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.