Take it or leave it (not sure that you care)

Ever the lap dog. I do my dance for you.
I touch your face, but you turn away.
I reach for your thighs, and you roll away.
Yet I dance for you. It's a waste of time.
Now I feel the pain of depression and I wonder what I was thinking.
And now I wear my dark cloak again.
My fears all come true. My paranoia is justified.

I used to think you were being defensive and unattached.
So hurt by loss that you pulled away from me for safety.
But that was so long ago. And now you know I will never leave.
I was an experiment. Something different and new.
But never what you *wanted*.
What will become of me when you have that chance. To get what you want.
Do you want me around? Do you need me? Would you care if I vanished today?
Given a new life without me, would you accept it?
I often wonder if you are only in live with the idea of having me.
I long for you. I lust after you.
But you loathe my affection.

Sometimes I fantasize about the life you would have without me.
How happy you would be.
How great the sex would be.
And my being gone wouldn't be so bad.
Because you could start your life over without the guilt.
No one would judge you.
I would become better to you.
Because your memories would play out like an old movie.
You would forget way that I pathetically cling to you.
Being a ghost wouldn't be so bad.

Why the Fuck isn't this whiskey working? (Saturday night blues)

How the hell am I supposed to remain upbeat?

You deny my advances for weeks.  My attempts are cute and pathetic to you.  And then you go off and pleasure yourself.  You have chosen masturbation over me.  You think I don't know.  I wish that I didn't.  I worship you, and you don't understand it. And sometimes neither do I.

Still I wonder what you must think of me.  When you shove me off, smile, and call me a dork.  It kills me a little inside.  I will forever be your dork.  But I want to be your fantasy. 

I want to be your fantasy.

I tried to pleasure you and the look on your face was complete disgust.  And so I stopped, hoping maybe I was misreading you.  But then you just went to sleep.  Jesus Christ I am pathetic.

I want to be your fantasy.

How can I become something else?  I spend my days solving complex problems with good research and critical thinking.  But I am lost here.  How can I give myself a muscular chest?  How can I lose some weight?  I starved myself for days and tried to make a weight set out of things I could hide in the basement.  But I only lost a few pounds and my chest doesn't look at all different.  Meanwhile I am sneaking weight lifting sessions between loads of laundry.  What the fuck am I doing?

What the Fuck am I doing?

If I work really hard for you, you will see it.
If I can make some more money I will impress and support you.
If I write you little card you will understand.
If I sneak you a kiss you will love me.

I want to be your fantasy.

I suppose this is when I should become bitter and try to find attention from some stranger on the internet as so many do.  But I could never betray you and it wouldn't fulfill me.

And here I am awake late on a Saturday night.  My anti mania drugs wore off hours ago and the dose of whiskey I choked down only further depressed me.

I want to be your fantasy the way that you are mine.  But I am just your pet.your dork.  Your sad little desperate joke of a man.

Well here we are again (subtitle: i'm sulking)

It's been so long since I have written, I guess that I should recap.

When I went back to my doctor I explained that the past few weeks had been the most depressing of my life.  I spared him the details, such as the heartfelt desire to cut myself open.  Yes, I wanted to cut myself.  Frankly, I have never understood it.  The need to feel your pain.  So *see* your pain materialized before you.  Then, there it was.  In the forefront of my brain.  But I am a scientific man.  I try to find logic in things.  So I instead took to burning myself, which didn't leave any noticeable damage.  Oh, but I am getting off track.

The good doctor explained that he had suspected that the Depakote drug by itself would leave me with depression symptoms (you think?) and that he had no reservations about putting me on an antidepressant.  With that he wrote me a script for Zoloft, and away I went.

Even 24 hours later I felt like a changed man.  It was like that dark cloak that I had been wearing had just fallen off and freed me.  This was truly the best I have felt in years.  I was finally rid of the patterns and activities that I had forced upon myself, and no longer living through a dark landscape of depression.

But then one morning, quite suddenly, my penis didn't work.

Now this, my friends, is what I call "the full disclaimer".  One morning I had stepped out of the shower, to find my wife waiting for me as she often did for a morning quickie.  But I could immediately see that things were not right.  My dick somehow felt like a foreign object to me, and was obviously going to be of no use to me today.  I can only imagine the hurt and confusion this put on my wife, and it was a tough couple weeks after that day.  But I was also pretty angry and I demanded some answers.

So I looked up the side effects of Zoloft, and there it was plain as day, "sexual side effects".  And then I went on a search through various forums where real people were talking about their experiences.  Women on the drug said that they simply didn't want to have sex any more, or be touched even.  The men said that when they did feel like having sex, things barely worked - if at all. 

I know at this point I should have stopped taking the drug. But I didn't want to go back to that dark place.  I decided instead to start splitting my pills in half.  And for the most part it worked.

But here I am weeks later, and I'm still not 100 percent.  My dick is mostly functional.  And that is good.  But I cannot say that I don't still feel the lingering effects.  I had never had anxiety with sex before, and now I find myself in constant fear of another 'malfunction'.  And the depression?  Well, that is obviously there too.  I shouldn't have expected that I could ween myself off of this pill and not feel the effects.  The sneaky part of it is that is seems to take weeks to feel any sort of change on this drug.  And the same way that I one day woke up with a dysfunctional penis, I woke up last week with depression.

Yesterday I called up my doctor's office and just asked for an appointment whenever they could find me one and it just so happened that they had one that day.  And so I got to have the awkward conversation with a female nurse, who I work with, about erectile dysfunction.  And when that was all over with, the physician came in and sat down and then said "so what brings you in?".  I guess that I had always thought that the reason that the nurse came in and asked you about everything, and then typed all that shit in, that the doctor would read it and then wouldn't have to ask you all the same things.  And then I told the whole story over again.

The good doctor put me on Wellbutrin, and said that while all of these drugs have sexual side effects, Wellbutrin was the least damaging.  At this point, I want to abandon all trust in physicians and pull out my phone to do some Google searches.  But I am desperate for a change, and I agreed to try something new without really knowing anything about it. 

Last night I came home in a pretty good mood.  It was an awful work day, full of stupid clumsy mistakes.  But I felt like I had made some progress with that quick doctor visit.  I spent a good couple of hours sweeping all the floors, mopping the kitchen, doing laundry, etc.  I even bough my wife a rose with the little amount of money I had in my pocket.  And even though I know for a fact she had gone off earlier in the day and pleasured herself without me - I tried not to let that hurt my pride and weigh me down.  Maybe she still had a bit of energy left for me.

I guess my mistake (or at least one of my mistakes) was mentioning the doctors visit to my wife.  I wanted her to understand where I am at with it.  And she is my friend.  Really, the only friend I have.  But this was the same doctors office that told her she needed to lose weight if she wanted to lower her blood pressure.  So here I am visiting the doctor that "told her she was fat" to talk about my dysfunctional dick.  And then she sort of blew up at me, and shut down on me.  She told me that it seems odd that I never have trouble "jerking off".  But I can only imagine that this was pointed toward the dirty videos that I had sent her months earlier.  Truth is, I haven't jerked off since then.  Partly because I am not interested in doing it (odd effect of the drug?) but mostly because I don't want to waste any sexual energy on myself.

I don't know how to make her understand that I want to have sex with her (badly).  And these problems that I am having with these drugs are not her problem - they are mine.  Hell, I would have killed for a handjob last night.  I was all over her.  All day long, every chance I got.  I mean, I really tried to set the mood too.  First with doing all the housework.  Then with bringing her some soda and a rose.  And then with slathering on some good smelling cologne and washing my dick in the sink.  But at the end of the night, she got into bed pissed off and went directly to sleep.  And nothing I could say would make her feel better.

And as I lay there contemplating all of the bad choices I had made that day, getting out of bed was number one on my list.  And by far the best idea that I had was taking a shot of whiskey earlier that night.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  I shouldn't drink any alcohol.  But my "give a damn" is definitely in bad shape this past week.  And that near-coma that it put me in was just the good rest that I needed.

Although today, I feel ... not so good.  And there is that depression again.

Maybe I was better off just being a part time drunk with manic tendencies?

Pouring Out My Heart (subtitle: you can run if you want)

Almost every day I open up a my browser and start pouring out my heart into this journal.  And every day I wonder what you are thinking.  And what good does this do?  Me, pouring out my heart and soul onto pages which you will never read.  I owe you an explanation.  You should know what is happening to me.

I worked for a week on that e-mail.  The first thing I decided was that I would not send you some long meaningless depressive masterpiece.  But as the days passed, I would read and reread everything over and over again.  Adding a few words here, deleting a few words there.  And somehow it turned into a long rambling depressive masterpiece.

I keep opening it and reading it, and closing it without sending it.  It makes me sad to read it and it's filled with everything I can't tell you.  How will you react?  I envision myself telling you these things.  But I can never see your reaction.  I don't want to imagine that part.

This morning, as I feel the depressions crushing back down upon me, I realize that the clouds only cleared for 12 hours or so.  And I don't care any more.  I want you to know.  I need you to know.

I pressed Send.

What will you think of me now?

Will you look at me differently?

I Climbed To The Top (subtitle: but nothing was the same)

I wake up with the dark cloak enveloping me.  I thought I had shed you.  I claw my skin, I scold you with hot water, but you remain.  I stare at myself in the mirror.  And I see you, while the others may not.  Now I know that I will never be rid of you.  You only sleep.  You wait.

In my dream I was climbing.  Digging my fingers into the cold earth and pulling myself up.  I'm practically naked and my skin is hardened by the bitter cold.  My hands covered in black filth.  If only I could stand, I would have some traction.  But I grab and pulled my way up through the dark night.  I roll onto my back and look into the sky.  There is a wave of color off in the horizon, and I imaging that is my goal.  I stop along the way and marvel at a tree that still has it's leaves.  I have discovered the only living thing in this dark damp wasteland.  It gives me hope, and I continue to climb.

Suddenly, I realize that I have made it to the top.  But when I look down over the edge I don't see anything.  Whatever I expected to find here is gone.  And it's been replaced with a dark empty void.  And the battle to get here was in vain.  There is no anger.  No fear.  There is only disappointment and sadness.  And you are still there.  Clutching my heart.

And now I am awake. 

And I remember everything.

Why Do I Want Meds? (subtitle: am i only masking reality?)

I keep putting myself into contests that I can't win.  I see it now.  I am setting myself up for failure.  And then I sulk in it.  But what I am really trying to do, is to see if my paranoia is real.  If my depression is justified.  To see if I have the right to be depressed.

I was tasked with finding myself a new desk for my new office.  I picked out a very nice, hard wood desk and sent the quote to my boss.  She called and asked if I "was serious".  I think that I work pretty hard here, and my skills are valuable.  And I have been at the company for going on seven years.  But I was quickly put in my place.  And at the time I was already in that place of worthlessness.  It didn't even seem to hurt.  I was so detached, it all rolled over me.

This morning was your day off.  And I knew you would spend the morning in bed with your toys.  I want so bad to be the one to satisfy you.  And maybe it's foolish of me to think that I can't satisfy you or that you don't want it.  So I offered myself to you for a lunchtime date.  You declined, and told me that you had some housework to do which I knew was bullshit.  But hell, look at me.  I am a mess.  I wouldn't want to have sex with me either.  And so I told you that in a text.  And you invited me out for a noontime date.  But I get it.  It's because you feel bad for me now.  Because I have tried to initiate sex with you for days, and you have declined.  Not because you want me there.  I am just a pity fuck.  But I need you so badly right now that I will accept this pitiful offer.  Is that wrong?

Yesterday I drove to the post office and bought a postcard with some change from my car.  I wrote an excerpt from my blog onto it, and then I mailed it to a website where it will be anonymously displayed.  It thought it would feel good doing it.  Because I felt like I was letting go of that haunting thought in my brain.  But I felt sick writing it and doodling on it.  It was a long walk to the mailbox.  And when I dropped it in, nothing changed.  I expected that I would feel better.  But it just worsened my mood.

I barely ate yesterday.  I put food into my mouth and it tastes rotten and I just want to spit it out.  I slowly ate a few pieces of pizza last night because I felt like I had to.  I had to look normal to my family, and my body was getting weak.  This morning I stepped onto the scale and could see that I had lost another five pounds.  The fat continues to roll away, and I am not sorry about that.  But even my face seems narrower all of a sudden and I don't know what I am becoming.  This morning I took a trip up six flights of stairs.  Because I feel like I am wasting away, and I don't want to be one of those people that collapse out of dehydration and starvation.  It was a test.  And while it was a hard trip up those stairs, I did it.  I was fine.  And it was even a little easier than in months past thanks to that weight I shed.

Yesterday I called my doctor to make sure that I still have an appointment for next week.  Maybe I should have moved it up.  Because I feel like I am dire need of some sort of antidepressant, ASAP.  Although, my paranoia doesn't want me to take the meds.  If this is reality, what good am I really doing by taking happy pills?  I'm still the same person.  Nothing changes.  My brain just stops sending me signals to remind me of what I am and what I have become.  And then every fleeting moment of bliss will be followed by my brain asking, "am I only enjoying myself because of the medication"?

And now it's lunchtime.  And I feel like I should be eating something, even though I have no desire to.  I obviously need food.  My body is weak, and my brain is starting to malfunction (does someone have a radio on?).  Maybe I should get a case of that stuff that old people take so that their skin doesn't fall off and their bones don't shatter.

What My Brain Tells Me (subtitle: sulking depression)

Strange how you wake up sometimes with a song in your head, and you realize that you have been quoting it to yourself from the back of your mind.  Because something that you committed to memory, meant nothing at the time.  But suddenly, it's all makes sense and it's an undeniable truth.

Don't - tell me what I wanna hear
Afraid of never knowing fear
Experience anything you need
I'll keep fighting jealousy
Until it's fucking gone

And I've got this friend, you see
Who makes me feel and I
Wanted more than I could steal
I'll arrest myself, I'll wear a shield
I'll go out of my way to prove I still
I still smell her on you

I buy you fancy toys so that you can enjoy yourself with them.  But I want to be your fantasy.  I want to believe that if I can become that thing that drives you crazy, it will make you want me.  It will make you lust for me, the way I do for you.  So I spy on you.  I abuse my skills to electronically spy on you so that I can know what you really want.  What you dream about.  Who you lust for.

But then I realize I can never be what you want.  I'm not the right shape.  Not the right color.  Not even the same class of human being.  And then my world comes crashing down on me, and my brain goes on reminding me that it's obvious that I am not what she wants.  That she needs her toys, and her fantasies to be fulfilled sexually.  And my poor attempts to recreate them are just awkward and unwanted.  When she gives herself to me - is it because it's what she wants?  Or is she only doing it for me?

I feel like I am becoming a ghost.  Just some nice guy that people knew.  My office is being remodeled, and I had to move out so that it could be painted.  I could have moved into a desk in the main office where all my old coworkers would have welcomed me.  Instead, I have locked myself away in a wiring closet where only a few people know to find me.  I sneak in and out of a back door for bathroom breaks and water.  I continue to do my job, and listen to music that I like.  But something is just not right.  I am wasting away.  And I want to waste away.

At first I was impressed by the weight I had lost.  Diets have always failed me, and suddenly the pounds were just dropping off.  I lost 20 pounds before I had noticed the change.  I had just thought that it was the new medication, and the drowsy effect it has on me.  But I now know realize that I have just not been eating, and this is a 'red alarm' for depression.

Signs of depression according to WebMD:

• Decreased appetite and/or weight loss, or overeating and weight gain
• Difficulty concentrating, remembering, and making decisions
• Fatigue, decreased energy, being "slowed down"
• Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, helplessness
• Feelings of hopelessness, pessimism
• Insomnia, early-morning awakening, or oversleeping
• Loss of interest or pleasure in hobbies and activities that were once enjoyed, including sex
• Persistent physical symptoms that do not respond to treatment, such as headaches, digestive disorders, and chronic pain
• Persistently sad, anxious, or "empty" moods
• Restlessness, irritability
• Thoughts of death or suicide, suicide attempts

I am not quite to the thoughts of suicide, but the rest of this is spot on.  The only part of myself that I could ever consider killing, is my attachment to you.  I fear that one day you will realize that you don't want me, and really never have.  I wonder if it will be someone else that you meet.  Or perhaps you will see that you love me, and need me (at least financially) but I am not what you want in life.  And God I love you.  And I need you so much.  But I would give you that freedom.  And I would leave you alone.  And I would know you could finally be happy with someone else.  And I would fade away.

Oh, and another song just came to me (if only it read 'you will love') ...

You'll be loved you'll be loved
Like you never have known
The memories of me
Will seem more like bad dreams
Just a series of blurs
Like I never occurred
Someday you will be loved
Someday you will be loved