Though I may never reach “enlightenment/awakening” in this life, if instead of crossing the river I end up making this a houseboat, at least I can try training my brain to result in becoming less of a neurotic, self-conscious, sorry sadsack most the time so living sucks a little less, then maybe I can get back to bodybuilding, learning Japanese, and so on with less triggering of my chronic depression & anxiety…
Dropped trike off; chain stretched (I JUST GOT THAT FIXED A MONTH AGO FOR $40) and something to do with the pedals; this could cost me anywhere between $25 to $150 and I’ll be walking to and from work who knows how many days; who can say if walking or cycling is worse for my back. Speaking of my back, it’s gotten, like, real bad in the past few days; trying not to freak out, trying not to let The Bad Thoughts grip me too hard. Ranting on the Internet while my heart palpitates from too much caffeine makes me feel a bit better, same with stuffing myself silly. Sucks that one of the few things that brings me joy in life makes me fat, forever swinging between “YAY FOOD FOOD!” and “NO NO NO EATING SUPER BAD WRONG!” But oh well, if I’m to keep looking okay in loose clothes (the best I can accomplish; no Looking Good Naked(tm) for me) I’ve no choice but to exercise constant vigilance against my own monstrous gluttony so that I do not return to looking like a monster — and sucking dry most of my emotional / willpower reserves in the process so I don’t have enough left for learning a new language or going to college or talking to girls or whatever. Oh well, nuttin’ a’tall to do but shrug and stop fighting fate and accept my ruined life, just lose myself in trivialities like anime and blogging muh feewings away until I die, the tagline on my tombstone “a giant waste of what could have been like 99.999% of all humans ever, but hey at least he didn’t die obese!”. Continue reading “riding ever onward”
I don’t trust ’em:
• They’re pushed too hard for comfort, like flu vaccinations and anti-psychotics/Ritalin/etc for little boys in the 90’s; this makes me very suspicious: “salesman behavior” raises red flags.
• I’ve seen/read/heard of too many horror stories.
• I’d have to spend months and months “pill-shopping” for one that “works”, spending hundreds of dollars and dozens of hours performing the hated Doctor-Shuffle — and who knows what side-effects and toxins I’ll be saddled with in the meanwhile.
• I at least know what bad things alcohol will do to me. (The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.)
• Is “depression” even a thing? I’m not wholly convinced this isn’t just some made-up BS* to sell drugs so nobody has to actually, y’know, treat the problem rather than bandage the symptoms. If someone has a broken foot, would you hand them more comfortable shoes and tell them to piss off?
• I’ve personally-witnessed their total ineffectiveness — everyone I’m close to are on them and they’re each still miserable.
I’d rather feel bad than become an ADHD zombie with erectile dysfunction. That, and it would be the Ultimate Surrender: just about my entire Health & Fitness Lifestyle has been at root about not being on anti-depressants. My struggles, my pride, my one and only thing I’ve ever pursued to any measure of success, will all be taken away from me the moment I pop my first anti-depressant. No, that’s not rational — so what? Being unreasonable and loony just makes me like everyone else; and considering the stark raving hostility I’ve noted over and over against individualism, elitism, the “South Park goth” stereotype, and so forth (how else do you explain “desire to be different” used as an insult? I’ve even seen uttered “borderline critique of authority” and no, I have yet to find a more sickening phrase); isn’t that a win?
There. I’ve spelled it out in plain, pure English. You can SHUT UP about it now. Thank you. Continue reading “anti-depressants = no”
“His feelings are so strong, he has trouble expressing them.”
Sure would be nice to have the superpower of not being cripplingly-depressed and “autistic”; else I could have enough emotional energy to accomplish anything in life AND stay flabby-not-fat. But as it stands, I seem to only have enough “oomph” or “heart” or “manliness” in me to struggle-battle-struggle-battle against returning to morbid obesity AND keep up with all that entails with being a live-alone bachelor with a full-time job.
So it would appear that if I am to ever, say, learn Japanese or self-teach two-wheeled biking or how to draw or write a book or some other long-term goal, I will have to trash-bin the Health & Fitness Lifestyle and accept becoming a walking whale yet again as I just don’t have enough emotional energy to do more than one.
That or become an alcoholic so following more than one long-term goal doesn’t stress me to the gills and eventually trigger a nervous meltdown every time I try to death-match my appetite AND learn a trade so I have a better job or whatever else I’ve “always wanted to do”; that’s gotta be healthier than anti-depressants! And would it really be so bad to live a shorter, happier life?
Imagine someone with aspirations of being a singer. After getting some headway into it — suddenly, throat cancer! Luckily it was caught early, hooray! However, despite still being able to talk, she will never ever get to sing, her dream has been killed.
Obviously this one’s “situation in life” (whatever you want to call it) isn’t so dramatic. In ma’hab’s case it’s more like several dozen bricks, each not all that serious, have been assembled into a brick wall this one doesn’t know how to climb or break through that keeps this one from ma’hab’s various dreams.
Sure, ma’habocath can survive as this one is now which is worlds more than many can say, but until this one knows how to deal with the wall, ma’hab doesn’t know how to thrive. To achieve. To have purpose. To live as opposed to merely exist and nothing more.
Not quite ma’habocath’s life story — several key differences this one doesn’t want to get into — but this anonymous post still hits too close to home for comfort. It is comforting anyway, though, to know that someone, somewhere, gets what it is to be a complete screwup even if the little details don’t quite match. Continue reading ““your life story” kind of…”