Today marks the first time I cried in a long time. It wasn’t a real cry. All three of my eyes just got a little misty on the drive home. Now I’m not a bitch or anything. I still subscribe to Toxic Masculinity Digest. I follow all the “man rules.” I don’t compliment other men unless I’m speaking about their car or companion. I make sure to threaten everyone in the service industry, whether they are waiting on me or not. And most importantly, I constantly bring up my invalid sports career I had in grade school, in each and every conversation. So trust me when I say the testicles are on full display, “25/8.”
But today, I felt the weight of everything this existence of mine has placed on my shoulders. Shit is tough sometimes. TTR is a great way to force me back to life, but when I’m away from the keyboard, and the penumbra of life’s devastation begins to loom ever so ominously just at the border of my periphery, I can feel all of the kryptonite I’ve been avoiding just sitting down on my chest.
I have a journal. I’ve been meaning to write in it, but I don’t like that only the negative things seem to want to crawl to the tip of the ballpoint pen. It’s like, the moment I try to quantify how I feel, Avril Lavigne, Emily Dickinson, and Marilyn Manson grab hold of my wrist. I think I might be depressed.
I guess I know I’m depressed. The “I think” phase ended a year or so ago. I’m not a psychologist, but I’m somewhere in the position of not wanting to be around anyone and feeling bad for not having anyone around. So, I’m in the discrepant logic phase. I totally made that up. Yay for the creativity of the fractured psyche.
Don’t let this post have you believing that TTR is going on hiatus again, though. Trust me when I say that we are here to stay. Someone requested that I do a bit more journal-like posts and today felt like the perfect opportunity. I know I will be okay in the end, but on a personal note, sometimes I forget what “okay” feels like.
Sorry for being a bitch on your Saturday. I’m going to go drink a gas station beer and yell at a good game of sport ball on the tv, now.
“His tears didn’t care, they just hung in the air and refused to fall…” — Death Cab for Cutie