I bought a Journal (Stream of consciousness experiment)

Sept. 11, 2015

"Always write."
"Don't Start a story you don't know the end to."
"Writing has no rules."

I bought a journal tonight. I will probably write in it once. I INTEND to write in it often but I know me.
I'm not mad.

I bought a cheap one.
I bought a purple pen.

Technically, I bought two because that's how it was packaged. The sign at Walgreens said I could get another two-pack with my card for 50% off. Thanks, but no. I really only wanted one.

Plus I don't have a card; nor do I want one.

The pretty girl behind the makeup counter range me up, put my purple pens and chocolate peanuts and coke bottle (sorry, Fernando, I'm not sharing) in a bag and bid me a good evening. She did not, to my delight, say "be well".

I am not well.

I don't need sympathy. I don't need words of encouragement. I just need you to know.
You.
I wrote this for you.
I bought this journal for you.
I bought this purple pen for you.
You can't have them.

These are the vessels I'm using to communicate with you because the traditional ways aren't working.

I love you.
Maybe I don't know you.
Maybe you're my mom, who reads all of my posts.
Maybe you're my friend who reads this out of curiosity or sympathy or genuine interest.

Maybe you just click a link or found my book a thousand years from now and are snickering at my pretension and scribbles and purple ink.

Writers (mostly) are pretentious. Who do we think we are? Why are our thoughts so important that we have to get them out?

We... no. I am not more or less important. What I have to say doesn't matter.

Except it does.
To me.

I live in my head. I've written about that before. When I meet a person, we've lived a dozen lifetimes before the first handshake. Maybe everyone does this.
Maybe it's just me.

I said "I love you" earlier and that came out sounding dumb, but I do. I love you for reading this (even if you're laughing at me). You reading my words means that my job is done. Now that you know that, you can stop, but I've already won.

I feel defeated. I don't think I HAVE been defeated, I just feel that way.

Depression is like sitting in the bottom of a deep hole. You sit and you exist and you wallow in the thoughts and experiences of everything you did to get here. Mostly the bad things. Okay ONLY the bad things.
"I'm pretty sure everyone I knew in 2nd grade hated me."
"The first girl I ever asked out told me 'no' flat out."
"I have debt."
"I'm fat."
"I'm alone."
Depression is an asshole...

Now look, I'm a cheery guy! I like stuff! I do! It's just that my brain over-processes and over-analyzes.

If depression is sitting in a hole then anxiety is shooting yourself out of the hole and tearing through the sky...

...only instead of of wind whipping by and smacking you in the face it's those same thoughts you had down in that hole, only now they swarm you instead of creeping in. It's the emotional equivalent of being in the deep end of the pool with only the knowledge that floating is a thing that exists. Like a million dollars or the ability to tap dance. I believe they're real, but I don't have access to them... This is why I don't swim!

PTSD is the ribbon that holds my little box of crazy together. Have you ever been startled? You know the apex of that? Right when your heart starts racing and you remember what breathing is?
That's my whole day.

Don't feel bad for me. Don't try to help me. Just understand.

I need to go to the V.A. Yes. When I do go there, I face my literal nightmare.
I'm scared of being one of those drooling guys who rocks back and forth.
I'm scared that my friends don't like me but won't say anything because they're wonderful people.
I'm scared of letting down my family.

It feels like the worst-case scenario is always happening, but you know what? I'm a smart dude.

I know everything isn't terrible. I know that I have flaws.
Everyone doesn't like me, but everyone doesn't hate me either.

I love you.
I bought you a notebook.
I bought you a purple pen.

Don't touch my pen.