I don’t know man

It’s a phrase that bounces around in my head. It’s a signal that I’m depressed. I’m not going to pretend that I’m an expert in depression. Hell I’ve never even been properly diagnosed. In school the only thing doctors labeled me with was Attention Deficit Disorder. And I think it’s safe to say that diagnosis fits, simple tasks can become frankly unbearable and I find myself hyperfocused on one thing to the exclusion of everything else I need to accomplish throughout my day. That’s kind of my default setting. 

But then every couple months that gets superseded by this overwhelming feeling that NOTHING matters. And to be real guys, that’s the space I’m living in right now. Over the years I’ve developed coping mechanisms, I’ve built a support system and I think with age there has simple come a resignation and a knowledge that some time soon this will pass. 

I’m functional. I’m Okay. and to tell you the truth at this point I’m just frustrated, because despite the lack of serotonin in my brain I have things I have things I just have to do. Sure there’s my job, but if you are at all familiar with the things I write on this blog, you’ll know my job has never been the primary focus of my life. No, I’m pissed because god damn it I have a a novel to edit and a novella I’m 9,000 words into, I have a fairly big stand up opportunity I need to be preparing for, but my stupid brain does not want to cooperate. 

As I type these words I’m fairly certain this will be my least interesting blog entry in months. It isn’t funny, I’m not being sardonic or pithy about this issue. I’m not undercutting the weighty topic with self-aware jabs at the way these types of essays usually go. I’m just being mad. 

A logical part of my brain recognizes that this sort of baring drivel is cathartic for some, maybe it’ll give somebody else with the same sort of problems a sense that they aren’t alone, but of course that same logical part of my brain, deprived of the chemicals that breed self confidence, is also reminding me that hardly anybody reads my stuff anyway. 

And that’s the greatest betrayal. Self-pity. I’m a punk rock writer dammit. I’m making noise for ME. Why the hell am I worried about how many people read my stupid blog? I should be barreling through the fuzz, being brilliant despite the pain, that’s what Joe Strummer would do right? 

I don’t know man. I just hope I shake this thing soon. I’ve got work to do. 

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