Jordan Antonacci's Blog, page 43

Not Meant to Love

I fucking suck with relationships.

Since I moved out at 18, my dream has always been to get to a point where I can comfortably live close to my family–my “home”–again. Almost seven years later, and that dream of mine has finally come true. But now that I’m here, I just want to go somewhere else. Okay, I could’ve expressed that better. It’s not that I want to go somewhere else, it’s just that I can’t help the feeling that I don’t quite belong here.

(Does this happen to anyone else? Because it happens to me an awful lot. It’s legit like the story of my life. I always feel like I know what I want, but then it’s like once I get it… everything changes.)

And it’s nothing to do with my family; they’re perfect. Too perfect for me, really. This issue, is with me. I’m destructive. A natural occurring disaster. A black hole consuming everything and everyone around me like some starving cannibal.

[image error]Photo by Gilbert Cayamo on Pexels.com

It’s like this sickness, this vile evil inside of me. It spreads like a cancer, eating all of my insides and leaving nothing but an emptiness. Like with many viruses, I often experience moments of remission where I’ll believe I’m cured. I’ll go days, weeks–but never months or years–completely asymptomatic. If I were, lets say, a cancer patient, this is the point where I’d flush all of my medications, climb the nearest mountaintop, and shout I’M CURED! 

But then, like a drug addicts relapse that forces him to see who he truly is, something happens that causes me to  It’s almost like waking from a pleasant dream into a horrific reality.

And leaving here–it isn’t what I want to do. Like I said, getting to a point where I can be closer to my family has been my dream for the past 7 years. But at least if I’m away from them, I won’t be able to hurt anyone else. Because hurting people, pushing away the ones who genuinely care for me… it’s just what I do. And no matter how much I try to fight it, it just happens. It’s who I am.

This is starting to sound like every emo teenager’s cliche, I admit, but here I am at 25 and still unable to correctly build and hold onto any one single relationship.

My family and I, we aren’t really alike, but we are very different. I mean that in the sense of I’m different from them. Sometimes the difference is painfully obvious, standing out like a speck of red on a blank white canvas. It can be something as little as the fact that I’m the only one who likes horror movies, or as in-your-face as our morals, principles, values, and overall emotions. I look at them and see light. I turn the gaze upon myself and the light goes out. It’s dark. (I suppose this is reminiscent of a previous post, When you feel like you don’t fit in with your Family)

[image error]Photo by Rahul on Pexels.com

This is why I stay away from romance. Every so often I’ll lock eyes with a random cute girl while out at the grocery store or at a coffee shop, and I’ll kinda feel a spark of something inside as she smiles. Every guy reading this knows what I’m talking about. I’ll have a brief flash of a fantasy where I see myself talking to her, falling for her; I’ll imagine how perfect our first date might be, what her lips might taste like… Sometimes I’ll even meet girls on dating sites. We’ll go out on dates and just as I feel something, I’ll cut it off. Nowadays, where it says “Looking for…” on my dating site profiles, I check “Something casual.”

Why? Because I’ve felt that something before. Plenty of times. We all have. I’ve sat with the hope like a distant light that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. This time I won’t fuck it up, this time I won’t fuck it up. I’ll hold onto that hope. I’ll hold onto that fragile little hope like I’m holding onto wind, even after I’ve watched the relationship nosedive into a mountainside and burst into a fiery explosion.

[image error]Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

And at some point, I have to accept: It’s me.

So nowadays, I stop it before it can begin. Instead of writing Once upon a time when I see that smile in the coffee shop, I write The end. I’d rather live in a fantasy of what could be then live in the tragedy of truth. I just, for whatever the reason may be, feel like I’m not made to love. Nor to be loved.

“I hide in plain sight, unable to reach out to people close to me, afraid I’ll hurt them. Like I’ve hurt so many others.”

-Dexter

Thank you for reading,

-Jordan Antonacci

[image error]

P.S. About the two hummingbirds I recently posted about. As much as I hate to even type it, one of them died today

A Hummingbird Fell from its Nest in my Backyard!

Hey, everybody,

So, I don’t make posts like this very often. Okay, I lied–I’ve never written a post like this. I’m one of those bloggers that can’t ever stick to one topic. My posts topics range from fiction to poetry; from relationships to travel destinations. But, like they say, there’s a first for everything.

Before I get into the story, let me start by saying I’ve never really been much of an animal person. I know–that may make some of you dog lovers reading this gasp, but the story gets better. I promise.

So, for whatever reason, my parent’s backyard seems to be something of a popular attraction for the hummingbirds here in Southern California. Out back, there’s an outdoor kitchen area with a thatched roof made from dry straw. Hanging from the wooden columns holding it up is a string of lights, and hanging from said lights are several–3, to be exact–hummingbird nests.

We don’t ever bother them or try to get rid of the little guys. Aside from the little pellets of poop they leave all over the tile countertop, my mom genuinely likes them.

About a week or two ago, a hummingbird momma came along and had two little hummingbird babies.

[image error]

Yesterday, we were in the backyard cleaning up the debris left from our house party the day before when my mom noticed the two birds were no longer nestled in their cozy nest like usual. Instead, they were hanging to the outside of the nest by their feet, almost like bats. Now, I know less than jack-shit about hummingbirds, so I wasn’t sure if this was something they just do, or what. We left them alone and continued cleaning up spilled margaritas and deflated balloons.

A few minutes later we were inside, wiping up in the kitchen. My mom looked out the back window, her eyes slightly widened. She hurried through the sliding glass door and back to where the birds had dangled from their nest. I followed along. She gasped lightly as we got close. “Oh, no,” she said and bent down.

For whatever reason, when I peeked around the corner of the counter and saw that baby bird lying helpless in a crack in the concrete, my heart broke a little. Remember: I’ve never been much of an animal person.

Together, my mother and I carefully lifted the bird and put it back in its nest with its sibling. But the nest wasn’t holding well; it was tiling at an awkward angle, causing the birds to spill out.

[image error]

My mom had an idea to put the nest in a flower pot and put it as close to where the nest originally was as possible. We did that–but both of us were plagued with a fear that the momma might not be able to find her little feathered babies. I did some research and found that, luckily, mother hummingbirds won’t abandon their young like other animals just because a human touched them. As it turns out, hummingbirds don’t have a sense of smell.

As my mom and I went back to cleaning up the backyard, we stayed on the lookout for momma bird… but she didn’t seem to be coming back. Hours passed (we were inside at this point, finally done cleaning), and when I still hadn’t seen her, I began feeling a bit antsy, and like I needed to do something. But what the hell am I supposed to do, I asked myself. Not knowing how to care for a baby bird, I did what any other clueless doofus would do. That’s right, I asked Google.

Good ol’ Google suggested I mix 1 tsp of sugar with 4 tsp of water, and feed the birds 1-3 drops every 30 minutes with an eyedropper. So that’s what I did. Sorta. I had a movie to go to, so that cut into feeding time by a couple hours, but I kept feeding them once I got back.

[image error]

Look at them! I’d be lying if I said they weren’t cute.

It was interesting to say the least, playing momma bird and nurturing these little guys. Though I’d never really cared for animals, I quickly began feeling an odd sense of responsibility for these fuzzy little balls with beaks. The feelings persisted even after they both shit on me multiple times. Hey, fun fact: did you know that hummingbirds actually shoot their poop?

I didn’t.

Do now.

Anyway, I just wanted to share this experience with you all. Today is day 2, and I still have yet to see the momma bird. I got up at 6 AM today and fed them breakfast. It was super chilly over here in SoCal and the temperatures made me a little worried. I’m, of course, hoping the momma comes back and finds her babies soon… But I’ll let you all know how it goes.

Thanks for reading

Poem: The Wanderer

[image error]

The road was cold

A frigid night and snow

as the boy began a journey

all alone

The road was cold

beneath his bare bleeding toes

as he traveled from the East

to the far West coast

And he called out with his soul

He called out ‘Hello!’

But the only thing to call back

was his lonely echo

Those roads were so cold

as he staggered into the unknown

searching from the North

all the way to the South Pole

But as his days grew old

and his heart hollow

he realized he may never

find a place to call home

Even as this story is being told

that boy, he still roams

that lonely dark road

in search of somewhere he can go

He wonders

if ever he can satisfy

this nameless hunger

this hellish hunger

His starving heart rumbles

like an unforgiving thunder

from mountain peaks up high

to uncharted lands down under

 

Thank you all for stopping by and checking out today’s post.

I’ve been sucking pretty bad with posting regularly–as I mentioned in my previous post. Don’t really have any excuses. I’m moving out of the place I’m staying now on the 15th, so I have to have my van by then. For those of you who don’t know, I’m planning to buy a van, convert it to a camper, and travel

Take Me Back to the Basics of Life

If I asked you, “What would you consider to be a successful life,” what would your answer be? Think about it for a moment. Next, imagine I asked you, “What makes you happy?” Think about your response to that as well, then compare both answers. They may be entirely different—and they most likely are.

But shouldn’t the two go hand in hand?

I asked a friend what he considered to be living a successful life. He said being at the top of his career. The next day, I asked him what he considered to be living a happy life. He spoke of cherished moments with his girlfriend and his family, traveling and experiencing all he could while he could.

[image error]Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

There was a time in my life where I “had it all,’ as they say. I had a secure job that let me put money in my bank, food in my fridge, and a roof over my head; I had the $1,200 loft apartment with a balcony that overlooked a shopping center; and a car that was completely paid off. My days consisted of waking up at 6, getting to work at 8, and working 10-12 hour shifts 5-6 days a week. At the end of the day, I’d use what time I had left to shower, cook, and write as much as possible before having to lie down and repeat the process.

But although I “had it all,” I still, in a sense, didn’t have much of anything. Not really. I was empty. And I was empty because I wasn’t doing what I loved. I was alive, but not living. My body was essentially just going through the motions required to keep things moving. Like a cog in some machine I didn’t at all want to be part of. It kind of sucked.

Then one day after work, I came home with that classic I’m about to have a mental breakdown mood (my boss and I weren’t getting along, to say the least), and tried to relax with the little time I had left in the day. But instead, I decided to break up with my girlfriend (for the last time). After she left, I then looked around at everything (both literally and metaphorically) and began to reevaluate.

What I knew was this: I knew that I wasn’t happy. And I knew something needed to change.

I also knew that the only space in that whole overpriced apartment that I actually cared about was the 3×3 space around my desk where I sat every night to write. Everything else was filler—pointless materialistic shit (most of which were impulse buys) I’d stuffed myself with because I thought it’d make my empty life feel a bit more complete. Because I thought little expensive nothings was how success was measured. Because I thought that’s what actual adulting was supposed to look.

And I know I’m not alone in that thinking. How is anyone supposed to think otherwise when every time we turn on the radio there’s some new twenty-something artist talking about how their receipts look like phone numbers?

“If what you’re doing isn’t working, change it.”

-Phil McGraw

It didn’t take but a moment of reevaluating before I knew what I had to do: PURGE.

During that time when I was trying to fill my emptiness with shiny little trinkets that served no purpose in my life, I couldn’t have imagined ever getting rid of them all. Then, I did just that. I took pictures of everything I had, posted them to 5 Mile (where I built a nice little reputation), bartered, and sold. Everything. Within three days, all of what was left could fit in my car. I had successfully, and happily, stripped my life down to the basics.

(Side note: it wasn’t near as hard as I had imagined.)

[image error]

So how does one end up completely mistaking success and happiness?

At the risk of sounding like some sub-psychotic cliché, society is constantly distorting what we believe to be success. What we believe to be happiness. You have to be rich, at the top of your career (even though you hate your job), drive a Tesla, have an iPhone, and at least 20k followers on Twitter. AND you have to share every second of that glamorous life with Instagram or it’s not real.

If you can’t check off all the boxes under the Criteria for Success Checklist, then you’re a failure. And even if you can check them all off then you’re still not happy. Why? Because your priorities are all off. You’ll never be able to get enough. You’ll always want more. More followers, more money, more promotions…

In the words of The Notorious B.I.G., “Mo money, mo problems.”

“Take me back to the basics, and a simple life

Tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

Your touch, my comfort, and my lullaby

Holding on tight, and sleeping at night”

-Troye Sivan, Ease

I realized my unhappiness had stemmed from my own life choices. I was doing what everyone else was doing, trying to find success through everyone else’s eyes and expecting happiness to follow right behind. But it didn’t. So every time I took a step like buying something new or working my ass off at a job I didn’t care for, I waited for pleasure but it never came, and that actually made me feel worse. It wasn’t until I stepped life down to its bare bones that I realized my idea of success was much different.

Now, of course, I’m not saying everyone needs to break up with their girlfriend, quit their job, and sell everything they own so that they can remember what the basics of life are… That’s just silly. Besides, I’m pretty sure all my impulsive decisions came at the hands of some kind of mental breakdown. Either that or an early onset midlife crisis.

Everyone has their own idea of success, everyone has their own idea of happiness, and that’s that, I can’t change it. I don’t even want to. If you can take one thing from this post—all I ask is that you find clarity of your core values. In a society that revolves around materialism, make sure you know the most valuable things you can possess are memories.

Thank you all for reading.

I know I haven’t posted in the past month (it’s hard to believe it’s been that long), but I suppose I’ve been taking some personal time. Right now I’m about to buy a van that I plan to convert into a camper so I can travel a bit more comfortably. I look forward to sharing the journey with you all.

Till next time,

Jordan Antonacci[image error][image error]

“How do you feel about gender selection?” he asked.

[image error]Photo by Jordan Antonacci

“How do you feel about gender selection?” my dad asked my brother as we all gathered around the table eating an early dinner. It was the first hot day of Spring and the sun was still beaming hard. We sat in the backyard, our hair wet with chlorinated water and plates full of grilled food. It was too good a day to be ruined with the conversation I knew was coming.

Having heard the question asked before by my dad, I groaned silently as I prepared for my brother’s response.

“It’s freaking stupid,” my brother scoffed before taking a sip from his can of beer. I somehow managed to swallow whatever reaction I had; it went down about as easily as a jagged rock.

My dad laughed. “Right? You should listen to those lectures by Ben Shapiro.”

I should say something, I thought. The topic of conversation had presented itself multiple times in the past, and though I felt like I should’ve said something all those times, I never had. This was finally my chance. But as I listened to the two, I started to get heated, so I grabbed my plate and quietly left. Momma said if I don’t have anything nice to say…

[image error]Photo by Kat Jayne on Pexels.com

Lately, it’s been getting harder and harder to keep my mouth shut. Earlier in the afternoon my brother made a joke while we discussed the new Avengers: Endgame movie, saying something along the lines of women belong in either the kitchen or the laundry room. I’m not sure how the conversation came to that because I wasn’t listening, but that got my attention. Whether he was joking or not, I don’t know, (we’re not close) but still, I fail to see the humor in such a “joke.”

Afterwards, I told him he should really get out more, because a joke like that today would guarantee an ass-kicking by the nearest woman/ group of angry women.

Now, I’m not trying to just chunk my family under the nearest bus. I love my family. Love em to death, and it pains me that we’re not all as close as I’d like–but at times I feel like I was born in the wrong generation. How is it that I’ve spent the majority of my life with them, yet our thoughts and opinions on such matters are worlds apart?

I just don’t believe I’ll ever understand why everyone feels the need to have their nose in everyone else’s asses. Why we can’t just take our one life and live it freely, the way we want. I know, I know–I sound like a child. I sound like your classic dreamer who’s oblivious to how the world actually works. But I’m not. I’m aware this is America, and everyone has an opinion to share and a topic to debate. I just don’t understand why everyone has to scream what they think from the rooftops.

[image error]Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

So, my dad has never asked ME how I feel about the whole “gender selection” debate, and I suppose that’s a good thing. He’s the kind of hard-headed guy that likes arguing, and I’m the kind of free-spirit hippie that thinks this shouldn’t even be a debate. I also think he knows where I stand with it. If so, then I’m pretty sure he keeps asking for everyone else’s opinion around me just to piss me off.

Anyway, since no one’s going to ask for my opinion, I figured I’d share it anyway with my online journal. HOWEVER, I’m not going to share it until at the end of this post. First, I’d just like to talk briefly about where my view of the LGBTQ community comes from.

For a little disclaimer here, I’d just like to say that I am straight. I’m as straight as they come and then maybe even a little straighter. But that doesn’t stop me from having a major respect for the community and what they stand for. It’s like this:

So, when I was growing up, I actually had quite a few friends who were openly gay. A few who were closeted but most were surprisingly vocal. Still do today. I actually like my gay friends more than the straight ones. Also have a gay uncle and freely listen to gay music. Is gay music a thing? you might ask. Not yet, but I’m sure it will be soon. Anyway, one thing I’ve noticed about my gay friends and family members is this:

Authenticity.

I’ve always admired people who stood their ground and remained authentic in the face of adversity. In America–especially today with fucking Trump–it can be incredibly difficult to be yourself. Look at me, for example. I’m a normal, everyday, average (somewhat average) guy, and at times I find it impossible to take off the mask and show who I really am to the world. Even the thought of being that vulnerable makes my insides shrivel.

So here’s this:

Remember I mentioned “gay music?” Two of my favorite gay artists are Troye Sivan and Kim Petras. Kim was actually the youngest person to ever go through the transgender process, having the surgery at just 16. But I digress. So, I don’t really venture to many concerts. In my whole life, I think I’ve been to like 4, and I don’t know why that is, because I actually love concerts. Anyway, back when I first started listening to him, I decided rather quickly that I needed to go to a Troye Sivan concert.

So I bought tickets.

And I went. (I’ve actually gone to two–one for each of his albums).

As expected, I had the time of my life at both. At the 2nd, I drove to Charlotte, NC, and a woman saw me sitting alone and actually gave me an extra ticket she had for a seat all the way up at the 4th row! It was genuinely one of the best nights I’ve had. And I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I’m 99.9% certain I was the only straight guy at both concerts. As you can imagine, it was a very interesting experience.

At his first concert, one of the songs Troye played was called “Heaven,” from his Blue Neighborhood album (I’ll put the song at the end). In it, Troye expressed his fear of how he may be judged by God because of his sexuality. He essentially says that if he can’t make it into Heaven simply because he’s gay, then maybe he doesn’t want to go to Heaven at all.

“Without losing a piece of me, how do I get to Heaven? Without changing a part of me, how do I get to Heaven? All my time is wasted, feeling like my heart’s mistaken, oh. So if I’m losing a piece of me, maybe I don’t want Heaven.”

-Troye Sivan, Heaven

During the song, plenty of people in the crowd cried as they held each other. They held up rainbow flags and waved them to the slow and powerful rhythm of the song… That was the first time I saw firsthand, with my own eyes, the power, dedication, and love of the community. I was amazed to say the least.

Breath-taken.

At the second concert, I was standing in line to get my ticket when a few people started going up and down the line asking people if they’d like to sign something. When they got to me, I saw that it was a petition. I don’t ever get involved with these things. I typically say no if not ignore the people altogether. But then they explained their cause. The petition was to try and end gay conversion therapy in the U.S.

For those of you who don’t know, conversion therapy is based on the notion that those who are LGBTQ have a mental disorder that needs to be cured. Essentially it’s a method of conditioning used to train out “negative” thoughts and behaviors. The therapy often results in depression, guilt, shame, suicide… and has been proven highly ineffective. Just recently Massachusetts became the 16th state to ban gay conversion therapy.

As for the petition, I signed it. Not only did I sign it, but I also gave the nice people gathering signatures my email. I NEVER HAND OUT MY EMAIL! And even today, I still read the emails they send about the Trevor Project, and I still support it.

For anybody interested in learning more about conversion therapy or The Trevor Project, click this link to be taken to thetrevorproject.org

[image error]Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

Okay.

Now that we’ve reached the end of the post, I suppose I have a promise to keep. But I’m not going to answer the question, “What do you think about gender selection?” After reading this post, I’m sure you have an idea of my opinion on the matter. Instead, I’ll answer a more specific question:

Do I believe people can be born with the wrong gender?

I don’t believe I have the ability to answer that question. Honestly, I don’t believe anyone does but the person going through the experience. What I do believe is that gender dysphoria is real. I believe there are people who do not identify with the gender they were born with, and I believe that because I’m not in their head, I don’t have the right to answer on their behalf.

I especially don’t have the right to say that what someone else is feeling is “freaking stupid.”

So many petty people in this world are stuck in their rigid, single-minded ways, seeking to find an issue where one doesn’t exist. To create travesty out of love. They see others embracing themselves fully and being who they are, and instead of supporting it, they find ways to shoot it down. In this one life, what really is the point of it all if not to live happily and without regret? So why tell someone who they are? Why tell someone how they feel? Why debate?

Just live.

Thanks for reading,

Jordan Antonacci
Instagram: jordanantonacci
SnapChat: jtantonacci

[image error]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xaOgERYicos

Spring break in Vegas / Logandale

For this post, I just wanted to share with you all some pictures of Spring Break with the Antonacci’s so far. We got to Vegas late Friday night, and the place is crazy. This is my first time in Vegas, but everyone is saying it’s crazier than usual because a bunch of fraternities are out here for Spring Break, so… I guess we picked an okay time to come.

Yesterday, I chilled in the lazy river all morning, got nice and burnt, then we took trip to this little place called Logandale, which is about an hour outside of Vegas. Got to take Dad’s truck off-roading and we did some hiking. There were quite a few people in this area with campers, four-wheelers, and dirt bikes. It was a nice time. Anyway, check the pix below.

I’ll get some of Las Vegas tonight when I’m out trying not to blow all my money away

Poem: Without You, I’m Colorblind

 

[image error]

If I’m like

Moonlight

looking down on

my world of green

then you can be

The Sun

My dim

silver haze

could never amount

to your shine

To your bright

and sunny rays

If there’s a purpose

to my night

could it be to balance

our your light?

Like two sides

of one heart

together, we

complete the other

[image error]Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Then one morning

you didn’t rise

I looked forever

for your golden

sunshine

But it was like

I’d gone blind

Where there should’ve been day

it was only night

Now I’ve

gone colorblind

like somebody robbed

the blue from our

precious skies

Green

drips from trees

Yellow and violet

fade from flowers

Every minute

of every hour

all I see

are rain showers

Come back to me

Paint my world

of blue and green

Color me

with everything

you have ever

wanted to see

“I know you’re seeing black and white

so I’ll paint you a clear blue sky

Without you, I’m colorblind

It’s raining, every time I open my eyes”

-Troye Sivan, Alex Hope, “Blue”

Dedicated to everyone I’ve ever lost or let go of.

Happy Friday, everyone! Or whatever day it is that you’re reading this. For me, it’s a Friday evening and I’m in the back of a car heading to Las Vegas. It’s my first time going and I guess I’m somewhat excited. Mainly for the hotel. I’m not much of a club/bar kinda guy but I’ll try it out

Word of the Week: Ephemeral

[image error]Photo by Copyright 2019 Jordan Antonacci

 

Ephemeral

(adj.) Lasting for a very short time. Existing only briefly.

I hope you all are ready because this brief post is about to get far deeper than it needs to be. Ready? Cool.

So, I don’t know what my problem is, but I’ve always been obsessed with time. Time, time, time, tick, tick, tick… It’s a constant in my head. With everything I do in life, I’m always looking at the end. Not always looking forward to the end, but simply acknowledging that an end is coming. That goes for vacation, relationships, work, songs (thank god for replay buttons).

In some cases, it’s great knowing there’s an end, and in some, it’s a haunting, dooming thought. Not a day goes by where I don’t acknowledge an end to life, and I don’t believe even an hour goes by where I don’t think about it. And though it can be a dark thought, it can also be an inspiring one. I hear the ticking in my head and I realize these seconds, these moments can’t be wasted.

I don’t know that I’m trying to say anything–but if I were, I guess it’d be to simply reiterate what everyone already knows:

Nothing lasts forever. Every sight, every smell, every taste… Embrace them. Most of us are so busy in our lives that we don’t realize how time is flying. We’re all on our grinds and on our phones, looking forward to only the weekend. But don’t be so busy that you forget to be present.

Life is ephemeral.

“It’s like you told me

Go forward slowly

It’s not a race to the end”

-Flora Cash, You’re Somebody Else

Brief is the moment

brief like a breath

brief like one single

gust of wind

Brief is the sight

like fading sunlight

Catch it if you’d like

but hold onto it tight

Brief is the sound

of “I love you”

of a shatter on the ground

from one heart between two

Brief is life

unlike the stories we write

that’ll travel through time

even after the light

has kissed our eyes

I said brief is this life

between hello and goodbye

Yet we claim forever

is a 20-minute line

Thank you for stopping by and checking out this week’s Word of the Week post! Hope you liked it, maybe even took something from it. If so, then don’t forget to follow along MrHushHush Entries

My top 4 tips for living with Depression

Hey bloggers, readers,

First, let me say that I understand none of this is easy. Depression isn’t just sadness, it’s an overwhelming feeling of dread and doom that weighs on you. It’s a shadow over your world that sucks light from everything you love, and the life from you.

In this post, I want to share my top 4 personal tips for living with depression. These are things I’ve used through the majority of my life, and that I still use today. Hopefully you can connect with them. Hopefully you can incorporate them in your own life, and they help you as much as they’ve helped me.

Let’s get started

When you feel like you don’t fit in with your Family

Disclaimer: Let me start this post off by saying that this is NOT me trying to bash my family. I am not pointing fingers, nor am I blaming anyone for the way I feel. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s myself. My insecurities, my mind, my problem.

With that said, let’s begin.

[image error]Photo by Copyright 2019 Jordan Antonacci

Whenever I write actual blog posts (and not poems) I always try to provide something for the reader to takeaway: insight, tips, advice, whatever. But for today’s post, I’m going to let the little self-obsessed, narcissistic blogger that I know I am come out to play. I need to vent, I need to rant. I need to ramble on without having to watch people yawn while they pretend to listen to me. You may or may not take anything from this. If so, more power to ya.

I have no idea where to start. Thinking, thinking… Ah, got it!

I was born April 25th, 1994.

Just kidding.

[image error]Photo by Amir Ghoorchiani on Pexels.com

Since I moved out when I was 18, I’ve been plagued by this feeling of, I’m lost. I’m sure many of you can relate to that feeling from when you (most of you) moved away from home to be an “adult” in the big, big scary world on your own. They say, “Sink or swim,” and you end up looking like Tom Hanks in Castaway. It’s even worse when your family moves out of state and you’re stuck with your girlfriend and her baby. (Whole other story).

So anyway, I carried this lost feeling around with me (mainly because it was like a leech attached to my soul) as I searched relentlessly for a way to make it stop. I traveled endless miles, moved a lot, tried many different hobbies, jobs, relationships, drugs… I was certain it’d end soon.

6 years later and it was still attached, still sucking me dry. But in the back of my head, there was always this idea that, if worse comes to worst, I could just move to California and live closer to my family. While a good idea, there were these internal conflicts keeping me from taking that step; the main one being that I myself wasn’t ready. I was a broke, jobless wreck and I felt like I needed to get my shit together first.

Didn’t happen.

Several months ago, I made the decision to move to California. Still a broke, jobless wreck, I used the last $200 I had to drive from Tennessee to the West Coast. This was it. I was finally taking the big step I’d been putting off for years. I was finally about to live closer to my family and we were all about to be happily together. Thoughts raced: Is this the right move? Will this get rid of the leech? Are they still the same? It’d been 6 years.

And so much can change in six years.

[image error]Photo by daffa rayhan zein on Pexels.com

I made the move over here to feel closer to family. To feel like there was some place where I actually belong. Since 18 I’ve wandered around like a piece to a puzzle that doesn’t know where it’s supposed to fit. But my family has become a family of their own. They’re picture-perfect and there’s no room for me in the frame. My face just doesn’t fit. It’s like while I’ve been away, my blood has become tainted by everything I’ve done and it’s no longer the same as theirs.

Let me explain a little more.

My youngest brother is almost thirteen. His room is full of trophies and medals. He gets all A’s, entered the state wrestling tournament, and already knows where he wants to go to college. He’s the one everyone in the family is constantly bragging on with proud smiles and who all the neighbors stop by to visit.

You don’t have to say it, I know I sound envious. And I am. But I’m not resentful. I love my brother more than life and I couldn’t be more proud of everything he’s done—but every time I look at him, I can’t help but compare our upbringings. We were both raised by the same mother, yet our lives are worlds apart. I can’t help but wonder that if maybe—just maybe—if I was raised like him, perhaps I could’ve turned out a little different.

In another life, I was raised in that household, graduated from a University, got a high-paying job and made my dad’s side of the family happy. In another life, I look like them.

“I have never felt like I belonged anywhere in my life. I don’t fit in with my family or anyone. I feel so lost and out of place.”

-Unknown

My brother is the spitting image of my father. And there’s nothing wrong with my adoptive father. He’s a good guy who’s done well for himself. He stepped in and saved my mother when she was in a shitty relationship and working as a bartender while single handedly raising me and my 2nd-to-youngest brother. He always wanted me to take a certain path in life (which I regret not taking), and it was opposite of what I wanted to do, so we argued a lot, to keep it brief. It was his first time being a dad and my first time being a son. It’s my fault, but him and I have just never really seen eye-to-eye.

I remember when the feeling hit—that feeling of I don’t belong here. It was Christmas, and my mom unwrapped a present. The gift was from dad’s side: a framed photograph of my mom, dad, and brother. The definition of picture perfect.

Then there’s me.

I grew up around alcoholics, needles, food stamps, and trailer parks. My family shopped at swap-meets, ate from the government, and my uncles died from liver disease because they drank themselves to death. I was in and out of psychiatric centers, handcuffs, and could hardly hold down a job, let alone finish college. At some points I was selling drugs and driving a prostitute to her calls so I could pay my $400/month rent. That’s how I grew up, that’s how I lived, and though times were dark, that’s the life I love.

Sadly, that was my mom’s side of the family, and everyone from that side passed away years back, taking most of that life I loved with them to the grave. All that family I grew up with, the ones that knew me and loved me unconditionally, they’re gone.

[image error]Photo by Markus Spiske temporausch.com on Pexels.com

Nowadays, when my dad’s side of the family comes to town they hardly speak with me unless they’re giving me a list of suggestions for jobs. Then again, why would they? I’m the awkward black sheep who couldn’t finish community college and got fired from Krogers, yet has delusions that he’ll someday become a successful writer.

While they all praise each other on their college degrees, their promotions at work, and their new cars, nobody takes interest in me or my dreams. They don’t care enough to ask what I’m working on or to read anything I’ve written. They don’t care enough to invite me to join the picture. And that’s fine.

I don’t fit in their frame.

P.S. I still have my Momma though As I said when we started, I’m not blaming my family. All I’ve said is simply how I feel. It’s my world through my eyes, and that view is often distorted.

Today’s post was supposed to be a piece of fiction, but I really wanted to get this off my chest. If you read through the post then I want you to know it means a lot. If you have any advice, feedback, or anything you’d like to say, please leave a comment below.

Thanks for reading.

-Jordan

Instagram: jordanantonacci

SnapChat: jtantonacci

Don’t forget to follow!