I lied.

Everything is a fiction. Every aspect of my life that I post on this site is nothing but an elaborate composition predicated on the fact that no one is around to prove otherwise.

To be completely candid, that is actually most of my life.

Now, that is not saying everything does not have a ring of truth behind it. Actually, I would argue that it is impossible to write from a place of complete ignorance.

TRICK TO ASPIREING WRITERS:

Write the truth, but change names. Make things as close to your reality as you can. Create a world that everyone believes might be their reality, and make the rug easy enough to pull. Leave it there until the end, or the middle, or just never pull it.

Why am I writing this? Why am I sharing the fact that everything I am is a fabrication?

I have been talking to a good friend of mine for the last couple of months regularly. I cannot tell them how I am, even in one-on-one chat. I cannot illuminate them to the fact that living with me is, not just impossible, but expensive if you want to try. I also have a grand narrative in my head that this matters at all: that this is actually something I have to nip in the head before it actually comes to chopping bock.

See? All of that was a lie. Was it, though?

To that question, I simply ask if you were entertained? Did you read that paragraph and find yourself invested in the narrative that I wove for the 3 or so lines? Did you actually forget that I am married?

Yeah, it probably wasn’t that good. In all actual honesty, I am kind of loosing my mind. I have been writing the same thing now 9 months. I have just over 10 000 words down, which is 10 times less than I want in the end. Now; what I have, I am very proud of. I have had things proof read by a few different people from all different walks of life. The input I have recieved has helped me craft a world that is almost believable. The wall I have hit is around the part that makes things sci-fi ajacent. How do you describle a concept that is literally impossible in the world of physics? And, to be clear, I don’t mean we haven’t achieved it yet impssible. I mean literally was-proven-impssible-by-Einstein impossible.

Anyway, my point is simply that I see my life as a narrative to be written. Some points embezzled, some points taken at face. I like to pretend that this is what keeps my writing interesting.

I’m Not Dead

I hope this is a good idea: I have this thought that talking about mental stress, in any capacity, is a good thing. If I am wrong, I will pull this down.

My thought process is that more conversation about anyone with mental issues will help everyone who deals with them on some level.

I have, for a very long time, dealt with my own mortality. I actually feel guilt for being alive.

Now, that does not imply that I am depressed. I actually feel this way whether I am having a good day or not. I am constantly thinking about how I am squandering aspect of life, even when I am doing everything right. I have released more albums in a period of 10 years than most people will in their entire lives. I have written a book. I do a PodCast, and I have produced a number of songs. I am married to an amazing woman. I have three beautiful dogs, and a cat that is amazing. Even this blog could be seen as an accomplishment, though even on paper, I don’t see it as anything special.

I feel constantly hounded by the fact that I am heavily in debt. Things I do don’t get the attention that I think they should. A large part of that is my examples are ludacris to live up to. I have constant reminders from other YouTube personalities, musicians, and writers who have great success and reach limits unheard of by history.

The biggest component is my health status. I get daily reminders that I am not walking. A close relationship tells me often how my seizures are self inflicted, and I believe it even though I know that they are not.

I am trying, but I feel as though that I have done this all to myself. I then start to feel horrible because there are people (friends and otherwise) who have died before they could do anything eternal. I feel as though the system wasting it’s time on me is for not. I am literally living my life because other people want me to for them.

That is something never talked about: how we don’t get reprise from life. Even on a day off, we have to make sure that we do X and Y for ourselves so we can get back to doing things to “better” humanity. It does not help that, because I am over 30 years old, I have signed a collection of confidentiality agreements to prevent my doctors explaining certain things to family and friends.

Couple this exhaustion from life with my disdain for existence, and I am having a hard time. I AM NOT DEPRESSED, but I am feeling trapped and pulled thin. I make morbid jokes because I find them hilarious. I talk about killing myself, NOT AS A CRY FOR HELP, as a way to express emotions at that time and date.

I tell everyone that I love them, because I genuinely do. I am going to start signing off every PodCast with “I love you” because I don’t hear that being uttered enough.

I know I said that I am taking a break, but I really needed to get that out.

I love you.

That Guy.

(Okay. Last change of this post. You got this.)

Ironic that a post I have scrapped due to being too open and too distant turned out to be a rant on forgiving yourself, but these appear to be the times we live in.

I have spent the last five years battling with the demons that we hoisted upon me when I died.

I read pages, literal pages, of comments talking about what I meant to people throughout the time we knew each other. I was toted as being amazing by someone who, before I came out of the coma, decided that I was no longer worthy of knowing them at all. I have let my wife down just because I am who I am, and she sticks around because apparently I am worth it.

All of these things keep circling in my mind while I try to decide whether I am or not the person I strive to be, or if I am just an avatar cloaking the body of a monster. I have done some horrible things in my 30 years on the earth. Should I keep dwelling on those, or should I accept that I might not be a halfway bad human?

I am very curious if my attachment to what I have done in the past is actually even normal. My mind is stuck on the idea that I, and I alone, realize that I am capable of the dumb-shittery that I have done in the past. I guess, in a way, you can describe me as haunted by my decisions. One thing I will bow to is my arrogance in trying to do this publication bullshit on my own. All of my endeavours in the arts have all been independent. Not by complete choice, but I wonder if because I half know how to do it alone (kind of) I create a kind of false-bravado and tricks me into thinking “I can do it if I just do one more thing oh God I can do it just let me do it this time…”

Fill me in, internet! Tell me if you also experience this loop of self-doubt and self-loathing. Fill me in if you second-guess everything you do, as well! I am in need of vindication that this is normal. I would also like the heads-up if I need to seek a psychiatrist.