, with conditions being simultaneously normalized and generalized.

A sudden and dramatic shift in how mental illness is viewed, combined with a sudden and dramatic rise in cases of mental illness.  Two storm fronts colliding.  The result is one which we are still only now mapping out.

Consider for a moment how much of an impact mental illnesses already have on an individual’s sense of self.  A condition whose very definition is centered around its influence of and on a person’s mental state, on their minds, on the neurological roadmap of their identity.  Twisting their thoughts, their views, their feelings, the way they perceive themselves and the world around them.  Now throw society’s opinions into the mix: the way people think mental illness should be treated, should be defined, should be handled.  It’s the equivalent of throwing a brick into a washing machine already spinning out-of-control, trying desperately to maintain its own equilibrium.

The upsurge in mental illness is, in a lot of ways, like a snowball tumbling down a hill.  The more it rolls the more it grows, and the more it grows the more momentum it picks up.  Look again to the aforementioned TH1RTEEN R3EASONS WHY.  A big part of the controversy surrounding this series was the fear that it would promote “suicide contagion”: a phenomenon that occurs when one case of suicide (primarily real-life, but in this case fictionalized) promotes and encourages a copycat cluster.  Human beings are social creatures who look to one another for cues on how to act and react (adolescents in particular are a highly suggestible group), and sadness has always been a highly contagious emotion (a profound tragedy rarely impacts just one person, and every person who’s been impacted inevitably ends up in their own depressive state, in turn making everyone they know feel the effects – even if they weren’t initially impacted.  It’s like one long, complicated game of depressive telephone that just keeps growing).

So with cases of mental illness rising all around the globe, it makes sense that cases would (again) continue to rise in response.  A snowball, continuously gaining momentum, continuously gaining mass.  One could argue that the rise is at least partly to thank for the fact that society has finally been forced to address the issue head-on, but the flip-side is that this has occurred at a time when what is needed is a careful, precise response; not that of a first-time/simultaneously last-resort flurry of activity and noise.  Because that’s what we’ve seen: a whole lot of noise.  All the while people are seeing the rise and asking themselves if perhaps they might not have mental illnesses themselves, stepping into a world of confusion and chaos, of blurred lines and almost overeager acceptance and promotion of mental illness.  We’re so terrified of discrediting or denouncing anyone’s feelings, of coming off as insensitive or blind to their struggles, that EVERYONE gets a “Mentally Ill & Proud of It” badge and an “I have a mental illness and all I got was this stupid t-shirt” tee.  Because who are we to say different?  Who are we to say “no, you’re not suffering from a mental illness, you’re just the regular type of sad, the regular type of scared or anxious or confused, the regular amount of thrown-off by the current state of the world”?

And the snowball rolls on.

In today’s culture it’s almost a badge of pride to say that you’re suffering from one illness or another.  Everyone needs a cross to bear, it seems.  Everyone is struggling, and it’s not enough that it’s just the “regular” degree of struggling anymore.  There’s been a promotion of this idea that we’re all in this together, that we’re all depressed and anxious together.  It’s become an aesthetic, a cute little crutch, sometimes a scapegoat, sometimes a pass to feel included or to feel elevated.

For those afflicted, the desire to glorify the condition is a coping mechanism that numbs us to just how dangerous it really is.  For those simply masquerading (whether consciously or simply because they are misinformed and uncertain) it is a mirage that promotes a deadly lie, that promotes more confusion, more questions, more turmoil.

Being depressed doesn’t make you an interesting person.  It’s not a substitute for or an aspect of your personality.  It doesn’t make you seem cool, or mysterious, or complex, or mature.  It’s not an accessory to wear along with black clothing and piercings, and it sure as hell isn’t something to be proud of.  There should be no shame in it, and there should be no stigma around it, but that doesn’t mean it’s something to embrace.  This isn’t like the struggle against homophobia, for fuck’s sake.  This is a disease.

Not being ashamed of something is not the same as being proud of it, and no one should ever revel in having a mental illness – far less those who don’t actually have them.  It’s not something to glorify or trivialize.  It is a dire plight, and the magnitude of its dangers should not be diluted by those simply looking for a personality crutch, for a chance to fit in, or the age-old need for attention.

Depression isn’t a fad.  It’s not trendy to cut yourself to seem like you’re a profound or tortured individual, it’s not hip to feign suicidal for attention or the validation of your own feelings.  Mental illness is not something to be romanticized.  There is nothing romantic in lying in bed for days on end, starving yourself, unable to even sum up the energy to shower or go out.  There is nothing romantic in pushing away the ones who love and care about you, in punishing your friends until they finally give up trying.  There is nothing romantic in believing with all your heart the depth of your own worthlessness, in knowing the world would be better off without you if you could just sum up the courage to finally kill yourself you cowardly piece of shit you unlovable waste of human life–

There is nothing romantic in it.

And I know that, because I’ve succumbed to the temptation before.  There’s been many a time when I’ve tried to convince myself that there was some hidden beauty in the way I was feeling, that there was something I could see that other people couldn’t, that there was something romantic about it all.  It’s a seductive notion, and it took me a long time to realize just how dangerous it is, to see wherein its origins lie.  It calls to us like a siren’s song, lulling us into a blissfully numb state of anesthesia with such tempting reassurances – it’s just the way I see the world, it’s a sign of intelligence, it’s a source of inspiration for my art – with ideas that we want to believe, that we have to believe, because otherwise we’re nothing more than sick and suffering individuals.  And by the time we dash against the jagged rocks and see the sirens for what they are, see ourselves for what we are, it’s often far too late.

“Don’t get me wrong, the rise in awareness
Is beating a stigma that no longer scares us
But for sake of discussion, in spirit of fairness
Could we give this some room for a new point of view?
And could it be true that some could be tempted
To use this mistake as a form of aggression?
A form of succession?
A form of a weapon?
Thinking “I’ll teach them”
Well, I’m refusing the lesson
It won’t resonate in our minds
I’m not disrespecting what was left behind
Just pleading that it does not get glorified
Maybe we swap out what it is that we hold so high
Find your grandparents or someone of age
Pay some respects for the path that they paved
To life, they were dedicated
Now that should be celebrated”

– TWENTY ØNE PILØTS, “Neon Gravestones”

Nice While it Lasted

“I know that you’re tired
Know that you’re sore and sick and sad for some reason
So I’ll leave you with a smile
Kiss you on the cheek
And you will call it treason”

– Catherine Feeny, “Mr. Blue”

*Note: I’ll try to keep spoilers to a minimum, but obviously this post works best if you’ve actually seen the thing it’s talking about.  So: if you haven’t seen the final season of BoJack Horseman (or any of it, for that matter) feel free to read on (I can’t very well stop you) but know that the best-case scenario is you feeling slightly lost, and worst-case is you encountering spoilers for the series finale.*

Well, the greatest show to ever grace this earth has finally come to a close, and we are all the worse for it.  Or better, depending on how you choose to see it.

Right from the start BoJack Horseman has weighed in on many important issues, contributed to dozens of difficult conversations, criticized seemingly untouchable people and powers, and made attempts at puzzling out many of the universe’s unanswerable questions.  Its final season was no different, and though opinions will invariably vary I personally believe it did an incredible job of sending its characters and world off in a manner that remained true to the series’ core.

To boil such a broad and all-encompassing piece down to an ending, let alone one single takeaway or moral, seemed and continues to seem impossible.  Long before the finale was even mentioned the internet was riddled with discussions and debates on how the show would end, and now that it’s finally arrived countless of articles analysing and critiquing the close are being published on a daily basis.  The ending part has (again, in my opinion) been successfully pulled off, but what are we to take away from it?  In the end, what was the show’s final message?

Rather than close things on a high note with the assurance that redemption had been found and change accomplished, or leave things on a low note with a cautionary tale about a character who couldn’t overcome his own demons, BoJack Horseman instead chooses a different kind of ending: the kind with no ending at all.  As the camera pans out to a scene of BoJack and Diane sitting against a backdrop of the night sky and Catherine Feeny’s beautiful voice washes over the audience, we’re left with a distinct feeling of uncertainty.  The unease is almost palpable, but as we wade through it we find a shred of hope, a wavering determination.

Deep down both these characters know (as do we) that their friendship is over.  This is the last time they will see each other, and it’s the last time we will see them too.  The scene lingers as Mr. Blue plays on, but it’s not just for this beautiful song that we stay, and considering BoJack and Diane presumably can’t hear the song it’s not the reason they stay either.

Their futures are unknown, their fates undecided, their friendship no more.  And yet they stay.  They stay there for a while longer, never making eye contact with one another, neither ready to face the truth just yet.  They know this is the end, but they are unwilling to say goodbye.

Unwilling to say goodbye, or willing to hold on – if just for a while longer.

Unwilling or willing, determined or stubborn, persistent or foolish.  Good or bad – it all depends on how you look at it.

Diane has already begun to change for the better, drawing strength from her bad experiences, learning from them, and channeling them into good.  Were the lessons ever inherent, unavoidable and clearly defined?  Not at all.  Instead Diane chooses to find these lessons on her own, to learn from not only her mistakes but those of others, and to make the most of the worst points in her life.  Few of these lessons come easy of course, least of all the one that the series chooses to end on – the one that teaches her the importance of drawing boundaries and cutting ties.

But she makes the most of it.  Even in the face of great uncertainty and in the resounding echoes of such terrible emotional pain, she chooses not only to endure, but to improve.

Nothing lasts forever.  Whether it’s an ending or The Ending, both are natural and unavoidable parts of life.  Choosing to let them hang over you, refusing to let them go, refusing to find meaning in them, these are all just ways of drawing them out.  Refusing change and clinging to the past does not delay the inevitable: it simply ensures that you carry it with you at all times, forever stuck in that moment.

BoJack has come a long way since his first season, but in many ways he’s still the same horse that he’s always been.  He’s reluctant to change; he’s so scared of uncertainty and failure that he has a hard time seeing the value in them.  A series finale that showed him becoming his best self would have been unrealistic and unbelievable, because for him improvement is a long and gradual road with many setbacks.  To wrap it up so nicely would have been a betrayal of the show’s unflinching look at the hard reality of self-improvement.

“Closure is a made-up thing by Steven Spielberg to sell movie tickets. It, like true love and the Munich Olympics, doesn’t exist in the real world. The only thing to do now is just to keep living forward.”

Instead we’re greeted with a familiar, hopeful, and altogether believable sight: a BoJack who might not be there yet, but who is still on his way.  He might not be where Diane is, but before you can improve you must first endure.

In BoJack’s case the ending is only an ending; sure, this is the last we will get to see of him, but his life will carry on.  Just like that final scene on the roof his future is filled with uncertainty, but just like that scene it is also filled with tentative hope and an unwillingness to give up.  He will continue to try, he will occasionally fall, and he will hopefully get back up again.  If he’s smart he’ll learn to let things go, but more importantly, he’ll learn.

If I had to boil this series down to two words, it would be Uncertainty and Perseverance.  Perseverance in the face of uncertainty, and uncertainty despite your perseverance.  As Diane aptly puts it, “Sometimes life’s a bitch, and then you keep living.”

The show has come to a close, but for better or worse is entirely up to you.  You can mourn its loss and pine for more, or you can try to learn something from all its given, to glean some kernel of knowledge from its many mines of wisdom, to be inspired by its refusal to accept rock bottom.  All things come to an end, but the end isn’t what matters: it’s what you make of it.

Thank you for an amazing, inspiring, emotional, hilarious, poignant, heart-wrenchingly beautiful and beautifully heart-wrenching six years.  You’ve both saved and changed my life, and I daresay it’s been for the better.

– The Modern Leper

BoJack Horseman is My Spirit Animal

“I don’t understand how people live. It’s amazing to me that people wake up every morning and say ‘Yeah, another day, let’s do it!’ How do people do it? I don’t know how.”

– BoJack Horseman

The final season of my favourite show in the world has just been released, so I figured it warranted a repost of this old gem.

If you have yet to acquaint yourself with Netflix’s first original animated series for adults, then what the hell are you still doing sitting here reading this?  But seriously, if you haven’t seen the show, it comes highly recommended from this stranger on the internet, and if for some unthinkable reason that doesn’t immediately convince you to watch it, I suppose I could offer a quick summary.

BoJack Horseman is a dark comedy/drama set in a world with anthropomorphic animals- but that doesn’t really have anything to do with the show’s plot… like at all (so just accept it & move on).  The star (and source of the show’s name) is none other than BoJack Horseman, a (yep, you guessed it) horse/man actor and washed up star of the old-but-gold ’90s sitcom Horsin’ Around.

But that plot summary doesn’t even begin to do the show justice.  The series encompasses so much (a satirical analysis of celebrity culture and the film industry,  social commentary on key issues in today’s society, and a powerful analysis into the darkest recesses of the human – or animal – soul, just to name a few) that you’d be hard-pressed not to find something you like.  The show brings together a slew of colourful and diverse characters, each dealing with their own struggles to cope with and understand the chaotic nature of life in their own way, each finding support and opposition as they cross paths.

Fair warning: season 1 starts off more fartsy than artsy, so if you find yourself thinking back to this high praise and wondering why you keep letting yourself get talked into doing things by strangers on the internet, just remember that it does get better.  People on the internet are never wrong.

The series finds BoJack struggling with a lack of purpose, a dangerous amount of self-loathing, and a seemingly unquenchable desire to launch himself back into the spotlight.  Despite his apparent enthusiasm for said task, somehow BoJack always ends up second-guessing himself – will this accomplishment actually make him happy?  Is he just grasping at straws?  Does he even deserve happiness? – and be it intentional or otherwise, more often than not his efforts fall victim to self-sabotage.  His existential crises escalate as the series progresses, and before long he’s an absolute fucking mess.

Just like me, in other words.

While BoJack and I aren’t perfect matches – in matters of money, fame and sexual partners BoJack seems to have me beat by quite a bit – I still can’t help but feel a certain connection to the severely flawed protagonist.

The fact that the television character I relate to most is a bitterly cynical anthropomorphic horse with self-destructive tendencies, a highly addictive personality and a severe case of depression probably says a lot about my current state of affairs- none of it good.

But that’s what makes the show so fantastic.  For all its eccentric animal characters, BoJack Horseman is a series that perfectly exemplifies what it is to be human.

We are flawed.  We’re vulnerable, selfish, insecure, self-destructive, and weak.  But we still try.  We fuck things up and we make a huge mess and we wonder if there’s even a way back- and then we try again.  We hurt the ones we love, and we hurt the ones who love us, but there’s something to be said for having been loved in the first place, and maybe the world’s not so bad after all, if even after all the things you’ve said and done people still root for you to come out on top.

And it’s not just you.  It’s all of us.  BoJack Horseman shows us that no one is safe from the dreaded existential crisis, and no one is alone in it, either.  Everyone has those days, when they can’t seem to find a reason to keep going, a purpose to define their existence, a key to unlock the door to happiness.  We’re all struggling to figure it out.

But the most important aspect of this beautiful show is also its arguably most subtle message: that you need to forgive yourself.

If I can still hope that BoJack makes it out okay even after all the shitty things he’s done, then maybe redemption isn’t out of the question for me.  That’s the show’s message: yeah, people fuck up all the time, but if you can find it in yourself to forgive this horse, then maybe you can learn to forgive yourself too.

Sure, the way back is long and hard, and sometimes -hell, a lot of the time- we slip and we lose our footing and we fall back to the bottom of the pit again, but we get back up, we dust ourselves off and we get back to it.

After all, as a wise baboon once said: “It gets easier. Every day it gets a little easier. But you gotta do it every day. That’s the hard part. But it does get easier.”

Submission

Human beings crave submission.  They need it, they chase after it with all the fervour and panicked urgency as an addict in permanent withdrawal.  They crawl through the dirt after fallen idols, oblivious to the grime that stains their hands and lodges firmly beneath their fingernails.  They go as far as to shut off their minds to ease the process of submission, of letting others think for them.  They are like walking Venn Diagrams, connected across time and distance by shared beliefs (or more specifically what they choose to perceive as shared beliefs), defining themselves by these groups with whom they share their favourite perceptions.  You see, human beings crave submission not necessarily to other humans, but to ideas.

Ideas.  Concepts, beliefs, desires, opinions.  Humans enslave themselves to these, mark themselves with branding irons to show the world that they belong somewhere.  That’s the root of it, the source of this desperation to submit.  That feeling of belonging.  That sense of purpose we get from having an umbrella to stand under, a Venn Diagram circle to stand in, is addictive.  This is the drug we prostitute ourselves for, selling out our identities for just one more fix, just one more rush of that feeling.

At this point you might object, clamoring that you are an individual who makes your own decisions, that your beliefs are your own, your ideas your own, and even when shared with others you make your own decisions about them, and it’s your choice that shapes you.  And you’re right– to a degree.  Sure, at some point or another, some more than others, we will do some degree of analysis regarding the beliefs and ideas we identify ourselves with.  But here’s the problem: we are impressionable beings.  We are susceptible to even the lightest of prompts, influences.  As much as we’d like to think our decisions and ideas are our own, they’re not.  Not really, at least.  Not to the degree we think.

We are merely lumps of formless clay, shaped and kneaded by our experiences and surroundings, made to think a certain way, to act a certain way, all based around what we have experienced.  And not only is this process out of our hands, but we go even further to expand it.  We revel in the loss of control while taking comfort and solace in the illusion.  We march along with our crowd of choosing, sure of the destination yet unable to see it over the heads of all the other around us.  Not only are we being pushed along by those behind us, unable to stop even if we wanted, but we actually march without needing the added prompt, so sure of this out of reach destination we are.  What so few of us realize, and more importantly what so few of us are willing to accept, is that the crowds we march with are walking on a treadmill.

There is no destination.  At least not most of the time.  Surprise, surprise.  But this doesn’t bother us, because we’re not there for the destination most of the time.  Generally we’re there for the crowd.  For that feeling of belonging, that disguise for the release of self-control, that relinquishment of our freewill and the need for thought.  We enjoy being pushed along by those behind us.

Because it’s easier, isn’t it?  To let others do the thinking, to accept what others have said and move on, passing their knowledge to the next person in the crowd without taking a closer look.  We strive to feel like we belong to something, to be able to say that we are part of something more.  And there’s nothing wrong with belonging.  What’s wrong is the relinquishment of our own free thinking and identity in exchange for this inclusion.

We think that in order to belong we must sacrifice certain aspects of our identity, our differences, our unique traits.  Often this is subliminal; a unconscious desire to conceal or entirely cut out the things about us that make us different, an attempt at closing in our part of the Venn Diagram with others’, unifying the circles as a whole.

We weigh and measure out our personalities, deciding which aspects we wish to merge with others and define ourselves with in a group, and which we choose to supress, or at the very least ignore.  It is in this dishonest presentation of our identities that we give up our right to be accepted for who we are, instead choosing to display ourselves as who and what we want to be associated with.  And this is what leads to the submission, the assimilation of our identity into the mass we choose, chipping off the corners and edges to fit smoothly into this pigeonhole.  We give the mass the right to shape who we want to be perceived as, relinquishing our say in our own identity and thinking in that desperate need to belong.

In today’s society we are bombarded on an hourly basis with messages to conform, to submit.  Advertisements call out to our insecurities, offering us these MacGuffins with which to soothe our anxieties, to fit in with the crowd.  We are constantly being told, whether subliminally or flat-out, that being different is not okay, that standing out is cause for ridicule, for judgment.  Like pack-animals we feel safer in the crowd, in the herd, where we can’t be singled out and picked off, the irony being that the predator is the crowd itself.

So what can we do to free ourselves from this self-imposed slavery?  Well, the answer is nothing, really.  This process is almost entirely subliminal, so firmly rooted in our minds that we are not aware it is taking place, and are almost entirely helpless to stop it when we do become aware.  It is such an integral part of our being that to fight it is to go against our nature.  But there is the possibility that awareness is the first step.  Once this submission is brought to our attention, we may catch ourselves the next time we find that we are following along blindly, or sacrificing an aspect of our personality in exchange for that fix of belonging.  And perhaps we will hesitate, and maybe that will be enough.

Or maybe it won’t.

Maybe this behaviour is too deeply ingrained within us to be extracted.  Maybe it’s become a part of who we are as a species, a fundamental part of society.  And maybe it’s not even a bad thing.  Maybe we need this herding behaviour to keep the peace, to bring out a sense of humanity and kinship with one another.

But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that true feats of wonder, acts of historical significance, advancements of global proportions, have never been accomplished by people who simply “belong”.  The people who go down in history for their achievements, the ones we read about in textbooks and look to for guidance, they were not content to be just another part of the crowd.  They did not sacrifice that part of their personalities which made them so renowned in order to fit in.  They were alone.

Maybe, in the end, it only takes that select few, those outstanding individuals who have the ability and the forethought to stay true to themselves and break free of this murder machine we all call society to rise up and lead us.  Maybe the rest of us will live and die as cogs in that machine, and the world will be none the worse off.  Maybe these shepherds are all we need to advance society, and the sheep will simply follow them blindly, chipping away at their identities to match.

Which begs the question: will you be the sheep, or the shepherd?

A Cutting Remark / A Remark on Cutting

“Oh and I’ll try to convince myself I’m worth it
Oh and you’ll lie, with your strange and fitting purpose
Well, I swore I would never go there
It healed everything but my shame, shame, shame”

– Matt Maeson, “Straight Razor”

I never understood why some people cut themselves.  Even after I started doing it myself I was still unable to explain exactly why.  I’d always sort of imagined it as this itch in the back of your head, a voice that nags and nags until you finally pick up the blade, but for me it wasn’t like that.  It started as a sort of last resort, I suppose.  Like, “I’ve fallen this low, might as well see how this goes”.  It seemed like the logical next step in my continued descent into darkness, just another box to check as I worked my way through the list.  Cut off all your friends?  Check.  Starve yourself for days on end?  Check.  Stay in bed all day, watching Netflix?  Check.  Hating yourself for doing nothing with your life, telling yourself that your not depressed, that you’re just a lazy piece of shit?  Check.

Because that’s what people do when they’re depressed: they hurt themselves.  It’s like casting a mirror on your inner turmoil, forcing it to reflect unto your exterior.  The pain inside clamors to be heard, to be acknowledged, yet it’s so damn easy to hide it, to bury it beneath layers of fake smiles and cynical humor.  Having that physical proof of what you’re going through is strangely self-assuring.  It’s like saying “Hey, look, I’m not making this shit up.  I am hurting inside.  This is real.”

I’ve been doing a lot better lately, which is why it came as a surprise when a couple months ago, for no apparent reason, I found myself back at the cutting board (so to speak).  I’d long since come to terms with the source of my depression, so being ambushed like that – not just without reason, but seemingly in spite of how well I’d been doing – was terrifying.  At least before my depression had been warranted, if you can call it that.  But since moving forward I’d foolishly come to believe that by embracing a positive outlook I would be able to guard against sadness.

The truth is depression doesn’t always care if you have reasons to be happy.  It doesn’t care that you’re trying to move on.  Sure, you can try to guard against situational depression, but clinical depression is a different beast entirely.  Clinical depression will find reasons for you to be sad, and will make them up if it can’t.

Knowing that all my efforts could be dashed aside the second my depression decided to once more rear its ugly head, knowing that it was beyond my immediate control – these thoughts should have been enough to lead me straight back into the arms of defeatism and despair.  But as the storm passed I was left in its wake with fresh scars and a rekindled desire to live, to fight my demons and come out on top.

My relapse drove home a concept that I’d been grappling with for a long time: I wasn’t to blame for my own sadness.  Hand in hand with my lack of control came a lack of guilt.  Depression finds ways to make you hate yourself, to make you think you are to blame for things that are entirely out of your control.  It’s a constant struggle against your own mind, and each battle lost is one step closer to the final act, to the moment you finally decide that you hate yourself too much to live.  The worst part is the logic seems so sound at the time: after all, if you can’t blame your own brain for starving itself of serotonin then who?  Who else is feeding your mind with those dark thoughts?  Who else is running your life into the ground?

So maybe that’s why we cut ourselves.  Maybe we’re punishing ourselves, rebelling against our bodies in the same way prisoners vandalize their cells.  Whatever the reason, it’s wrong.  There is no catharsis to be found in lashing out against yourself, no relief to be found in channeling your frustration back into its source.  It’s just a vicious cycle of hatred and pain.

We are not to blame for any of it.

That’s what my relapse taught me, and that’s why in a way I’m grateful for it.  Instead of filling me with dread, it freed me.  It drew a line between my happy life and my inner darkness, a border between what is real and what is only in my head.

The scars will heal in time, but I hope the line remains.

Celebrating the Descent

“Do not let this thing you got go to waste
Do not let your heart be dismayed
It’s here by some random disclosure of grace
From some vascular, great thing.
Get the fuck out of your head if it says:
“Stay cold and be deathly afraid”
Do not let your spirit wane”

– Gang of Youths, “Do Not Let Your Spirit Wane”

There was a time when I would have forsaken my own well-being just to prove some abstract point about a lack of happy endings.  I purposely avoided pursuing opportunities for my own happiness, not only because I’d grown so accustomed to having them shot down, but because I’d actually begun to enjoy it.  There’s a perverse kind of fascination that comes with depression; a masochistic sense of self-deprivation, like a subtle eagerness to test the limits of your own capacity for emotional pain.  In failure I found security: a comfort in knowing what I could expect, that I didn’t have to put myself out there and try for anything more.  I was sinking deeper and deeper into my own misery, and I was reveling in it.

Resigning yourself to failure is like working towards the most obtainable goal possible, because even the most fantastic opportunities can still be passed up.  Life will inevitably thrust shit after shit at you, and most of these hurdles will be unavoidable.  A loved one dying.  Losing your job because your company is going out of business.  Getting cancer.  You can cope with them, certainly, but you can’t avoid them.  The opposite is true of the occasional olive branch life will hand you.  Winning lottery ticket?  Burn that shit.  Good friends?  Ignore them; they probably only hang out with you out of pity.  Fantastic job opportunity?  Don’t even bother applying, because you’d never get it.  It’s almost satisfying to spit all good things back in life’s face, like one giant “fuck you” to the universe or god or whoever is/isn’t in charge.  You want to apologize for all the shit you’ve put me through?  Apology not accepted.  Nothing will ever make up for the pain I’ve felt.

Of course this philosophy is bullshit.  There is no one in charge, and even if there is, it’s clear by this point that they don’t give a right fuck about our hopes or dreams.  Life isn’t fair.  Expecting fairness is the most surefire way to disappoint yourself.  Whining about how unfair life is and punishing yourself in some misguided attempt to prove that point is the definition of an exercise in futility.  Of course it’s easy: the wrong decisions almost always are.  That’s what makes life the terrible and glorious struggle that it is.  You work for your happiness, you hold on to that shit with all your strength, and you cherish it all the more for knowing its absence.

There was a time when I would have forsaken my own well-being just to prove some abstract point about a lack of happy endings.  I purposely avoided pursuing opportunities for my own happiness, not only because I’d grown so accustomed to having them shot down, but because I’d actually begun to enjoy it.  I knew what I was, and I didn’t have to face the uncertainty of trying for anything more.

That time is over.

I have a life.  I have friends, good friends who actually seem to like me for who I am.  I have goals, aspirations, hopes.  I have a family who loves me and will always be here for me.  I don’t know where things will go from here: I don’t know if these friendships will last, or if I’ll achieve my goals, or if I’ll manage to hold onto this.  There is no certainty in pursuing happiness.

What a terrifying and exhilarating thing.

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“Struggling and suffering are the essence of a life worth living. If you’re not pushing yourself beyond the comfort zone, if you’re not demanding more from yourself – expanding and learning as you go – you’re choosing a numb existence. You’re denying yourself an extraordinary trip.”

– Dean Karnazes

Same Old Song and Dance

“Fate comes a-knocking, doors start locking
Your old time connection, change your direction
Ain’t gonna change it, can’t rearrange it
Can’t stand the pain when it’s all the same to you, my friend”

– Aerosmith, “Same Old Song and Dance”

I’ve been having a lot of trouble with my book lately – the words feel wrong, the sentences clunky, the transitions awkward.  You know how it goes: you begin doubting not just all you write but all you’ve ever written, questioning your dedication, your capability, your talent.  The very thought of attempting to write fills you with revulsion, and even when you do manage to bring yourself back to the page the only reward for your persistence is more shit writing.

To make matters worse I haven’t been blogging nearly as much as I used to, or as much as I probably should be.  The result is a mentality of stagnation, one which encourages self-deprecation and hesitates at the thought of trying to break the cycle.  It’s like the only thing worse than doing nothing is doing something wrong.  They say you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, but trying and failing often feels a lot worse than not trying at all.  If I’m going to fail I’d rather it be because I was lazy or uncommitted, not because I simply couldn’t do it.

It’s like my shortcomings are my own personal safety net.  So long as I limit myself I will always know what I’m capable of, never reach for more.  I’m like the anti-Icarus: so scared of flying too close to the sun that he never flew at all.  This book, this… world I have in my head is incredible and fantastic and powerful and I’m afraid I won’t do it justice, can’t do it justice.  Trying to reconcile what you have pictured in your mind with what you translate onto the page is one of the hardest things about writing, because my words rarely live up to the source material.

I know I can’t let the fear of failure keep me from trying, but sometimes it stops me all the same.  It’s like this cycle I go through every so often: first life gets in the way of my writing, then when I try to get back into things I find myself locking horns with writer’s block, then the writer’s block develops into doubt, before finally transforming into self-loathing.  Of course it never lasts, and sooner or later I’ll have a breakthrough and start writing again – which sounds good until you realize that this means I’ll never be able to wash my hands of the whole thing.  I’m stuck living through this abusive cycle for the rest of my life.

Oh well.  Here’s to waiting for the next breakthrough, I suppose.

Until then I always have Netflix.

A Million Different Ways to Say Sorry / End of an Era

“I always thought that I was somewhat different
turns out we are all just one
The evil in your blood is only made of
memories you don’t let go”

– Horse Thief “Evil’s Rising”

Hey.

I know it’s been a while since we last spoke, but I think we both needed the space.  The truth is, we’re not good for one another.  You’re too eager to hurt me, and I’m too eager to let you.  I can’t keep living like this – neither of us can.  All this guilt, all this anger and hatred and self-pity and sadness and fear isn’t sustainable.  I don’t deserve to feel this guilty, and you don’t deserve to feel this angry.  We both wanted someone to blame, but it was never me.  I think that’s one of the hardest things about what happened: there was no reason behind it.

We needed a reason.  We needed a punching bag, a scapegoat onto which we could project all our hatred.  Suffering a tragedy of any kind is bad enough as it is, but without something to blame any attempts at venting your frustrations are reduced to shadowboxing.  Without an outlet those negative feelings will fester and rot away at your insides, a volatile mixture of sadness and unspecified anger eager to lash out at the slightest provocation.  Everything and everyone around you is susceptible to blame, collateral damage in the wake of an unaimed weapon.  You find blame everywhere you look because it’s all you ever look for, but these outbursts do nothing to relieve the pressure building up inside you.  You can sense the fragility of your logic, the lack of merit in their guilt.  What you need is someone whose guilt is unfailing, whose fault cannot be disputed simply because there is no alternative, who can always be counted on to fuck things up.  With nowhere to turn outwards, your hatred soon turns inwards.

I became my own scapegoat.  I became my own punching bag, my own reason for everything wrong in my life.  My body had betrayed me, so by some default this made it my fault.  Everything that followed was simply an extension of that original fuck-up, a series of mistakes and shortcomings all stemming from my body’s betrayal.  Each link in this chain reaction only compounded my own self-loathing, a never-ending sequence of reasons for me to hate myself.  I became self-destructive, subconsciously tearing down every opportunity life presented me just so I could continue to justify my own self-hatred.

But anger is draining, and after thirteen years of beating myself up I’m tired.  I’m tired of constantly feeling at odds with myself, tired of needing to be both the culprit and the victim.  I’m tired of forsaking my own right to happiness, tired of playing the tragedy.  What happened will never be okay, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be okay.  It wasn’t my fault – none of it was.  This blog, this testament to my own self-pity and self-hatred cannot be my life.  Like the scar that runs down my back it will always be there to remind me what I suffered through, but I cannot live life looking back.

I’m letting you go.  You will always be a part of who I am, but we can’t be at odds with one another anymore.  I am not your scapegoat, and you are not mine.  I refuse to take the blame for all that’s happened, and I refuse to blame you for beating me up about it.  We needed one another, for a time at least, but that time is over.  We know better now.  I forgive you, and I know that in time you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me too.

 

 – A Letter to The Modern Leper

Taking Stock: A Compilation of Photos from Shutterstock and Thoughts by The Modern Leper (Alternatively, “A Collage of Catharsis / Real Words, Fake Smiles”)

 

Why should I feel sorry for others if I’m not even supposed to feel sorry for myself?

I hate my body, but not nearly as much as my body seems to hate me.

It’s easier to believe in a God you can blame than it is to accept an indifferent yet unfailingly cruel universe.

Am I shallow for hating myself so much?

Find happiness in the little things, because the big things will invariably let you down.

Is it a sin to give God the middle finger?

If everyone could just stop pretending everything’s okay maybe we wouldn’t feel so guilty about pointing out when it isn’t.

Sometimes I feel like committing suicide if only to validate my own sadness.

The fact that I still haven’t been able to kill myself has now become a source of self-hatred in itself.

Self-pity is exhausting, but I don’t know how to reconcile with all the bad things in my life without giving off the impression that I’m over them.

You will never be everything you could be, far less all the things you should be.

Stepping Through & Looking Back

“I don’t wish to be excused for this
My disguise and my excuses they have worn so thin
But may I ask, and answer honestly
What would you have done if you were me?”

– Frightened Rabbit, If You Were Me

I grew up an outsider.  Not in anyone else’s eyes, mind you – just my own.  I ostracised myself from society because I believed that I was different, and that being different was bad.  I was never bullied in school, and I was never purposely excluded or made to feel embarrassed, but all the same I never felt like I belonged.

A big part of it was undoubtedly my tumour.  Right from the get-go it steered me towards self-loathing.  When we first discovered it we were forced to move from Trinidad to Canada in order to get the appropriate level of care, and for a long time I blamed myself for the family’s uprooting.  It was a big change, moving from the Caribbean to North America.  There were a lot of stressful moments, and things were far from easy.  I blamed myself when anyone felt homesick, when my siblings had trouble adjusting, when I’d overhear my parents arguing over financial troubles.  That’s a pretty heavy burden for a seven year old kid to hold on his shoulders.

On top of that was school, which only got worse as the effects of my kyphosis, and its hold on my self-confidence, grew.  Whenever I’d look in the mirror I’d see an outsider, so I started to act like one.  I was antisocial, introverted, and weird.  I was the source of my family’s pain, and I was a loser.  Those were the thoughts that ran through my head day in and day out, convincing me of their validity.  Even when people would make an effort to include me, and I’d try and act like one of them, deep down inside some part of me would always know the truth.

Or what I perceived to be the truth.

I convinced myself that I would never be anything more than what my disease defined me as.  I was sure that was all there was to me, and that I would never amount to anything more.  And sure, it’s a great thing to realize that all your fears and worries are just in your head.  But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re still there.

It’s one thing to realize that your thoughts can’t be trusted, it’s an entirely different thing to ignore them.  People always tell me that it’s about mental exercise, and that you have to keep the negative thoughts from taking over, but how the fuck do you stop yourself from thinking a thought?  Once you’ve thought it… it’s already there!  You can’t un-think it, you can’t stop yourself from thinking it.  There’s no filter for thoughts like there is for speaking.  Once you’ve had it you’ve had it.

So maybe it was all in my head, but does that diminish its validity?  I don’t know.  Because if I felt that way, then there must be a reason why I felt that way.  You can’t give a seven year old kid a spinal cord tumor and not expect him to come out of it with a few dozen psychoses.  And if feelings of insecurity and instability were the only possible outcome, what’s point in worrying about them?

I can’t just change the way I think and be done with it.  I can’t just erase fourteen years off of my life and pretend it never happened.  I can’t snap my fingers and make all these issues disappear, or suddenly accept that maybe the problem was in me all along and I still have a shot at normality.  I can’t do any of that, and even if I could I wouldn’t know how.

When you’ve spent your entire life trapped in a room by yourself, only to learn one day that the door was open all along, it doesn’t erase all those years spent sitting alone in the dark.  It doesn’t change the things you told yourself in that lonely void, or heal the mental scars of having been shut away for so long.  All it does is expose you to a life you’d forgotten, a foreign and unfamiliar reality which you’ve long since forgotten how to operate in.  And when that happens, when that door finally opens and you walk through, the best thing you can do is take it one step at a time.