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

Loss of a Friend

   Today was a very sad day. I had to say farewell to my longtime friend Wyatt. He wasn't a person. He was my horse. My horse whom of which I owned since I was eleven, and had ridden since. Although in recent years (Two years in fact) I haven't been on his back. Why is this? Because in year one of my two-year lapse was when my depression was it's worst; I never wanted to do anything other than sit in my dark room and listen to my music while I lied in bed. My mother on the other hand continued with her lessons and became an excellent rider by the next year-- year two. In year two my world became a black hole with a grey filter over every shred of color in my eyes. The sun wasn't a sun: it was irritation, people weren't people: they were parasites, myself wasn't myself: I was dead.

   It wasn't until one day when my mom was riding, a lawn chair was blown over by wind causing my horse Wyatt too rear up and toss my mother to the ground. She broke her rib and cracked another one. When she got home before she went to the hospital, my mom turned to me in the kitchen and said,
"We are going to sell the horse."

   Not Wyatt; the horse. Not my abandon companion, but a horse. I still loved him but my mother believed I'd lost interest in him. That was not the case at all, she didn't see the sun the way I saw it, the people, myself, and now her.

   A year later with him on the market, we were contacted by a farm called Sari. This farm helped developmentally challenged kids learn to ride horses, they call it "therapeutic riding", but to me it said "horse thiefs". Yes, I get it, he's going to be going to a good cause but honestly I couldn't give two shits.

   I saw the barn today, very big. I noticed a "Volunteers needed!" sign on one of the stall doors and figured that if I volunteered I would still be able to see him. Maybe even ride him again. My mother claims that if I carry on with another year of riding she will consider getting a new horse-- I don't want a new one I want him. Part of me wants to believe that she only sold him out of anger for throwing her off....

   Since I hadn't seen Wyatt in so long, when I did see him he didn't know who I was and it hurt me because I knew it was my fault I didn't have the balls to come out of the depression hole. There is much more I want to say but I'm tired and don't feel up to typing another few paragraphs.

Sadly yours,
a clinically depressed author

My Own Little Corner

It seems as though, as soon as I walk into the doors of my school, the floor is fire; the shadows and walls are friends. I don't fit into the model of society and the other high school students know it. They look at me with eyes of judgement and think in their heads,

What is she wearing?

She will never go far in life.

Teacher kiss-ass!

And even with my eyes to my feet, to my phone, to my eyelids, I can still hear their thoughts run about-- swirling in my head. The truth is, I am a bit of a teacher's pet. I do my best to impress them with my work, art, and many answered questions. When I get the wrong answer I hear mocking demons snicker at the back of class,

What an idiot!

They say, sometimes replacing the word idiot with other hurtful words. Why do I even care what everyone thinks of me? I'll likely never meet a majority of them ever again in my life. My mind, my body, my thoughts and words are my business not the kids to who own IQ's less than four.

I'm making myself sound as if I have no friends at school, which  is wrong. I have a great deal of friends I know I can be myself around. But they don't know my secret, the secret of being alone; of being sucked into the shadows of the red brick prison they call a school. I can't wait for a day in hell to be done, go home and hide in the fantasy world of my mind and video games,

Unfortunately yours,

A clinically depressed author

Conversations with One's Inner Demons

I forgot to post yesterday, likely because yesterday was the first day of March break. If I recall correctly, I didn't wake up until 2:30 P.M. then continued to watch TV and play video games for the remainder of the day. I am very well aware that I should have been reading my book for my book report instead but when I do, the book stirs something inside me. The book is called Demonologist by Andrew Pyper, a fellow Canadian author. To make a short summary, an English professor at Columbia University is extremely depressed (even more-so then myself) and finds himself caught in a demon's web of mischief. He has to use clues from John Milton's Paradise Lost to find the location of his daughter who has been, what I've come to theorize at this point, been taken to purgatory by a demon of some kind; after her father, the English professor, David Ullman.

With that cleared, as I was saying before. The book does things to the reader. Well, to me at least. Not only is David Ullman fighting actual demons, but his inner demons as well. I can very much relate to this. I'm constantly feuding with the inner beasts, and sometimes they win. Their biggest success against me ended up with me finding myself with deep cuts in my arm. Should I go into more detail on what  that was about? A post for another time. I haven't made what I'm getting at very clear here. The amount of "inner demons" running rampid about earth. More and more teens, adults, etc. have been showing symptoms of being stalked by demons. Whether it be by an empty beer bottle-- refusing to break away from its ever-persistent lover, the blood being shed from self conscious teens, or the hole of the noose that hangs in the closet of a dorm-room.

Perhaps what the Christian Book of Revelations (those who aren't familiar: Book of the Apocalypse) speaks of not physical forces of Satan ravaging earth and sinners, but mental demons; picking off victims one by one. Alas, these are but thoughts of a depressed high schooler with a passion for literature. The book Demonologist is a very good read, it's just taking its mental tole... 

"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."
-- John Milton's, Paradise Lost

Your's truly,
a clinically depressed author

Judgmental Society

I have many friends at school, they all range in genres. The popular girl who everyone knows (even if they're not even in the same city), the nerd (including myself), the comedian, the goth kid who everyone is afraid of so they stay away from them; not knowing how nice a person they are, the scene kid, the list goes on. But how is it that I've come to classify them like this? By the way they dress. Sometimes the way they act. They're judged.

I go by a motto I have to use everyday when I meet someone I dislike, "Except people's flaws, opinions, and beliefs. You'll be fine.", which has gotten me a pleasant status among my student colleagues. My mother states that motto is "Very Christian of me" and says so with a delighted smile. One of these colleagues is a kid named John (not his real name). John has the imagination of one who would be in grade seven. I've come to judge him like that because he does certain things I myself would have done when in said grade. The boy named John contently tries to make me believe he is more than just a strange high school student, that hes actually the re-incarnation of King Author.

He is living in a fantasy world to get away from reality-- this has become my theory. Much like how I play World  of Warcraft to escape from homework. John is judged by everyone he meets because he is so out-of-the-ordinary. This is why I'm his friend. John knows what it feels like to be judged so he does not judge others. I cannot say the same because I judged him by why I wrote in the paragraph above. I try and fit into the ideal teenager and John doesn't. In the grand vision of things, John is a better person then myself and everyone around him. I hate myself for being judgmental but I can't help it, I've been warped and molded by a society that judges which person is fat and which person is not.

Now, as I sit in the dark dungeon that is my room, I can't help but ponder how future generations will view each other... Will they be consumed by the corruption of judgment, or will they look past those ideals and live a life of acceptance? Only time will tell, as the famous saying goes.

My thoughts to yours,

a clinically depressed author. 

A Masked Model

I came upon an interesting personal essay my English teacher assigned us for homework today. I don't care much for the homework assignment itself but instead the realization that dawned on me as I read it. It was about self image and how style, peer pressure, and so on effects the modern day teenager. The one sentence in the essay was what really got me thinking, it said something along the lines of "Has the female gender really been liberated ". Then I thought to myself, perhaps that's true. The Media often exploits the perfect image for a women. Thin, beautiful, skimpy clothing... Gender exploitation has taken on a new face that goes often unseen by many but subconsciously gnaws on those it's advertising for.

Maybe it's why I consider myself slightly or more-so obese. Because the "perfect woman" image is almost impossible to achieve due to the excessive amount of Photoshop involved. Could it be advertiser are trying to appeal towards the male gender by exploiting women into desirable harlots? I have a suspicion it is so. Those (like my self) who are the slightest bit chubby are frowned on as fat or lazy, when only fifty years ago the slightly chubby was looked for in women! And let us not forget about anorexic girls... Why are they doing this to themselves? The answer lies above.

If you ever meet me in real life, and see that I'm not as over weight as I'm making myself out to be that isn't the point. The point is I believe that I am. Even though I've come to realize this I cannot think otherwise.
Yours truly,
a clinically depressed author

Walking in a Winter Wonderland... Unfortunately

If you or anyone you know asks you what country is the best do not say Canada. I myself am in fact Canadian and no, I do not enjoy hockey nor do I ride a polar bears as a method of transportation, but the stereotype that is true is that it always seems like a never ending winter. Yes, Canada is known for good things and good people (arguable--Rob Ford) but jack frost NEVER leaves your side (I wouldn't mind if it was Jack Frost from Raise of the Guardians, Damn that boy is fine). This country is as cold as my dead heart- and that is VERY cold. I recall one time my mother had invited her friends who were visiting from Florida to come and say hi while they stayed here in winter wonderland. The couple had brought their three children along with them, which is where this story gets somewhat interesting. The kids talked to us in a manner as though my brother and I suffered from mental disabilities, they asked us if we knew what a TV was and if we have heard of something called the internet as well. Needless to say that my brother and I were not impressed by these American strangers.

But my story does not end here my may-or-may not be friends. These kids had some sort of allergy to sugar, if they ate to much of it they got extreme diarrhea. We did not know this at the time, but they feasted on lots of sugar-filled cookies that day. The one brother came in from swimming in our pool because he had dropped a load in his swim trunks. It was then that he proceeded into my room, changed his clothes, and stuck the filled bathing suit under my bed. He informed no one of his actions so when they left, I went to my room and was greeted by the profound smell of sugary diarrhea. I did not know that he had put that thing under my bed so I spent the next twenty minutes trying to locate the source of the stench. I eventually found it but... I realized when I did, I never wanted to in the first place.

With that said, Canada has its ups and downs. Personally I think the best place to live in the world would be in the world. A nice deep grave away from society would do me dandy.
Sincerely,
 a clinically depressed author.

Picking up the shovel

I am prepared to spill all my thoughts, emotions, hopes, dreams, and the likelihood of how I will die alone surrounded by cats that find my human flesh particularly exquisite in taste, onto this blog. I haven't even considered blogging since I figured it had been choked out by other mass media websites. The last time I ever blogged was when I was in grade seven; my teacher wanted us to create a Blogger page and allow us to post useless hopes and dreams a feeble minded grade seven child would ever dream. Funny how my dreams have changed since then, I thought I'd grow up to become a warrior of fantastic lands: praised by the people as a hero. A beautiful maiden with flowing blonde hair that every man fell to their knees for. Instead I've become a slightly obese wannabe horror author with a passion for video games and pizza.

And of course with obesity and reality comes a great vale of depression of which I have come to tame as a pet, using it to pour into my macabre writing. I find that writing books, short stories, and awful poetry helps me raise the vale of depression from my head 0.0000000000000001 millimeter at a time. I also, of course, hide the depressed side of me from the people around me. School especially. I play the quirky, random, and child-that-possibly-has-ADHD girl that excels in the arts. An act that has fooled many from that little daydreaming grade seven all the way to my current (and still daydreaming) grade ten high school student with average and below average grades. So with that introduction, I hope, if anyone stumbles upon this ancient site called "Blogger" they may be intrigued with my day-to-day activities as a 15 year old depressed author.