The Raging of the Storm

For Celena.

Too many words can be spent
On what’s better off unsaid
The same repetition of anxieties
The same hurricane raging in my head
Years flash by, leaving me uneasy –
Still looking at the path winding beside me
And fearing how unforgiving it can be to believe

But like ocean crashing over centuries
Washing the earth away in its tide
You fell over me
And made quiet my mind
The skipping of songs and the why and why-nots
You’ve calmed the worries that rage like storms
And you’ve remained in my thoughts

An anchor in the bay
Your love at the shore
A haze of days
I want you still just a bit more
Far too long I’ve focused
On those roads left unlit, unmarked on the map
Praying that someone else would take the first lap

Never did I think
I even had one more choice
Easy to scream
But not in my own voice
You’ve washed over me
Made quiet the storm
Years of fears and curled-up pain
I hardly even know what for
I looked to the horizon
I stood on the quiet shore
And there you stand with me –
The storm raging no more.

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Are you happy? – 2019

I used to find some kind of solace by writing on this blog. I don’t see a therapist and I don’t like talking about how I feel to people I’m close to, so this offered some kind of therapeutic release for my depression and anxiety. Gave me a way to talk about it, think about it, reflect on it, and not worry about being judged or misdiagnosed or offered some kind of trivial advice that only someone who has never suffered through a mental illness could offer and think that it was worthwhile, like, “Have you ever tried, like, just not being depressed?”

Then I started writing in a physical journal. Entries were few and far between but it felt like a way to get out thoughts that I had only kept inside of my head for so long and it was such a relief to put them somewhere that was only ever meant for me.
But I lost that journal. Trying to find it – but it’s so not worth it to try and start another one and leave everything that was contained within the first one behind.

This is the third year that I’ve written a post like this. Basically, it’s my “State of the Brandon” address. And every year, I feel like I’m beating a dead horse. Every year, I feel like it stays the same.

Seasons change, but people don’t.

I’ll be twenty-two this year. It’s crazy – every year, my birthday seems so far off – and every year, it hits me so fast I nearly get whiplash.
I’ll be married by the end of the year. Getting married to the same girl that I started dating over two years ago that caused such a wave of change to my life.
I’m in yet another job that I want to enjoy but ends up taking a huge toll on my mental health – (or maybe it’s my mental health that’s making it seem so bad, who knows?) – and I’m doing my best to hold on for the future so maybe things will get better, but it just gets so hard sometimes. I feel like I try to smash through the ailments that impede my progress but it just stacks up and stacks up and I’ll move through one issue to get another one shoved in my face and it’s a never-ending maze of anxiety and strife that just seems to get worse day after day, month after month, year after year.

I try to sometimes sit back and realize that things aren’t bad. Every individual aspect of my life isn’t that bad at all – it’s actually pretty great, all things considered. Like I said in the years previous, if I sat down with my teenage self and discussed my problems, he’d probably laugh at me for thinking I have it bad. Teenage me was also kind of a dick, but teenage me would be right.

I try to change myself every so often. I went into this year with hope for my recovery – I stopped taking my medication because I felt like it wasn’t helping, but I took the first steps to try and get help through a counselor and with different medication – because my anxiety is kicking my ass hardcore – and had the typical renewal of hope that comes with a new year that it would once again be a new year, new me.

But it isn’t. I can change my attitude for a day or cut my hair or change my music or the way I talk and no matter what, it doesn’t change a thing about what’s killing me on the inside. I constantly think back to ‘when I was happy’, but then I’ll look at something I posted on here way back when and I realize that I wasn’t ever happy. I’ve had blips of happiness in a constant wave of depression – but I’ve never just been happy.
And I think it hurts to realize that. The better times weren’t much better. The good times were usually a lot worse.

But I digress.

Here’s 2019. I’m walking into it pretty broken. I’m tired of worrying about death and overthinking every ache and pain and constantly thinking that everyone is talking bad about me and plotting my demise.
I’m trying. I’m taking baby steps. There is a lot to look forward to this year – my wedding, my honeymoon, tattoos and opportunities, new family and new friends, progressing through my life and developing the life of my own little family.

I don’t know where I’ll be this time next year. I have goals and resolutions and hopes for the future, and I’m working on trying to achieve it all – or at least a little bit.
I never know how things are going to work out, but I’ll maintain just a kernel of hope that after all this time, things will get better. Things will change.

And that’s all you can do.

– Brandon, 12:43 PM

Letter to Audrey

Dear Audrey,

I don’t know if you’ll ever see this. I pray that you don’t. By the time you reach the point to where you could possibly find this, this blog might be dead, the Internet might be dead, for all I know the entire country will be dead. Who knows, right? I just hope the world ahead is bright and welcoming to you and fills you with nothing but love and acceptance.

These days, I’m not doing very well. I keep these things in and let them build up because I have no other way to force them out. I can’t talk about it, I can’t fix it, I can’t try and build something good right in its place – so it just stays inside me until I feel like I’m nothing, outside of the world, and ready to give up. Depression is a hellish, horrible thing and it’s so difficult to get out of its grasp – and I pray to every deity available that it doesn’t come to you. If there is just one thing that I hope for in this world, it’s that it doesn’t come and affect you.

You’re not here yet. I’m not quite sure when you will be. There has been a couple of variations throughout the past couple of years, but at this point, I’m about a year away from marrying the person who looks to be your mother. Despite that, though, you’ve been with me for years now, and have kept me going throughout everything that’s gone on.

Audrey, you won’t be born for another couple years now – I’m personally holding out for 2021, 2022 – but still, the idea of you has been such an instrumental force in my life that when I’ve been at my worst, the thought of being able to hold you and see your little face and raise you to be good person and see everything you’ll be able to do makes me want to fight through everything. It makes me want to stay. It keeps me holding on so I’ll be able to see you come into this world and have the best possible life your mother and I can give you.

The past few months to a year has been rough, for sure. I don’t know how the next year and beyond will take form and how it will treat myself and life as a whole – but just know that we love you. Years before you’re on your way, we love you more than we thought we knew how to love. You already mean so much to us, and we eagerly wait for the day you’re here and have you with us.

From your Father, on August 18th, 2018 – we’ll see you soon.

 

Dad.

 

Anxious Anxiety

I haven’t written for a bit. I feel like my head is keeping in my thoughts and I’m unable to actually sit down and put down how I’m feeling. This blog has always been journal first and everything else second – the lack of structure and planning was here from the beginning – but I still try to adhere to a schedule of sorts, if only for myself. It’s good to sit down and rummage through your thoughts and put them down someplace neat and tidy.

My anxiety is getting worse. Whether it’s me thinking about how I’m going to eventually die and wondering if I’ve already done something to lead to the event – or it’s me looking back on things I have no control over and trying much too hard to forget about them. I always have my memories – people can change and hate me in the present, but the memories don’t change and stay with me. For better or worse.

My girlfriend has brought some friends over to the house and I sit around and make jokes every so often or make a comment when I have an opportunity, but they’re her friends, not mine, and it reminds me that I literally don’t have a single actual friend. My friends tend to be women, and usually they’re women that I’ve been in a relationship with – as in I used to either date them, or had some sort of fling with. Obviously you can’t keep those friends in an actual, proper relationship.
And not being in school hinders that too. I had a couple of male friends that I spent time with, but after graduating those friendships faded off, as they tend too.

Now I work in a job I hate, with people I don’t like and I suspect don’t like me very much, and I’m either there or at home, and I don’t keep up with anyone or spend time with anyone other than my significant other or my brother and sometimes that gets to me – even though I love both of their company, I yearn to spend time with someone that I feel isn’t required to spend time with me. A friend who is with me simply because they want my company, nothing more.

I yearn for a sense of stability – not in the sense that it usually means, I suppose. But in the sense that my life doesn’t constantly feel in flux. One day, I’m concerned about money. The next, we find ourselves well off. One day, I hate my job to the point of picking up bad habits and picking out silver hairs, the next I can tolerate it for what it is. I’m tired of being concerned about going back to school, or friendships, or my weight – I’m sick of my anxieties having anxieties to be anxious about.

I know who I want to be, and I’m making strides to get there. There’s just a riptide that pulls me back in whenever I find myself making my way out – and already, two months into the year, I find myself getting worse again.

I don’t write as much as I used to. Poetry, fiction, and on here. This is my first post of February, and likely my last. I don’t want to drag out my problems, and I don’t want to beat a dead horse. If I’m depressed, I am, and if I’m anxious, I am, and my mental illnesses aren’t going to go away no matter how many times I rant to a webpage that nobody reads just for the sake of catharsis. So, if I don’t find myself moving forward, I’m just simply not going to write. I won’t write the same blog posts over and over and over again – because I don’t want to think about it over and over again. Perhaps writing is cathartic but also, maybe it’s a little unhealthy too? Focusing in on these issues that I know I’m not helping yet I keep talking just to hear the sound of my own voice?

I don’t know.
I’ll write when I feel I have something to say, whether it’s personal or not. But I’m done moving in circles – tired of my circular anxiety.

To whoever reads this, I hope your month has gone swell. Talk to you next time.

– Brandon.

Moving Forward

Maker:0x4c,Date:2017-9-27,Ver:4,Lens:Kan03,Act:Lar01,E-ve
Dusk over Adam Hats’ Lofts – I took this while waiting in line for a concert in the venue right across from here.

I don’t write this blog for people – I don’t expect many people to come across it. I write this blog to help me with my racing thoughts and put down things that I want to say in a tangible manner to get it out of my head. I keep a journal, as well – but it doesn’t get updated as much and when I do it’s far more personal. When I write on here, it feels like I’m speaking to someone – maybe one person, maybe ten. Maybe none. But anyone can come onto here and see what I’m saying and see my opinions – and that’s what matters and makes it work a bit for me, I think. But the point is – I write this for me.

I’m working on myself. It’s really hard to do – first, you have to admit you need to work on yourself, and I always thought that by doing so it would be admitting weakness. I’ve learned that it’s anything but. Second, you have to take steps forward to fix what’s wrong – I swallowed my pride and started my medication again. I try to be conscious of when my anxiety and depression and racing thoughts take control and try to separate myself from them. I talk to my girlfriend and communicate, and try not to push people away as much as I once did.

I’m not perfect, and I have a long way to go before I’d even classify myself as okay. I used to think that I was healthy as it gets, but mental illness stews until you’re old. I just pray it doesn’t evolve into something worse. I am trying, though. Trying to fix myself, trying to accept help, trying to reconnect with the world and start being me again. I feel like I’ve been disassociating for so long that I’ve kinda forgotten how to be me.

But I’m stopping that as best as I can. I’m moving forward onto what was and now, what is.
You can’t change the past. I have many, many regrets and it still pains me despite the time that’s gone by. But the universe tends to unfold the way it should – and for better or worse, I’ll move on and go forward with everything I’ve done behind me.
I was one person last year, and I’m another this year. That may sound worse than it really is, but it’s a step towards accepting my life and being happy with the decent life I live. I’m really quite lucky – and I take that for granted.

I’m moving on, and moving forward. Into a new era of my life where I finally gain the courage to take back some control. To work on myself, and to love who I am despite my faults – and to love others, despite theirs. My entire mission this year is to be a better person – and it starts with me.

We all move forward. Some by force, some by choice, some with resignation.
But I’m looking at what’s here in front of me, taking it by the hand, and walking with it, together, as one.

This is moving forward. This is a new era. This is me.

Hello, I’m Brandon.
Pleased to meet you.

The State of 2017

The first time I tried to write this post, it was a long, dramatic, introspective look at this year and how I felt it changed me. With relationships, with my depression, with my writing, with how I saw myself and who I felt I was.

But after nearly being finished with that version, I stopped writing. And I’ve been thinking about it for a couple days.
And I’ve decided that it is insane to dwell on what has happened to me this year, the good and the bad, knowing all too well that it doesn’t do my mind any favors. I think 2017 has been the year of burning the past – I started the year with a mantra of ‘the universe tends to unfold as it should’, and even Kylo Ren knows that it’s time to leave the past behind and go forward.

2017 was a growing pain year. It was a shit year for the world, and it was a tough year personally. I spent the year from start to finish in love with the woman I’m more than likely going to marry – I graduated high school – I finished a new book of poetry I’m proud of.
But my depression returned. I lost friends. I lost purpose and lost sight of myself in far too many ways.

But we’re moving forward. This is but one year in the many I have left, and though it wasn’t great, it was transitional. It is setting up the stage for better things to come – whether I always believe it, or not. It’s time to kill the past and march forward because no matter how much we may want to, you can’t return to the past and you can’t change what has already been done.

I have a long way to go. In myself, personally. To those I care about around me. To the purpose that I hope I find. To the world.
So while I could choose to exit this year in a way that would still be fairly true to how I feel – I choose to discard that. I don’t want to exit the year thinking about the negative. Putting too much thought into it is only going to give it claim in reality, and negative energy and depression have no place in my life, and not in my 2018.

There will be tough times. But struggle and pain and sadness does not equal worthlessness. I’m not naive enough to believe that my clinical depression will be cured just by thinking positively enough, but I think it’s time that I set aside a place for happiness and hope to take a seat.

No matter the time it takes.

And that’s my resolution for the next year.

 

On an additional note, a couple extra resolutions for myself to look back on this time next year:

  • Continue to try to stop biting my fucking nails
  • Use reusable shopping bags as often as possible
  • Build relationships instead of building walls around myself
  • Read a few books for fuck’s sake
  • Do more stuff
  • Have a solid, feasible plan for college
  • Never be cruel nor cowardly.
  • Laugh hard. Run fast. Be kind.
  • Don’t eat a single pear.

 

So going forward, I wish everyone a happy, pleasant new year – and I hope everything ends up the way you wish and meets your every expectation.

With love:

That’s all I have to say about that.

Blind Faith

I envy those who can have it. The types of people who don’t need anything other than what they believe themselves to feel within – they don’t need reassurance, they don’t need evidence, they don’t need answers. They just understand. They believe they know.

And that’s enough.

Of course, this could be taken a multitude of different ways. Blind faith in a leader, or in an organization, or a religion – frequently a combination of all three. Or perhaps just the other side of the coin to anxiety – not having to worry about every single last little thing there is, and just knowing that all will be alright. Being able to close your eyes and let the universe take you – as it tends to unfold as it should.

I am not a religious man. After years of struggle and contemplation, I am an unswayed agnostic. I never could quite bring myself to make the delve into calling myself an atheist, only because I believe that it would be rather arrogant – I can’t say that there is a god, but who am I to say there isn’t at all? I don’t have the answers and I don’t claim to – I just have the information available and I use it to the best of my understanding.

I used to identify as a Christian. I did so right on this very blog, in a post talking about theocracy in America a couple years back. I am uncomfortable with that moniker – as I don’t like modern Christian thought in the slightest. I think Christians are rather un-Christlike. But I do know there are exceptions to the rule, to some extent – I currently date someone who would be categorized as an Evangelical Christian.

She’s not as hardcore when it comes to a lot of stuff. She’s politically liberal, as well. It’s just that her religious beliefs hang on that side, as do the majority of her family. She was raised in a home where it was taught as fact, with little outside influence. They’re also very traditional in their beliefs, unlike her – the fact that we live together outside of marriage is a particular point of contention, despite this being the year of our probably non-existent lord, 2017, and a rather common part of society.

The issue is, though, is that that doesn’t matter. Society doesn’t matter. The world doesn’t matter. Only the perceived word of god, timeless and everlasting.

Blind faith.

They don’t like me very much – her father is fairly accepting of me, her mom is a little further away – and her extended family just tries not to think I exist. It stings a particular bit more when my side of the family – also fairly religious – tends to accept her with open arms. Even my staunch Conservative grandmother who doesn’t like us living together loves her dearly. Yet her side doesn’t want much to do with me.

At what point does this become an issue, or does it at all? Can one enjoy a long-term relationship with such contention on one side due to a fairly significant difference? The plan is to marry this girl – but how can you go through a life together while also trying to constantly avoid a good chunk of family?

I wonder how it would go. I can spot little details already – if I tag her in a couple’s photo or something on Facebook where her friends can see it, her side of the family comments something about her, ignoring the fact that it was either posted by me or includes me. On the flip side, the side of her family that isn’t very religious tends to talk about us as a couple, as a group, as a union. It may seem trivial, but I find it to be an interesting comparison – and it really shows me that, despite it never being said out loud, the big elephant in the room to them is the religious difference.

Is it significant? To a degree, but is it completely unworkable?
I’d like to think not. Sometimes I wish I could just close my eyes together real hard and when I open them back up, suddenly I understand why belief in a god is still incredibly relevant in modern society. It would honestly solve a lot of issues – both internal and external.

But as I’ve gotten older and strayed away from religion, the ability to have blind faith has withered away. Maybe it’s cynicism. Maybe it’s residual angst. Hell, maybe it’s just depression, back at it again. But I can’t stand and say that I know everything will be okay, that everything will work out right. That I’ll be fine and do great things and that my significant other’s side of the family hating me doesn’t affect me when it really does. That I could go to church and feel like a deity has my back and not feel like I’m screaming at a void.

I pity those with blind faith and other times – for different reasons – I wish that I had it.

If I don’t end up posting again before the new year, happy holidays.

Things may be rough and you may feel terrible, and that’s okay. You have a right to feel those things. You have a right to feel those emotions run through you and understand them. I don’t know what is inside your head, but just know that even though things seem so bleak and out of focus – you’re not cursed. You’re not alone. You are you for all that you are with some brain chemicals that are a bit out of sync.
At the end of the day – we’ll all be okay.

Even if takes a little longer for some than others.

 

Cold, Cold Man

Music is too fucking powerful, man. There are bands I absolutely adore, but there are some songs that I listen to by bands that I’ve never given a second glance that just make me shut my mouth and go back in and time and watch a film reel of memories that make my skin tingle and make me choked up and relive a dozen feelings that I hadn’t felt in a long time and missed dearly.

What am I?
I have become so disassociated with myself that it hurts. I look back at myself from various points in my life and they feel like different people. I don’t feel like an evolution of who I used to be, I feel like an recreation of what I was that someone made from faint memories. Sometimes, I don’t feel real. I feel different than what I was twelve months ago – I look back on those memories and feel like it was another man making decisions and than he died and I woke up sauntering around in his body confused and anxious and unsure. I take medication in the hopes that these feelings will dissipate. but it doesn’t make me feel happy, really – instead, it’s like looking at my depression without glasses. It’s blurry and unclear and I can’t make it out, but it’s still there, lurking, waiting – just out of sight enough for me to occasionally put it out of my mind.

I feel so out of touch with who I am that sometimes I’ll put on one of these songs just simply to remember. To feel it. To let those memories wash over me and let me feel a recreation of emotions that I’ve missed feeling, whether directly or not.
I know I’m a cold, cold man, and it disappoints me. I could be better. I could be different. I could be who I want to be and not hurt those around me if I could just take the time to pick up these pieces in front of me and do my best to put them in their place. I don’t, though, because I’m a narcissistic piece of shit – I think that I’m fine, that I am who I am, that this is natural, that I know who I am, that I can think for thirty seconds and suddenly diagnose all of my issues. I can’t let anyone tell me what my issues are, because they are always wrong and it’s only valid if I come to terms with it first.

I am a cold, cold man. I’ve probably done half of this to myself – everything I miss, everything I regret, everything that I don’t like about myself – a good portion of it could probably be remedied if I didn’t force myself into a little corner where only I exist, and only I know who I am.

But the problem I have now is that after doing that for this long, now I’m at the point to where I feel like I don’t exist.

So, I play the songs – Cold, Cold Man by Saint Motel, Texas by Magic Man, and Bloom by The Paper Kites to name a few that are hitting particularly hard right now – and let it wash over me like a rainbow of colors against a blank canvas. I feel human. I feel alive. I feel like I am Brandon again. In touch with who I was and who I am and who I hope to be.

Then, they fade away. Memories locked back in my head again waiting for the moment that they can come back and show me myself. Waiting for the songs to play.

I’m hoping one day, everything will finally come together and I’ll connect with the world and all of me comes back to me. The puzzle will finally be completed again, and you’ll be able to see the entire image for what it is.

Until then, I’ll be here, listening to the songs play over and over again, washing over me until I flood.

 

This is the Sound of Settling

“I’ve got a hunger twisting my stomach into knots
That my tongue has tied off
My brain’s repeating, “if you’ve got an impulse, let it out”
But they never make it past my mouth.”

Death Cab for Cutie is one of my favorite bands of all time – in fact, if you took Fall Out Boy out of the equation, they would be my favorite band. And despite how much I love Pete Wentz, the lyricism of Ben Gibbard is absolutely unmatched in my opinion – and it honestly sets the bar for the level of imagery and metaphor that I would someday love to reach. As I write, I’m listening to ‘I Will Possess Your Heart’, an excellent song off of an album of theirs that I once considered my least favorite, but love dearly now.

But I digress – for this isn’t about my love of Death Cab and the poetry of their lyrics.

I’m twenty years old. I have, with any luck, three times my life yet and if I really get what I want, more than four times. Yet for some reason, I constantly go through life with the fear that I’m running out of time – and I’m not doing anything with it. I currently work as a phlebotomist for a plasma donation center, and for people who know me they’d know that that is something entirely out of left field for me – and something I have no passion for. I can’t bring myself to devote any time to the novel that I’ve been writing since the eighth grade, I’m currently not doing anything to further or utilize my skills or hobbies, I have approximately zero friends, and sometimes I feel like my girlfriend and I are just sort of in auto-pilot without much emotion.

I’m not doing what I want to be doing, I don’t look the way I want to look, and I still have the terrible feeling that I need to do something soon or everything I do will be for naught.

But what’s even worse about it, is that I feel like I don’t know exactly what I want to do, either. Am I settling? IS this what I want? Is there something deep inside me that I haven’t tapped into and I won’t feel fulfilled until I experience it? I have no clue.

I’m lucky enough to have things that I’m passionate about – because some people don’t have that. My girlfriend frequently feels melancholic because she says there really isn’t anything she feels that way about. I have writing, and acting, and film, and politics, and… she just sort of, does.
I can understand the frustration that comes with that – but on my side, I worry that I’m interested in all of these things enough, but I don’t know what I would love to do, or love to be.

The point I’m trying to make is this – I know what I don’t want to do, and what I don’t want to be. I feel that I have the general jist of where I’m heading, and I’m unsure if that’s what I want to be.
All that I know for sure is that I want to be happy.

But I’m not quite sure how to accomplish that just yet. School? People? Activities, hobbies, places, things? It isn’t clear – and I think my main obstacle is my lack of direction. I have no clue which way I need to go and I feel like I’m flailing. I have no plans for school – I have no goal set for what I want to be, other than a writer – and I have no support system in place other than my girlfriend, and as dearly as I love her, you gotta have friends.

I’m standing in place – stationary – as the world goes by around me.
Like a moment trapped on the event horizon of a black hole.
And I’m gone in one instant – yet there as everything goes by.

I feel like I’m settling for settling. I feel like I have options and a way out but I’m settling for this.

I sit in front of my computer alone in my apartment typing and listening to music play while I debate if I want to cook dinner and wait for Cel to come home and rant to me about her day. I’ll take my medication at nine PM, go to bed around ten or eleven, then wake up tomorrow and drive half an hour to a job I hate and day dream about other places I could be and other things I could be doing.
Then I’ll drive home – hit some of the traffic at five – then come home to an empty house and sit in front of my computer and feel like I’m not doing anything.

And wait for the days to pass me by.

This is the sound of settling.

– Brandon, 6:46 PM

Little Blue Pill Blues

(NOT A POEM)

I’ve struggled a lot with how I felt about taking anti-depressants. There is no doubt in my mind that they work – and they help and safe millions every year. They are incredibly important and without them, I can’t say whether or not I’d be here today.
I started taking them when I was about fourteen, and I stopped when I was around sixteen/seventeen.  As I’ve stated before, I stopped taking them because I didn’t feel like they were necessary anymore, as my depression had weaned away quite a bit and didn’t feel like such a constant presence to warrant taking them everyday. I didn’t want to take pills that changed how I thought and how I felt – once I felt like I was stable, I simply wanted to be me with all the feelings that came with it, even if it meant the occasional spell of depression.

I didn’t want to be defined by my pills. I didn’t want to be that person that took anti-depressants – stupid or not, as that may be. I know there are people out there with depression and bipolar disorder like myself that simply can’t function without medication – and that’s just fine. That is completely understandable, and I feel incredibly lucky that despite having this mental illness, I was able to ever be stable enough not to take them.
And I didn’t want to have to take them forever. I wanted to be able to utilize them for a time, bring myself together, and move forward. And I did, for a time, as I got better.

But as I stated before, the depression came back, and it hit hard.
It took a long time before I even thought about getting back on my medication. I waited for weeks for the illness to go away – I tried doing things that made me happy, I accomplished things that I had waited for years to do, I lived round the clock with the love of my life – but a lot of the time, when it cuts this deep, there really isn’t anything that can be done to temper the effects. And it’s difficult, for yourself and the people around you that maybe can’t understand what it’s like, and expect you to be a certain way and aren’t sure how to take it when you aren’t.
And when it affects so many aspects in your life, you have to really sit back and consider what would be best – and that’s what I did.

I could,

A) Try and wait for the depression to go and hope for the best
B) Get back on my medication and do something about it
C) Wait until it completely engulfed me and something even worse happened

With that hand of cards and no end in sight, I knew that something had to be done, and after a great deal of time thinking and considering, I went to my doctor and was given a new prescription of a medication that I’ve had a long history with, Zoloft.
It was the first medication I started taking way back when. Young, angsty me even wrote a poem about it called ‘Zoey’ when I was fifteen or sixteen.

I don’t like that I have to take them, but I understand that I need them. There are somethings that can’t be solved with fresh air and meditation – somethings that can’t even be solved with love, attention, and care.
Sometimes you need the extra help, and I certainly do. It’s not anyone’s fault that I can’t produce happiness the way other brains do, but it’s my responsibility to myself and the people I care about to make sure that I do what I can to make myself better.

At this point in time, I’ve been taking them for under a week. There’s no signs yet of whether or not it’s going to help, though I already feel a little better knowing that I have them. Anti-depressants usually take four to six weeks to kick in to full capacity, so I suppose we’ll see where I’m at at that point in time – and hopefully there’s nothing but good to look forward to, with any luck.

Hope the last few months of 2017 are treating anyone that reads this well.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

– Brandon, 5:31 PM