The Story Of My Fucking Life


Posted by ilbebe on February 18, 2013

It came to thinking about my mojo tonight.

I was outside, thinking about how writing is crucial to making me feel whole, and I thought Man, Not Writing Is Affecting My Mojo!

Then I thought Shit, Did I Just Use The Term Mojo In My Inner Dialogue? That’s Fucking Ridiculous.

That I might be subcounsciously thinking about Austin Powers more than I knew was a troubling notion.

But I was laughing.

I have found the most crushing aspect of depression to be the feeling I adopt that I can’ write when I’m down, can’t write when I’m sad. Saying to myself repeatedly, obliquely: I want to write positive things, and I can’t write it unless it’s real…how can I make it real again?

This is how you start to convince yrself that yr own life doesn’t have worth. However, one kernel of knowledge I’ve gained from numerous turns through the cycle of depression is simply that they end. I always find myself teetering on the edge of going nuts because I can’t remember how I snap out of depressions; I know that I’ve done it before, but I can’t for the life of me remember what the catalysts for change are. How can I not remember such an important lesson? It is a fucking intense feeling the first time you feel like you understand the phrase “It’s enough to drive you nuts” in a mature way that basically refers to your ability to maintain your own sanity. One step beyond! I’ll have the mackerel!

Somewhere along the trajectory I finally accumulate enough little moments to allow me to write when I’m down. I can tell myself it’s okay to write and be down, to write and not end on a happy note. You can write whatever you want.

Several years ago now, on o a day that looked like rain in the midst of the worst depression of my life, I started drinking around 9am and walked from where I was staying in Alameda to the Coliseum to see a dollar Wednesday afternoon game. I brought a sprite bottle with Old Crow in it, which was wrapped up in an extra sweatshirt in my backpack. I was sorta nervous about trying to sneak booze in, and also sorta nervous about what the hell I was doing drunk and walking to a baseball game I didn’t care about just for something to do.

Walking up towards the box office a guy offered me a ticket which I declined at first, but when he said he was just giving it away, I figured I might as well save a dollar and took it. The guy then shuffled off pretty quickly, which I self-consciously assumed was because he had smelled the booze on me and was fleeing the scene of a grave mistake. This amplified my nerves about the booze in my backpack being discovered, so I killed a few minutes trying to act normal. At the gate my backpack wasn’t even checked.

I go find my seat and am amazed to discover the guy who gave me the ticket sitting next to me. He seemed startled, and luckily I had no room to shame myself for startling him, as I was instantly consumed by the realization that I had not considered that our tickets would bring us together again. Thoughts of the Jesus, What Is Wrong With Me? variety, but the kind that usually turn into a good gonzo laugh. We sat there for a tense minute before the guy said something about going to get something and leaving his seat. He never came back. The game went into a rain delay in the fifth inning that it never came out of, and as the rest of the crowd gradually left their seats to wait out the delay under the eaves, I sat in my free seat and drank Old Crow out of a Sprite bottle.

-11:15pm 2/18/13, home


One Response to “One-thirty-six”

  1. beltdrive said

    hiya, sorry I couldn’t stay and chat. I don’t have much time in the mornings.
    If you can be at Hello-oak… on sat/sun. We can catchup..paul

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