Like a Lunatic

Lately I've only been living up to half of my name. It's strange that I don't feel remorse for my grandfather who died a few months ago. Instead, the up-and-coming death of my dog has been much harder on me. Just now my parents were suggesting uthanization (wrong spelling) in front of me, I told my father to shut up. He told me that children don't speak to their fathers that way and that I should apologize. I didn't. I just walked away from the problem like I always do.

My dog, Sandy, was the first true friend I ever had and my family often refers to her as my sister. I suppose I'm not only mourning my approaching loss, but the memories of mine to which my dog holds as well. My childhood has been something I've always cherished and longed to relive. But as we all know, our dreams hardly ever come true. I remember the days when my family would go up to our cottage on the lake and my brother, my friend Sam, and myself would go look for dragons. My brother would bring a stick for a weapons and Sam and I would follow his lead. We'd troop along the trails hunting for demons and cryptic creatures while keeping the warnings of "NO TRESPASSING" as an added fear in the backs of our heads. Whats this have to do with your dog?
Well, she would stay back with my parents and run around the property like a lunatic. It wasn't often we let her roam free without a leash. When the three of us would return, eat supper, and get ready for bed, I would go find Sandy.

She was often sleeping on the upper floor, tired after a long day of nonstop running. I'd go and sit next to her and recite the exciting adventures I had that day. I was only about nine or ten years old, so talking to her was normal. Although I don't see it as very normal now, I still talk to her at times and she listens. In recent years of being at the cottage, I no longer hunt for dragons to ride, demons to slay, or cryptic mysteries to crack. The demons slay me. I stay on the upper floor of the cottage and watch T.V. or play the old Nintendo 64 (I've gotten quite fat). Sandy still runs about, but in the mornings after the active day prior she is in pain. Stiff and old, but still able to explore. I wish I was the young her.

Sandy has become slightly delusional. She is loosing her hearing, lacking the strength to make it up stairs, and constantly having to pee every ten minutes or so. Reading that sentence I've realized that perhaps I was wrong, maybe dreams come true more often that I realize. All three of the things she is now, I've become (a little less peeing). Dreams are evil.

Sincerely yours,
A clinically depressed author

Titles Are Not Names, They're Stamps

   Recently I was told that the name "A Clinically Depressed Author" was me just crying out for attention. Trying to be noticed. Being needy.

No.

   I was given that title by another, and I found it amusing. It shows the self-mocking side of myself, yet speaks a hard truth at the same time. 

"You haven't even published anything, you can't call yourself an author."

That's also not entirely true, although I am not published, I write stories to myself. I read them, I am my own fan. If you read something written by another, you are reading the author's work. But I'm the reader. Yes. I am a different person when I write and when I read. Therefor, I am not that person, I'm the other person, in which ever order. 

Truly,

a clinically depressed author

Here For Them, But Where For I?

    Water works again last night. Third night in a row, they seemed to be getting progressively worse. It doesn't help that just down the hallway from my bedroom is a noose on the kitchen counter (long story), the temptation is excruciating. The only thoughts that stop me are the ones of crying family and the few friends by my side currently. The other half is my gnawing curiosity of the afterlife. Would things be better or worse for me on that end? I'd like to think I'd get the choice of forgetting my life's memories or not. Meeting angels, idols, departed family. My option to stay is out of pity for others grief, my option to leave has an unknown outcome. But as humans, we all fear the unknown as well as change.

    Lately it seems that I'm here for everyone, to listen to their problems, to help solve said problems. They only come to me to complain about their life.
  "I hate my friends."
  "Then maybe you should take a break from them and stand alone for awhile."
  "Thanks."

  "I am so stressed, and I don't have time for anything."
  "All teenagers are stressed, not just you. Talk to you teachers or VP's about lessening your work load."
  "Thanks."

    But never do they ask about me. Never do they give me a solution to my stress, or my social life.
   "That sucks." followed by a sad face emoticon, or maybe just the emoticon. Listen to me, I truly am your typically whiny-ass teenager. Yes, I'm aware that other people have bigger problems than I do and less people to talk to about it, but I have people. They still do nothing. So it doesn't matter if you have someone to talk to or not, they won't listen.

Me to you,
A clinically depressed author

Him, He, Them, Death.

   I'm foolish. Happiness has always eluded me, but most recently it has disappeared completely. I've figured out why this is, the only thing that can take away my happiness is others. Oh, you say death can take away happiness? No, death gives happiness. That's why, before I met the latest him I would sit on the edge of my bed with the knife I keep in my drawer against my throat, an arm eager to pull. Everyone I've tried to seek comfort with tends to some how be torn away from me by a twist of fate. Except one, the first one. Damien wanted the opposite of away, resulting in bruising on my wrists from his hands and bloody knuckles from slamming him across his face in self defense. I should have told someone about what he tried to do to me, but this time fate was in my favor. He moved to Toronto the following week. This blog is for thoughts and feelings.That's what I'm doing. Friends still to those who harm, remember?

   I have a feeling tonight the knife will be out of the drawer again, lingering. I never do it though, obviously. I get stopped by my thoughts of people who care. The short list. Listen to me, I really do sound like an idiotic teenage girl.
"Oh no dear me, I was wrong to think love could find me! Oh woe!"
Funny.
If I was a flower, depression and loneliness have deflowered me. I should stay with my books, they never hurt me, merely make me reflect. How doth the little crocodile improve her shinning tail? Ah, in my case, die. Fate is kind, she brings to those who love? Ah, in my case, when I try to love Fate twists me. Killing me slowly. Causes the ones who deflowered me so forcefully. Sometimes when I'm by myself in bed in a half dazed state, I ask Death for advice. I ask Death to appear, to either take me or give me a reason why he won't take me. He never responds, but if it is true when people say that dreams have meaning, what did my dream mean when Death was there? He stood tall, a red rose young and healthy in one hand and in the other, a white withered rose. Can Death speak? Or does Death merely show? Was the red rose me on the outside, and the white rose on the inside?

   In conclusion, I am lost.
Yours until death due us part,
A clinically depressed author.

The Empty Ape

   I'm worthless, aren't I? I'll never amount to anything so why am I trying, why am I making an effort? I can help the people around me with their problems, relationships, family issues, but what about me. Who is going to help me with something I can hardly confess about to myself. I went for a walk around the school today in my last period class, I've never took a walk before. What made me take a walk now? All I did was walk around the practically empty halls alone at an oddly slow pace. I just talked in my head. They say we all have a purpose but what is my purpose? I'm never going to make a dent in society, nothing will be provided by me being here on this Earth; all I am is a walking ape.

   That's not true, there are people who'd be willing to help the walking ape with whatever demon is ailing it, but will I let them. I'm not useful in any way.

   Crying is dumb, all it does is sting your eyes and make your face wet and red. So when I'm done writing this, I will climb into bed and not move. I'll only get up for food and the bathroom. Or I could go to the forest and walk. I think I'll go to the forest, then dissolve to the nothing I've always been when I come back.

Sincerely,
A clinically depressed author

Cattle

  Everyone around me is a cow. They're all cows. I'm a cow. When the school bell rings to signal next period, the cattle bell chimes. We walk the same path to our next class five days straight, then off too lunch. Off to graze in the field that is our cafeteria. I watch us all mindlessly follow the same patterns over and over again. Once we get to old and graduate from high school, our lives are butchered. We turn into butchered meat to be served up to society. We are then bought with money by our jobs, our bosses. I'm am just a cow ready to but cut up in little pieces and served up as a slab of meat. Only, when I see the other cows grazing in the cafeteria or walk the same path everyday, I stand away and watch them. Maybe I'm the lame cow. The one that should be shot, if that's a thing that they do to cows.

Unwillingly to you,

A clinically depressed author

The Signs

It is often that when someone says “That’s so scary!” or “I’m going to have nightmares from that…” you will see me smile. I study them when they say this; the uncomfortable shuffling of their feet, the shifting of weight from one side of their body to the other, and their averted gaze. These are all signs of a snared mind, a state of thinking where the monsters within you seem real for brief moments at a time. This is fear.

When I smile at them they think, why is she smiling at my discomfort? I’m smiling because you are giving me inspiration. As you show me the telltale signs of a fear embedded imagination, my own imagination is creating a story that will hopefully frighten you more-so. It is my love for horror that makes me drive towards this for it is fear that is the strongest emotion inside a human being; not love, happiness, or excitement. People may say that those emotions can conquer anything but the truth is they are saying that because they themselves are afraid of reality—fear is the true king of thought. 

My thoughts to yours,

a clinically depressed author