Worlds End

I've been thinking about The End of The World. 

Not in the biblical sense, fire and brimstone. Although I suppose in this case it would apply. Moreover, it's in the sense of my life as I know it ending. 

Like any human in this modern age, I have too much imagination with too little to exert it against. I wake up, go through my work day and come home. During that time, things are always happening. At home, more stuff happens. Something is always going on. Decisions are being evaluated, plans are made and executed. Meals are prepared and eaten, chores and duties are dealt with. During all the usual stuff, I'm also writing, tweeting, consuming pop culture and doing the usual 20-something crap that seems important but in actuallity is frivolous. Also, I'll get up at offensively early hours and go running, sometimes in the dark but now there's at least a little sunlight. Despite all of this, that imagination never seems to run out. 

See where I'm going? 

There is no shortage of stuff to deal with in this modern life. You get an extra hour and it fills up with obligations. Indulging in relaxing activites usually has a subcurrent of guilt permeating it, as though worrying about what I ought to be accomplishing makes it acceptable that I'm otherwise supposedly wasting time playing a videogame or reading a book. It's become hard to simply relax. The mind is constantly fretting, worrying, anxiously creating scenarios in which things go wrong or disaster falls or who knows what else. Having no actual dangers to avoid (war, pervasive crime, large predatory animals), my mind is constantly presenting potential scenarios, no matter how unrealistic, in which my world and life as I know them cease to exist and All Goes Wrong. 

Who cares? 

No one. 

Should I worry about it? 

Absolutely not. 

But see, that's the problem. Try to convince yourself that you shouldn't worry about a thing in the future. There's a reflexive instinct to reassert the notion that by not being concerned about it, it will come to pass in a negative light. 

This is not true. 

Worry is not a talisman against bad fortune. 

There is a world of difference between being prepared for bad fortune and constantly being wary of it. One is intelligent and resourceful. The other is a needless waste of energy. "But what if this and what if this and this thing could happen and then all this would happen" but it hasn't. Not yet. Odds are it most likely won't. This is just a wishful direction of energy in the hopes that we can exert some sort of control on the universe. 

The world hasn't ended. It won't. Even if it does, what does that change the here and now? Say I go broke, get cancer and lose everyone I love. Okay. Done. Then what happens? Wailing and gnashing of teeth? Perhaps. But whatever the series of circumstances, my life will have to continue on. War could happen, more terrorist attacks. What good, what possible benefit is there to fretting about it? It simply expends energy I could use to tell my better half I love her, or cook a nice meal, or finish the same book I've been slowly writing. 

Enough worrying. Enough self-caused anxiety. 

I'm going to go enjoy my day. You do the same. 

Voice Over

So that's it, huh.


I had known Beastie Boy Adam Yauch was sick for a while. I remember hearing about the band postponing albums and performances and being genuinely bummed about it, even though the shows were nowhere near me and the news of a fresh album had been beyond my knowledge. They are (now were) such an immensely likable, talented group that any ill that should befall them seemed to be a slight against all that was good in the world.

I know, I know. 


This all smacks of the bandwagon-jumping, post celebrity death fervor that grips the social current in the wake of a high profile death. I'm sure to some extent, that's exactly what it is. In my defense, however - I was a longtime fan of the group and adored them for same reasons anyone would. Not to be that hyper dramatic self-involved type that claims the closest relationship to the trauma or loss, I just mean to say it's a real sad loss of a talented, intelligent and funny person.

I can't even begin to summarize all of the amazing music and the impact it had on popular culture. More talented writers have said better about the significance of their mainstream success, being three Jewish rappers in the then-nascent genre. They went from being a hardcore outfit (with a woman on drums, to boot) to frat rap/rock before it was a thing, to some of the smartest, funkiest hip hop in the alternative landscape in the 90s and beyond. In short, they were amazing. 

Back when I was a pimply teenager, Ill Communication was the first rap album I bought. My stealth obsession with oddball hip hop was forged then, listening to the crazy loops and eclectic mix of sounds on the record. 'Sure Shot' is still one of my all time favorite songs of theirs. I remember the crazy anticipation for Hello Nasty and the absurd fun they had with their videos for 'Intergalactic' and 'Body Movin'. I look back fondly on bonding with my younger brother over his discovery and obsession with the group as soon as he started drumming. Above all, though, I remember falling in love with the group sound of Check Your Head. Read up on why I love it here, and check out Max Tannone's remixes that fold the album back in on itself like an ourobourus. 

The fact that MCA is gone is one I can deal with. He was sick, but he led an amazing life that saw him grow in huge leaps and bounds into the farthest thing from the horrible clips the news keeps showing, as though the only thing anyone ever knows them from is 'Fight for Your Right to Party'. Please. MCA was incredibly smart and talented, and that's why we're all so sad to see him go, but as a Buddhist, he wouldn't be. He's just moving on.

Now, let's remember the Beastie Boys for what they are - disembodied heads in jars, still dropping crazy lines in the 31st century. MCA had more rhymes than he had gray hairs, and that's a lot because he had his share.

Cabin Fever

Okay.

So.

I saw a little movie called Cabin in the Woods this weekend. 

I adored it.

This is, of course, the kind of thing I usually follow with a synopsis and digestion. Due to the nature of the film, however, I'm going to refrain from engaging in my typical activity. Instead, I strongly encourage you to see the movie as I did - in as much of a void of context as possible. While I can't explain the movie, perhaps my reasoning for the experience warrants dissection.

The less I say about the movie, the better. Here are the few facts I can divulge without spoiling the viewing experience: written, directed and produced by Joss Whedon and Drew Goddard, it has a fantastic pedigree. The dialogue and plot are natural despite the horrible things that happen. Characters are surprisingly believable given the circumstances that unfold. It's about some good looking young people that go to a Cabin in the Woods. Bad things happen and we are given a bit of a mystery to piece together. Saying more than that would begin to chip away at the unexpected delights in the movie.

You know what? 

I need to stop here.

I can feel a full, spoilerific rant waiting to gush out. It's hard to withhold, frankly. I'm even reticent to post any links or images to go along with all this. All I can really say at this point is that if you have any love whatsoever for horror movies, or the ritual of going to the movies or even just smart, incredibly well written and engagingly directed movies - do not hesitate. See it now, before anything gets spoiled. It worked so well in a vacuum. It was so amazing to see a movie that trusted the audience to keep it, to assume we were smart rather than play down to the base level.

Go.

Go now.

Don't read reviews, don't watch trailers. Just know that it has been incredibly well received and warrants seeing on the big screen.

Trust me - you won't be sorry.

Timing

So I read Stephen King's novel about the Kennedy assassination. 

It was surprisingly good. 

Unfortunately, the enormity of the subject makes an elegant and simplified analysis difficult, if not impossible. I was 18 when the terrorist attacks occurred in New York and DC. Considering how much that shaped my world, I can't begin to fathom how such an event like the one on 11/22/63 would shatter innocence and alter lives. To my admitted dismay and shame, it made for absolutely engrossing reading and fascinating storytelling. 

Let me explain a bit. 

11/22/63 tells the story of Jake Epping, a man who is given access to a gateway to the past by an elderly friend. This friend, being not long for this Earth, has become obsessed with using this possibility as a means to divert history and save Kennedy, hopefully setting the world on a different chain of events that would undo Vietnam and spare thousands of lives as a result. Jake, fascinated by all of this, goes along with it and travels back to 1958, into a world of heavy smoking and the red scare. After some exposition and a series of trial and error establishment of rules regarding time travel, he decides to go along with the plan and sets about changing history. What follows is an engrossing adventure into the past, aided by an impressive amount of research and historical details from King. 

While I could give my typical emphatic endorsement of the book here, I'll sidestep the process to offer a few thoughts on the idea as a whole. I've certainly made my apologist stance for King's canon clear before, so instead of making a plea for you to give in to his writing, I'll simply say that it's the best he's written in years and it feels like he moved away from his wheelhouse a bit, in a good way. Give it a chance. 

Now. 

I can't imagine what it would have been like to experience an event like the one in Dallas in November of 1963. I was 18 when the attacks happened and I could most likely spend the rest of my life trying to make sense of what happened. I probably will, in some ways. Such events are so massive in effect, despite their simple human beginnings, that our instinct is to force them into some sort of comprehendible, easily digested capsule of logic. This is, of course, impossible. 

For my generation, the scale of the events on September 11th will always be too large to grasp on any human scale - they are, by matter of fact, larger than one person can easily reconcile. All the more difficult it must be, then, to fathom how one lone person can be responsible for skewing the world off on to another course of events. It is of no surprise that conspiracy theories arise when we try to explain what happened in either event. To have some shadowy cabal of power players be responsible somehow seems so much more comprehensible than the reality of the actions of a few people. The events fly in the face of our understanding of how the world works. 

This being said, King's exploration of the subject is harrowing and humanizing. His exhaustive research into what (most likely) drove Lee Harvey Oswald to do what he did grants him an exhilarating yet horrifying place from which to tell a story. In some ways it's an the ultimate example of wish fulfillment - saving Kennedy is one of the classic cases cited for the potential of time travel. Who else is better suited than the long winded and exhaustive King to delve into the specifics of time travel and life in the 60s? 

I have to admit, I was almost giddy with excitement to see little scenarios play out, like rigging sports bets like in Back to the Future, or reveling in classic cars and examining knowingly outdated world views. Every time the protagonist started to risk revealing his nature or started to change the past in any way, I was on the edge of my seat, furiously flipping pages. Granted, I'm a fairly sizable nerd and time travel is some of the nerdiest stuff in fiction, but as engrossing as it may be for someone still under the age of 30 it was fantastic. I can't imagine how interesting it would be for anyone who actually experienced that time. 


I think, though, that some of the most significant lessons of the book come from the authors closing notes. In particular, a single sentence about our current state of vitriol and political fervor - "If you want to know what political extremism can lead to, look at the Zapruder film." That single, sad sentence says more about what our actions can lead to than the preceding 800 pages of human drive and desperation. One miserable, crazy person can do terrible things. It's a fascinating, scary ride to read about what makes them tick, but the moment they take action, it can't be taken back. The past won't change for us.


It would do us well to remember that.

Endless Nameless

Naming bands is hard.

Actually, choosing a good band name is hard.

Let me back up.

I've been in a few bands in my life. Some had longer lives than others. A couple were no more than impromptu jam sessions. Others recorded EPs and built (incredibly minor) buzz in their areas. Looking back at my choices, I can say with confidence that every single one had an abysmal, face-palm inducing name. Let's delve further into the mess, shall we?

Yellow 5 - the first band I ever played in with a name. I joined as the lead guitar. A punk outfit that played a lot of Aquabats and Green Day. Broke up after a year.

Harris Avenue - the first band i started. I chose the name at random from a book I was reading. The band stuck together for a surprisingly long(ish) time. I cut my teeth here.

John's Band - joined this band, not named after me. I swear. Different John. Only one or two shows and we all went separate ways.

In Like Flint - some reoccurring faces. Name chosen when overheard in conversation. Both band and name were too toothless to take hold.

Casual Hijinx - worst name, yet most prolific. Isn't that how it always works? Name came from a repeated phrase. Played a lot of shows and still have some recordings. Not half bad, in a Get Up Kids-aping sense.

High Five - sat in on a couple sessions with these guys. I take no blame for this one, but I did have the fortune of playing alongside my younger brother, who I still consider to be the best drummer I know.

I know for certain I'm forgetting the name of two other bands that fell in between a couple there, but then again they may never have gestated proper names. A lot of bad jokes maybe, but nothing that stuck, apparently.

See how bad all of those were? Granted, I was anywhere from 15 to 19 when picking names, but man - see how your own bad ideas can betray you? I actually thought they were decent at the time. If anyone I know can recall a name I've forgotten, please let me know and I'll add it to the list.

(Special mention goes to my younger brother's first band. Their name? Grandpa's Pirate Ship. Awesome.)

Fog Light

Hey gang!


I know, it's been a while, but sometimes that's just how it goes. I feel bad about that, but hey - what can you do?


I've got some things planned, a couple larger pieces in the pipes, but they're not finished and another's just starting. I also started a tumblr, because I like to both post inane Pop Art and overextend myself. In the meantime, I'll try to drop some things here that I've really been digging. There's never a shortage of new stuff for me to paw through, it's just a matter of what stands out from the pile. 


For example! The Wombats - you guys heard of them?

They're great. I totally was not on board for this Liverpool trio. Missed the boat, if you will. However, hearing their single 'Jump Into the Fog' was enough to shake me from my moorings. It's a brilliant piece of weird pop music that shifts and slinks into your head with fantastic synthesizers. 

Released off of their album This Modern Glitch earlier this year, this single sounds both old and new. It seems to possess that unassailable British swagger that bleeds cool, yet plays it so nonchalant despite this. The single possesses these odd tones that almost feel eerie and morbid. They play so well with the bright, poppy bass running beneath the verses, though. The hook is something that calls back to the 90s alt rock scene in the most British way, like I said.

It's just such an odd song, but I can't help but love 'Jump Into the Fog'. This is just one of the things I've been tripping myself over, as of late. I'm aiming to be updating a little more often going forward, so keep an eye peeled, kids.

Pie Hole

Here's a story I never get tired of sharing: 

A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) defies convention by being a single, dude's dude who loves to bake. 


One Sunday, after a night of spirited imbibing and more than a few hairs of the dog that bit him, he decided to alleviate his condition by baking himself a pie. All Sunday this guy slaves away in his kitchen while watching the Vikings lie down on the field. He gets the crust, whips up the filling from scratch, does the whole nine yards for himself. 


One dude, one pie. I love it. 


This guy's gung ho about making this pie for himself, thinking everything's going to be all right if he can just get some sugary, home-baked goodness into him. I can't blame him, it sounds great. 

So he gets his blueberry pie all made up, it's in the oven and baking. He's still a little under the influence when he takes it out and sets the still-hot-to-the-touch pie on the counter to cool. Knowing it's only for himself (which I love, he had no intention of sharing it with anyone, even his best friend who lived just across the hall), he gets out the sugar and coats the top of the pie with a gorgeous, heady amount of confectioner's sugar. 


He waits. 


The pie cools. 


The game ends. 


The Vikings have lost once again. He goes over to the counter to cut himself a giant slice of this delicious homemade pie. Plates it, gets a drink and plops back down on the couch to indulge. Takes one massive forkful and immediately spits it back out. In his still-hazy baking, he mistakenly grabbed the salt instead of sugar. Crestfallen, he shakes his head and dumps the entire pie into the garbage. 


A Sunday wasted. 

When he told us this tale of baking gone wrong, my better half asked him "Couldn't you just scrape the salt off the top and still eat it?" 

His response was a frustrated "Nah, I salted the shit outta that pie." 

On Growing Up

Hey gang.

It's gotten way too serious around here, as of late. So in the interest of lightening the mood while still getting personal, how about I share with you some of the insights I've had in the transition from being a confused adolescent to a functioning adult? Sound good? Let's go! Brace yourself, it's about to get all self-aggrandizing in here. Without further ado, I present to you some of the things that I enjoy about growing older:

-Being in the best damn shape of my life. Just getting this one out of the way. I already covered this one in depth.

-Dressing better. I've learned enough about fashion versus style in the slow development of my taste that I feel pretty confident that I dress well for a young man. You don't want to be showy, you want to be timeless.

-Realizing all religions are equally arbitrary and based on the same basic principles. Hey, I'm not raining on anyone's parade but it took a lot of anxiety out of the equation once I realized they're all as valid as the others, and whatever you choose is your choice. I don't care.

-Understanding why I save and invest so much. Not going broke? Sounds great. Having savings? Even better. Understanding why that's important is the crucial difference, though.

-Being happy with my significant other. I'm still fascinated and saddened that people stay in unhealthy relationships and I am so thankful to have found someone who loves me for who I am and vice versa.

-Having a clean, organized and well lit home. Seriously, there's a difference between kitsch and clutter. I like knowing where my things are and knowing there are no bugs crawling around on an inch of dust. That makes me an old man? I'll take it.

-Not having to put up with people I don't care for. For real. You're a dick? Leave. Or apologize. I've learned you don't have to take guff from someone in this life. Ever. Treat people with respect and they more often than not give it back. If not, they're not worth the hassle.

-Sleeping well and understanding why it helps. Oh man. I wish I understood this in college. Waking up and not hating the world for being exhausted was a game changer. I love that sense of recharge I get from a solid 7+ hours. Screw bars if they get in the way of it.

-Eating healthy food and knowing I'm not poisoning myself. Again, been there and done that. Lots of veggies, less meat. Little to no chemicals. Basically, go with as few ingredients as possible. Feels great and tastes even better.

-Not feeling like a damn child. I don't walk into a room and feel as outgunned, socially, anymore. I get tons of anxiety about normal any situation, for sure. But I don't feel like I'm fresh out of college and wearing a rumpled suit that smells like smoke. All these little things have a cumulative effect.

-Enjoying rational reasonable debate. Particularly over a meal or drinks. I know, don't discuss money, politics or religion. But that still leaves stuff to really gnaw on. I love a good, passionate debate, one where you really sell your idea and maybe learn a thing or two in the process. Maybe you even find yourself giving ground.

-Enjoying silent contemplation. Now I really sound old, huh? I love silence, a brief reprieve from the mad world we live in. Just a small quiet space wherein I hear nothing of car horns, shouting, Kardashians and breaking news. Bliss.

-Stronger BS detector. Through experience or whatever else, you just get a better sense of lies as you get older. Including your own, which leads to lots and lots of honesty. Which is always the best policy.


Sounds pretty pretentious, huh? Yeah, I know. What it all boils down to is the simple fact that I like my own little piece of the world to inhabit, a small place with my better half in which to contemplate the day and reflect on our lives. I like getting older with her. I look forward to being an old man. Years downs the line, of course.

Good Quitting

Humblebrag time, kids. 

I was a smoker for a long time. I'm not proud of that. At all. What I am proud of is the fact that, with surprisingly little fuss, I was able to walk away from such a damaging and draining habit. If you happen to have fallen victim to the same bad habit, I strongly encourage you to do the same. 

Funny thing is, when I look back at why I started, it was absolutely for the stereotypical reasons. When you get down to the honest truth...it felt good and I thought it made me look cool. Sad, huh? I was a misguided, self-assured teenager with self-esteem issues. Also, it gave me something to do with my hands and afforded me an out in a lot of social situations. It was really stupid but I simply did not care about the repercussions at the time. Again, I'm not proud of it but it does help me understand the folly of youth. 

This was at a time when you could still smoke indoors. I recall the fondness for a specific restaurant in college that not only was open late but had a smoking section. There was some concern among fellow smokers when the smoking ban was first passed, but even at the time I knew it made sense. I had worked in  bars and restaurants prior to the ban. After my shift would be over, I would very badly want a cigarette but my lungs burned badly enough from second hand smoke that it would actually be unpleasant to light up. That may have been the first sign that maybe this wasn't the best thing for me to be doing. 

I was, for the entire duration as a smoker, a young person in reasonably decent health. That is, until I hit a tipping point. I mentioned in my last piece about dealing with a prescription that caused some excessive weight gain. When you add the smoking and weight gain on to a typical amount of collegiate imbibing, what was once a healthy young athlete's body was quickly transformed into the worst version of myself. I was a fat mess. Straight up. I ate terribly and felt terrible. All of these bad habits were suddenly catching up with me very fast. I vividly recall the stinging humiliation I felt when a friend of mine audibly noticed (in the middle of a party, to my horror) that I looked pregnant. I had, seemingly out of nowhere, acquired a huge gut. Rather than face my lifestyle choices, I instead chose to disarm any observance of poor health with self-disparaging jokes. I was the first one to point out my poor physique, as if my joking about it would grant acceptance or somehow overcome the fact that I looked and felt like a big sack of gross. 

The slow, steady turn around all started with my better half and my instinct to make a promise before I determine whether or not I can keep it. 

She hated my smoking, and I can not fault her at all for doing so. The simple fact that she dated me while I did so speaks volumes for her patience and ability to see the best in everyone. As New Year's Eve approached one year, I was once again asked about when I would quit. I dismissively remarked "...after New Year's, I guess." I just assumed I'd try and see how it went. It was less than a week away and I hadn't really planned for it. I got the patch and the gum and just kind of....stopped. I remember having my last one and thinking "Ok, no more." That was it. No big moment, just deciding I wasn't going to do it anymore. The patch and gum made me feel sick, so I stopped leaning on them. In a matter of days, I was essentially cold turkey.

Sure, the first couple days sucked. I was crabby and felt terrible. Worse than before. I remember peeling the label off of every bottle of beer around me. But then I rounded the corner. Suddenly food tasted amazing. Turns out your sense of smell and taste are so dulled by smoking that you forget what they are really capable of. Strangely enough, I didn't have any temptation to start back up. It was a bad habit I was just walking away from, for which I felt incredibly lucky. Not everyone experiences the same quitting process, but to anyone wired similar to me - it is completely possible to stop, if you really want to. I've never really wanted another one, to be honest. I miss having something to do with my hands in social situations, but hey - smart phones are a fantastic replacement. 

Once I was done smoking, everything else tumbled into place. I slowly realized I could change myself. Looking in the mirror after stepping on a scale, I vowed to change myself. I decided I didn't want to be fat for the rest of my life. I wanted to be the thin, healthy person I used to be. I wanted to be able to go outside without sweating and buy clothes without sacrificing my dignity to pants that wouldn't button. As a dude, I didn't want to have boobs. Yeah. I had some moobs. 

So, like quitting smoking, one day I decided I was going to get fit again. 

I stopped eating fast food and started bringing salads to the office. I stopped drinking soda altogether (sidebar - you want caffeine? Stop with soda, coffee has way more in it). Much like when Homer Simpson started working out, I began running in the early morning, when no one would point and laugh and see me jiggle. The weight peeled right off. It might be infuriating for some people to read this, but please - know that it's not bragging. It's me sharing how I got my life back in order after years of unhealthy living. I just wanted it bad enough to stick with it. I absolutely would indulge every now and then. Having a better half who is a phenomenal cook necessitates the occasional treat. Apple crisp in the fall. The Greek yogurt with honey. I have a serious sweet tooth. I had to learn moderation and self control.


From highest high to lowest low (which I had to back off from, after getting too skeletal towards the bottom) I dropped somewhere around 90lbs. It's been years and it's all stayed off. A former coworker once snidely told me she expected me to slowly let the weight creep back on after I got married, just like her husband. I remember how mad and hurt I was. Other peoples failures had no impact on me. Like I said, it's been years and I still look better than I did when I graduated from college.


It takes constant maintenance, but it has absolutely been worth the effort. I enjoy my life so much more, now, as a healthy person. It hasn't been a life ruining change - food is awesome, and what I eat now is so much more delicious than anything I ate when I was out of shape. It's just exercising and eating right. 


And not smoking. That stuff will kill you.

On Malaise

I should start this off by saying things are never as bad as they may have seemed. 

The thing is, I've had the mixed blessing of suffering from depression for most of my life. It's only a mix in that you at least get the peaks with the valleys, a fuller range of the emotional spectrum. For as long as I can recall, there has been this lingering presence, lurking just beyond the boundaries of my perception. It waits for the right moment, then steals back into my mind like a squatter waiting for the opportunity. I know it's always out there, waiting for just the right moment of weakness that affords it a foothold in my life. 

It wasn't always as intense as it has been in the last few years. As a child it manifested more as a sense of isolation and detachment. This may sound like it borders on solipsism, but there was always a feeling as a child that I was the only one suffering from these feelings, as though all the other kids were running around, oblivious to a whole subset of feelings that dragged down a youthful exuberance into quiet solitude. I didn't fit in. I was weird. The older I grew, the more pronounced it became. By the time I hit middle school there were month long fugues that, when coupled with teenage hormones and a burgeoning sense of identity, left me wanting to live my life curled up in a ball. Going to school was an exercise in coping with anxiety and pressure that didn't seem to alleviate until I transferred to a much smaller school. The smaller school, though, had more constricted and closed social circles which further isolated me. 

Entering high school saw the emotional sine wave elongate, but not ameliorate. I would have long stretches of unbridled idiotic giddiness followed by unrelenting turmoil. There was a lot of up and down, with the few level times feeling like boredom rather than normal life. I suppose, though, that such wild all-or-nothing mood swings are a part of teenage life. At this point I became more aware of having pronounced depression, and began seeing a counselor. It helped articulate what I was experiencing. It put a spotlight on the darkness covering my mind. Although I was generally unhappy with my geographical location, I was becoming happier with who I was. 

College made it worse. I was on my own and free to deal with the world at large as I saw fit. This brought about massive amounts of self doubt and social anxiety. I really struggled to cope with who I was, what I was doing, where I was going with my life. I lost a sense of purpose. Seeking further help, I started taking anti-depressants. They seemed to alleviate the problem, but it felt like the solution was a chemical lobotomy of sorts. I felt like a zombie. I had no highs or lows. Any sort of creativity I previously possessed dried up almost as soon as the pills started to take effect. Along with this new found fog was the rapid change in health. I ballooned up to well over 220lbs, having previously never passed north of 160. I hated it worse than the depression. 

In a move of inspired idiocy, I simply up and stopped taking my medication. When I graduated, I stopped seeing the counselors I had seen previously. Slowly but surely, I found myself taking solitary steps to improve myself. They were hardly intentional steps, and certainly not coordinated in any way. They came almost as instinctive acts of self preservation. I moved to a new place in a part of the city that brought me out of my shell. I found work that had regular, steady hours instead of erratic retail schedules. I had a better half who always tried to see the best in people, which slowly (unbeknownst to me) began to rub off on me. I quit smoking. I started to eat better. I even started exercising. Bit by bit, I took steps to improve the person I was stuck being. I was realizing that, even if I had to be me for the rest of whatever life I chose, I could at least make the best version of me that I could. 

Years later, I find myself in the best health of my life, with a stronger outlook than I can recall ever possessing. This doesn't mean I'm free from depression, however. It still returns, often when I'm least expecting, and stronger and more pronounced than it ever did in my youth. It's a sense of pointlessness and futility that begins to strip away zeal and confidence. I feel the bottom drop out and I become heavy with arbitrary despair. The difference now, though, is that I can recognize it. Whereas in my youth I would isolate myself and rail against the world, now I have an understanding of what's happening. Where it used to sink its claws deep into my psyche, now I can push the demon back and keep it at bay when it strikes. Longer, more pronounced bouts are more rare. 

It still comes back to visit, and I don't think I'll ever be free from such pronounced depression. My understanding of the situation has me thinking that it really isn't a chemical imbalance but a mindset, an awareness of my place in the universe that sometimes becomes overwhelming. The further I've delved into the magnitude and nature of the cosmos, the more I feel humbled and insignificant. Whether that is the root cause is subject for another post. I think, though, that I am in a good place that allows me a greater perspective on a life-long struggle. I appreciate my life so much more now than I ever have. No matter how depressed I become, I am always thankful for my life, unhappiness and joy and all.