Josh Hilden's Blog, page 7
June 21, 2020
The Original Longhand Gangsta
Here's an interesting tidbit about the life of a proto-writer for you to chew on.
I'm in a lot, like wat too many, Facebook writers groups. The predominant members of these groups are fresh writers who, despite their various ages, are just learning their chops. There are also writers, like me, who've been at this for a while and know a thing or two. Mostly we've learned these things through brutal trial and error.
Brutal man, just brutal.
More often than not, the older (more experienced) writers do their best to help sheppard the newbies along. But there's always those sanctimonious condescending jackasses who don't want to help. All they do is try and ram their ways of doing things down the new writer's throats.
I've witnessed more than one new writer being destroyed by their "Peers" when they're seeking out help and advice. There are plenty of so-called writers who seem to think they must cull those they feel aren't worthy from the writing world.
Of course, this isn't a new thing. As long as there have been writers, there have been critics and trolls in one form or another. Let me give you an example from my own experiences in the pre-internet (for 99.9% of humanity) world.
I've been a writer my entire life, or at least since I could pick up a crayon and put words in a semi-logical order. My writer's journey started in the early 1980s. Suffice it to say I had no access to a computer, and I had no inclination towards learning to use a typewriter. So I wrote everything longhand from those first crayon stories until my teenage years.
Let me say right up front, I hated it with the fire of a thousand stars.
Ok, maybe not. But it sounds cool. Right?
When I write longhand, my hand hurts, and my wrist hurts. Inevitably writing longhand leads to an inability to concentrate, and everything feeling thick and muddy. Writing longhand, for me, has always been a torturous process. Eventually, it got so bad that it almost made me give up writing. In the end, I wrote two novels no one will ever see, longhand and dozens of short stories.
I still hate working longhand.
Now let's fast forward a few years from my nascent years. We're taking a journey all the way to the fabulous year of 1994. I was a High School senior in Belleville, Michigan. I worked 32+ hours every week at McDonald's while still going to school. I was obsessed with REM (I still am and always will be), Star Trek, comic books, Palladium Books RPG's, and at the time the Lord of the Rings was my safe place.
I think it's safe to say that 17-year-old Josh was a geek of Lewis Scholnick proportions (without all of the bounce house rape).
I can assure you 43-year-old Josh is worse (again, without the bounce house rape).
When I was in Junior High and high school, I took a lot of English and Creative Writing classes. Even then, I wanted to learn and hone my chops. Of course, back then, I thought I was a great writer just bursting with talent. If you thought about your writing, please take a second and look at your stories from back then.
Go ahead, I'll wait.
Did you read them?
Do you want to roll up into a ball due to the shame?
Relax, we all feel that way.
In my senior year, I had a creative writing teacher, I will never forget. And trust me boils and ghouls, it's not for a Good Will Hunting reason either. He was one of those teachers who brooked no dissension. You'd do everything exactly the way he told you, and you'd like it. I won't go as far as calling him a Writing Nazi, it never seemed like he hated the Jewish students. But I will say he was a breed of fascist when it came to the craft of writing. I wish I could tell you he was a rarity, but a lot of the old school writers fall into this category.
I went through the Hilden-Maynard school of criticism, so I could more or less handle all of his bullshit. All of it that is, except for one thing.
This teacher, let's call him Teacher X, insisted every first draft must be produced in that damnable longhand. If we didn't turn in a longhand version, we'd receive a zero for the entire assignment. Considering we only had a set number of projects, and each weighed heavily, a single zero would have tanked us.
I handled it, like I said, until one particular project that stuck in my craw.
We were assigned a 10,000 story on any subject and in any genre we wanted. I went for post-apocalyptic Sci-Fi (shocker, I know. Water is wet, and Josh loves end of the world fiction). More than any other time, my hand hurt. It felt like my wrist was on fire as I wrote. I wanted to stop, but in the end, I did the damn longhand version (wasn't much of a rebel back then, or now for that matter) and suffered the days of aches and pain in my right hand.
Interesting side note. These days I live with moderate nerve damage in my right hand.
After we moved on to the finished the computer drafted versions and received our grades, I approached Teacher X to question his position. I told him I thought being forced to work longhand was pointless. I asked Teacher X why it was so necessary that we wrote in longhand first.
Teacher X's answer was significantly less than satisfying.
He said all of the great writers of the past used the longhand method for t least the first draft. He told me it was the way it should be done. He said longhand made you really feel the story in a way typewriters and computers didn't ( I still don't get that one).
I bet you either think I'm going to say I told him off or that he convinced me he was right.
I did neither (remember, I'm no rebel).
Years, really more than a decade later, I got my writer's legs under me. These days I write only on a computer.
Do you know what happened when I went solely digital (Because I hate typewriters, like seriously I'd shotgun one if I had to use it)?
For the first time, I was able to actually write and concentrate without the physical discomfort of longhand.
Long story short (I know, too late) I'm not saying people who write longhand are wrong. I am saying a writer should write in a manner best suited for them and their comfort level.
Do what works best for you.
Please, new writers, don't let anyone else tell you how to do it.
Fuck the writing fascists.
- Josh (06/20/20)
I'm in a lot, like wat too many, Facebook writers groups. The predominant members of these groups are fresh writers who, despite their various ages, are just learning their chops. There are also writers, like me, who've been at this for a while and know a thing or two. Mostly we've learned these things through brutal trial and error.
Brutal man, just brutal.
More often than not, the older (more experienced) writers do their best to help sheppard the newbies along. But there's always those sanctimonious condescending jackasses who don't want to help. All they do is try and ram their ways of doing things down the new writer's throats.
I've witnessed more than one new writer being destroyed by their "Peers" when they're seeking out help and advice. There are plenty of so-called writers who seem to think they must cull those they feel aren't worthy from the writing world.
Of course, this isn't a new thing. As long as there have been writers, there have been critics and trolls in one form or another. Let me give you an example from my own experiences in the pre-internet (for 99.9% of humanity) world.
I've been a writer my entire life, or at least since I could pick up a crayon and put words in a semi-logical order. My writer's journey started in the early 1980s. Suffice it to say I had no access to a computer, and I had no inclination towards learning to use a typewriter. So I wrote everything longhand from those first crayon stories until my teenage years.
Let me say right up front, I hated it with the fire of a thousand stars.
Ok, maybe not. But it sounds cool. Right?
When I write longhand, my hand hurts, and my wrist hurts. Inevitably writing longhand leads to an inability to concentrate, and everything feeling thick and muddy. Writing longhand, for me, has always been a torturous process. Eventually, it got so bad that it almost made me give up writing. In the end, I wrote two novels no one will ever see, longhand and dozens of short stories.
I still hate working longhand.
Now let's fast forward a few years from my nascent years. We're taking a journey all the way to the fabulous year of 1994. I was a High School senior in Belleville, Michigan. I worked 32+ hours every week at McDonald's while still going to school. I was obsessed with REM (I still am and always will be), Star Trek, comic books, Palladium Books RPG's, and at the time the Lord of the Rings was my safe place.
I think it's safe to say that 17-year-old Josh was a geek of Lewis Scholnick proportions (without all of the bounce house rape).
I can assure you 43-year-old Josh is worse (again, without the bounce house rape).
When I was in Junior High and high school, I took a lot of English and Creative Writing classes. Even then, I wanted to learn and hone my chops. Of course, back then, I thought I was a great writer just bursting with talent. If you thought about your writing, please take a second and look at your stories from back then.
Go ahead, I'll wait.
Did you read them?
Do you want to roll up into a ball due to the shame?
Relax, we all feel that way.
In my senior year, I had a creative writing teacher, I will never forget. And trust me boils and ghouls, it's not for a Good Will Hunting reason either. He was one of those teachers who brooked no dissension. You'd do everything exactly the way he told you, and you'd like it. I won't go as far as calling him a Writing Nazi, it never seemed like he hated the Jewish students. But I will say he was a breed of fascist when it came to the craft of writing. I wish I could tell you he was a rarity, but a lot of the old school writers fall into this category.
I went through the Hilden-Maynard school of criticism, so I could more or less handle all of his bullshit. All of it that is, except for one thing.
This teacher, let's call him Teacher X, insisted every first draft must be produced in that damnable longhand. If we didn't turn in a longhand version, we'd receive a zero for the entire assignment. Considering we only had a set number of projects, and each weighed heavily, a single zero would have tanked us.
I handled it, like I said, until one particular project that stuck in my craw.
We were assigned a 10,000 story on any subject and in any genre we wanted. I went for post-apocalyptic Sci-Fi (shocker, I know. Water is wet, and Josh loves end of the world fiction). More than any other time, my hand hurt. It felt like my wrist was on fire as I wrote. I wanted to stop, but in the end, I did the damn longhand version (wasn't much of a rebel back then, or now for that matter) and suffered the days of aches and pain in my right hand.
Interesting side note. These days I live with moderate nerve damage in my right hand.
After we moved on to the finished the computer drafted versions and received our grades, I approached Teacher X to question his position. I told him I thought being forced to work longhand was pointless. I asked Teacher X why it was so necessary that we wrote in longhand first.
Teacher X's answer was significantly less than satisfying.
He said all of the great writers of the past used the longhand method for t least the first draft. He told me it was the way it should be done. He said longhand made you really feel the story in a way typewriters and computers didn't ( I still don't get that one).
I bet you either think I'm going to say I told him off or that he convinced me he was right.
I did neither (remember, I'm no rebel).
Years, really more than a decade later, I got my writer's legs under me. These days I write only on a computer.
Do you know what happened when I went solely digital (Because I hate typewriters, like seriously I'd shotgun one if I had to use it)?
For the first time, I was able to actually write and concentrate without the physical discomfort of longhand.
Long story short (I know, too late) I'm not saying people who write longhand are wrong. I am saying a writer should write in a manner best suited for them and their comfort level.
Do what works best for you.
Please, new writers, don't let anyone else tell you how to do it.
Fuck the writing fascists.
- Josh (06/20/20)
May 31, 2020
America Is Burning
I grew up hearing stories of the 1967 Detroit riots from my paternal grandmother. Like so many white people in South-Eastern Michigan segments of my family were counted amongst the multitudes who participated in “White Flight” following the riots.
My grandma was a great grandmother, but like so many of her generation, she had that old-timey racism. She’d tell me not to be a racist and then talk about her black neighbors and how she suspected they were selling drugs. In her later years, grandma lived in the city of Inkster. If you’re from the Detroit Metro area, you know. The people of Inkster are impoverished, predominately black, and live in a city plagued by crime.
As a teenager, I would mow grandma’s lawn every week. I never feared being in Inkster, and I walked to the corner store for a pop every time. The people were always friendly and never treated me like I didn’t belong. This is not a “They were the good kind of black people” statement. This is a, they were good people who treated a guy that didn’t live there like a neighbor.
Long story short. Even though I grew up Detroit adjacent, I never feared a person because they were black. I have to give my mother and grandmother the lion’s share of the credit on that one. My grandmother's first husband was, and I’m sure still is, an old school Appalachian racist.
Despite being raised by a man who openly said any black man who dated a white woman deserved… let’s just say mob justice (I heard that with my own ears), she is one of the least racist people I’ve ever known. Mom raised me to try and see all people as equal.
I’m not saying I’ve never felt the pull of casual racism.
Despite feeling safe in a minority city that’s considered dangerous, I have felt irrational fear. When at the mall, when I was at school, and when I was just walking down the street in my hometown, I’d sometimes move as far away from black teenagers as I could. It didn’t matter what they were doing. I’d just sometimes feel irrational fear.
I feel great shame for feeling that way.
When I was a kid, I grew up for the most part in areas with a racial mix more or less consistent with the national average. Because I’m not going to talk about lily-white Saline and West Carrolton. I like to think that helped me see things in a more realistic light.
It wasn’t until 1992, and the City of Angels exploded that I, and a lot of white people of my generation, started to see things in a brighter light.
I remember the night of the riots in detail. I’d just gotten home from work, I work at an Arab owned corner grocery store, and was only interested in dinner and bed. I sat down with the leftover spaghetti the rest of my family had for dinner and turned on the TV just in time for the eleven o’clock news. Channel 7 in Detroit, home of the most acerbic anchor ever, Bill Bonds.
I watched in horror as the city consumed itself on live television.
I admit, at the time, I blamed the rioters. I couldn’t see how the riots helped their cause. I thought they should show more self-control. Even though I’d been as outraged as I could be as a white kid, about the video of Rodney King being beaten by the LAPD. I wasn’t able to wrap my head around how enraged the black population of Los Angeles was.
Again, a bit ashamed of that.
In the years following the LA riots, I learned more. Once I went online, 1998 was the first time I had fulltime home access to the internet, and my mind was opened. I participate in a lot of online forums and several Bulletin Boards (remember Usenet?). Slowly, as I interacted with a more diverse cross-section of humanity, the more I saw.
Then September 11 happened, and America changed, most likely for forever.
In the days, weeks, and months following the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, America turned on its Muslim citizens. The stories of assault on Middle Eastern citizens, regardless of their faith, and brown people, in general, filled TV news and nascent online news sources.
I worked for the small city I lived in at the time as a seasonal (Spring to Fall) employee. It was the reactions of my fellow employees that made it all click in my head. Many of these men and women I’d worked with, eaten with, and spent my off time with turned out to filled with old school hate. The talk of lynching’s, stripping Americans of citizenship whether they were born here or not, and the unofficial ban’s on patronizing a local store owned and run by Arabs. Before 9/11, we’d gone there for lunch at the small grill inside almost every day. These actions shook me. I’d worked for Arabs and lived in the area with the highest percentage of Arab Americans in the country. I knew these were good people, but these men and women who were supposed to be my friends hated them.
Then they revealed their real views.
Following 9/11, everyone who wasn’t a straight white Christian was a target. Please forgive me, but I’m about to use a ton of slurs. We had a lesbian member of management in the city, and everyone started referring to her as a “Dyke Whore.” There were many conversations regarding who might or might not be a “Little Faggot.” The words spike, beaner, kike, and gook were tossed around regarding may of the members of the Recreation Center we worked at.
You know what’s coming next.
We had the best court in the area, and it attracted a lot of people from Dayton’s west side, where most of the black population lived. There was a bus that ran from the west side and had a stop right at the rec center. Many of the employees referred to it as *Cringe* “The Ni@*er Bus.” (I thought about using the word because I believe it is essential to show how bad things are, but I couldn’t do it. Sorry).
There was an employee of the rec center who unofficially ran the basketball program. He was a nice guy who loved to talk about sports and old movies. They didn’t refer to him with slurs. Instead, they said he was “One of the good ones.” One woman said he was ok because he was a clean black man.
It all made me sick and was one of the reasons I didn’t return the next summer.
In the years between them and now things got worse. Not worse for the black community. I’ve been assured by black people I know that things were always this bad, but white people were either ignorant or purposely ignored it.
Thanks to the internet, white America has been forced to see the truth.
We’ve watched video after video of black Americans, mostly male, murdered by police officers. Maybe even worse, we’ve watched as the police who did the killing were never charged and retained their jobs. There have been a few cases where token charges were brought against the officers. Still, they are almost always acquitted or given extremely light sentences. In the cases where the officers are fired, they almost always get a job with another police department.
In the years following the LA riots, there have been many protests. In the case of a few, Ferguson, Missouri, immediately jumps to mind. There have been contained and short-lived riots. These riots and protests served to keep the desire, the need, for change fresh, the embers of uprising orange and smoldering. All America needed was for those embers to have some fuel added, and the fire would blaze bright and hot.
On May 25, 2020, Minneapolis Minnesota police murdered Georges Floyd, an African American resident of the city.
Now America is burning.
As I write this (05/31/2020), we are rolling into our sixth day of protest and riots. Dozens of cities across the country, including my home city of Detroit, Michigan, and my current city of Dayton, Ohio, are in the grasps of the rage and pain. These emotions, fueled by months, years, decades, and centuries of oppression and violence toward the American black community, has split the nation.
What started as relatively peaceful protests soon erupted into full-fledged riots. Burning, looting, and indiscriminate property damage dominate the news coverage. Not surprisingly, it seems many, if not most, of the rioting, has been instigated by outside groups coming to the cities to egg everyone one. In the last couple of days, credible evidence of police and white supremacist groups being behind the beginnings of the violence has surfaced.
Police responded with swift violence.
Police officers, looking and acting more like soldiers occupying American cities than peace officers, march down the streets of major American cities. Shooting rubber bullets, paintballs, pepper balls, and canisters into peaceful and rioting groups of protestors at seemingly random moments. In New York City, police officers drive SUV’s into crowds of demonstrators. And everywhere you look, Police officers spray mace onto people just for the hell of it. A person kneeling on the ground, a person standing peacefully still, a child on their father's shoulders, and actual rioters are all just as likely to receive a face full of mace.
Instead of de-escalating the chaos, the police continue to feed the fire
Except for a small percentage, America seems polarized and split into two factions.
One faction doesn’t seem to, or flat says the don’t care about the history of blacks in America. They feel that the current generation of African Americans are complaining just to complain. They seem to think the black community is using the death of George Floyd as an excuse to loot and seek vengeance on white people.
The other, and I hope more significant, faction of Americans sympathize with the people who’ve been under the boot of the “Justice System” more than any other segment of the American population. For the entire history of our country, blacks have shouldered a burden none of us can adequately appreciate and never truly understand.
No white person, no matter how much they stand with black Americas, can EVER know what they’ve have gone through in the past and still go through every day. We can see it, hear it, and internalize it, but we'll never understand it.
That's not an indictment of the white community. Well, let me be honest for a second, it is an indictment of some of the white population, but not most. It's just a fact that whites dominate America and have a history of stepping on the black community.
We can be allies.
We can feel our own version of pain and anger.
We can feel justified shame for the actions of our community.
We can, and MUST, stand with our fellow Americans, the ones of color.
These are good things. But we have to stop acting like we can put the pain and anger of the Black Community in a box we can shelve and forget about until the next inferno.
Be an ally.
Try to be empathetic.
Stand up and fight with our brothers and sisters of color.
But under no circumstance, tell them how they should feel. You can't truly understand how Black Americans feel because you've never experienced what they've been through.
- Josh Hilden (05/31/2020)
My grandma was a great grandmother, but like so many of her generation, she had that old-timey racism. She’d tell me not to be a racist and then talk about her black neighbors and how she suspected they were selling drugs. In her later years, grandma lived in the city of Inkster. If you’re from the Detroit Metro area, you know. The people of Inkster are impoverished, predominately black, and live in a city plagued by crime.
As a teenager, I would mow grandma’s lawn every week. I never feared being in Inkster, and I walked to the corner store for a pop every time. The people were always friendly and never treated me like I didn’t belong. This is not a “They were the good kind of black people” statement. This is a, they were good people who treated a guy that didn’t live there like a neighbor.
Long story short. Even though I grew up Detroit adjacent, I never feared a person because they were black. I have to give my mother and grandmother the lion’s share of the credit on that one. My grandmother's first husband was, and I’m sure still is, an old school Appalachian racist.
Despite being raised by a man who openly said any black man who dated a white woman deserved… let’s just say mob justice (I heard that with my own ears), she is one of the least racist people I’ve ever known. Mom raised me to try and see all people as equal.
I’m not saying I’ve never felt the pull of casual racism.
Despite feeling safe in a minority city that’s considered dangerous, I have felt irrational fear. When at the mall, when I was at school, and when I was just walking down the street in my hometown, I’d sometimes move as far away from black teenagers as I could. It didn’t matter what they were doing. I’d just sometimes feel irrational fear.
I feel great shame for feeling that way.
When I was a kid, I grew up for the most part in areas with a racial mix more or less consistent with the national average. Because I’m not going to talk about lily-white Saline and West Carrolton. I like to think that helped me see things in a more realistic light.
It wasn’t until 1992, and the City of Angels exploded that I, and a lot of white people of my generation, started to see things in a brighter light.
I remember the night of the riots in detail. I’d just gotten home from work, I work at an Arab owned corner grocery store, and was only interested in dinner and bed. I sat down with the leftover spaghetti the rest of my family had for dinner and turned on the TV just in time for the eleven o’clock news. Channel 7 in Detroit, home of the most acerbic anchor ever, Bill Bonds.
I watched in horror as the city consumed itself on live television.
I admit, at the time, I blamed the rioters. I couldn’t see how the riots helped their cause. I thought they should show more self-control. Even though I’d been as outraged as I could be as a white kid, about the video of Rodney King being beaten by the LAPD. I wasn’t able to wrap my head around how enraged the black population of Los Angeles was.
Again, a bit ashamed of that.
In the years following the LA riots, I learned more. Once I went online, 1998 was the first time I had fulltime home access to the internet, and my mind was opened. I participate in a lot of online forums and several Bulletin Boards (remember Usenet?). Slowly, as I interacted with a more diverse cross-section of humanity, the more I saw.
Then September 11 happened, and America changed, most likely for forever.
In the days, weeks, and months following the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, America turned on its Muslim citizens. The stories of assault on Middle Eastern citizens, regardless of their faith, and brown people, in general, filled TV news and nascent online news sources.
I worked for the small city I lived in at the time as a seasonal (Spring to Fall) employee. It was the reactions of my fellow employees that made it all click in my head. Many of these men and women I’d worked with, eaten with, and spent my off time with turned out to filled with old school hate. The talk of lynching’s, stripping Americans of citizenship whether they were born here or not, and the unofficial ban’s on patronizing a local store owned and run by Arabs. Before 9/11, we’d gone there for lunch at the small grill inside almost every day. These actions shook me. I’d worked for Arabs and lived in the area with the highest percentage of Arab Americans in the country. I knew these were good people, but these men and women who were supposed to be my friends hated them.
Then they revealed their real views.
Following 9/11, everyone who wasn’t a straight white Christian was a target. Please forgive me, but I’m about to use a ton of slurs. We had a lesbian member of management in the city, and everyone started referring to her as a “Dyke Whore.” There were many conversations regarding who might or might not be a “Little Faggot.” The words spike, beaner, kike, and gook were tossed around regarding may of the members of the Recreation Center we worked at.
You know what’s coming next.
We had the best court in the area, and it attracted a lot of people from Dayton’s west side, where most of the black population lived. There was a bus that ran from the west side and had a stop right at the rec center. Many of the employees referred to it as *Cringe* “The Ni@*er Bus.” (I thought about using the word because I believe it is essential to show how bad things are, but I couldn’t do it. Sorry).
There was an employee of the rec center who unofficially ran the basketball program. He was a nice guy who loved to talk about sports and old movies. They didn’t refer to him with slurs. Instead, they said he was “One of the good ones.” One woman said he was ok because he was a clean black man.
It all made me sick and was one of the reasons I didn’t return the next summer.
In the years between them and now things got worse. Not worse for the black community. I’ve been assured by black people I know that things were always this bad, but white people were either ignorant or purposely ignored it.
Thanks to the internet, white America has been forced to see the truth.
We’ve watched video after video of black Americans, mostly male, murdered by police officers. Maybe even worse, we’ve watched as the police who did the killing were never charged and retained their jobs. There have been a few cases where token charges were brought against the officers. Still, they are almost always acquitted or given extremely light sentences. In the cases where the officers are fired, they almost always get a job with another police department.
In the years following the LA riots, there have been many protests. In the case of a few, Ferguson, Missouri, immediately jumps to mind. There have been contained and short-lived riots. These riots and protests served to keep the desire, the need, for change fresh, the embers of uprising orange and smoldering. All America needed was for those embers to have some fuel added, and the fire would blaze bright and hot.
On May 25, 2020, Minneapolis Minnesota police murdered Georges Floyd, an African American resident of the city.
Now America is burning.
As I write this (05/31/2020), we are rolling into our sixth day of protest and riots. Dozens of cities across the country, including my home city of Detroit, Michigan, and my current city of Dayton, Ohio, are in the grasps of the rage and pain. These emotions, fueled by months, years, decades, and centuries of oppression and violence toward the American black community, has split the nation.
What started as relatively peaceful protests soon erupted into full-fledged riots. Burning, looting, and indiscriminate property damage dominate the news coverage. Not surprisingly, it seems many, if not most, of the rioting, has been instigated by outside groups coming to the cities to egg everyone one. In the last couple of days, credible evidence of police and white supremacist groups being behind the beginnings of the violence has surfaced.
Police responded with swift violence.
Police officers, looking and acting more like soldiers occupying American cities than peace officers, march down the streets of major American cities. Shooting rubber bullets, paintballs, pepper balls, and canisters into peaceful and rioting groups of protestors at seemingly random moments. In New York City, police officers drive SUV’s into crowds of demonstrators. And everywhere you look, Police officers spray mace onto people just for the hell of it. A person kneeling on the ground, a person standing peacefully still, a child on their father's shoulders, and actual rioters are all just as likely to receive a face full of mace.
Instead of de-escalating the chaos, the police continue to feed the fire
Except for a small percentage, America seems polarized and split into two factions.
One faction doesn’t seem to, or flat says the don’t care about the history of blacks in America. They feel that the current generation of African Americans are complaining just to complain. They seem to think the black community is using the death of George Floyd as an excuse to loot and seek vengeance on white people.
The other, and I hope more significant, faction of Americans sympathize with the people who’ve been under the boot of the “Justice System” more than any other segment of the American population. For the entire history of our country, blacks have shouldered a burden none of us can adequately appreciate and never truly understand.
No white person, no matter how much they stand with black Americas, can EVER know what they’ve have gone through in the past and still go through every day. We can see it, hear it, and internalize it, but we'll never understand it.
That's not an indictment of the white community. Well, let me be honest for a second, it is an indictment of some of the white population, but not most. It's just a fact that whites dominate America and have a history of stepping on the black community.
We can be allies.
We can feel our own version of pain and anger.
We can feel justified shame for the actions of our community.
We can, and MUST, stand with our fellow Americans, the ones of color.
These are good things. But we have to stop acting like we can put the pain and anger of the Black Community in a box we can shelve and forget about until the next inferno.
Be an ally.
Try to be empathetic.
Stand up and fight with our brothers and sisters of color.
But under no circumstance, tell them how they should feel. You can't truly understand how Black Americans feel because you've never experienced what they've been through.
- Josh Hilden (05/31/2020)
What Happened To May?
It's already the end of May, and I couldn't tell you where the last thirty days went. I couldn't give you any real rundown of what I've accomplished, or put off, in the last four weeks. I'd have a hard time telling you what day of the week it is at any given moment, and don't even ask me the date. All you'll get is my best impression of Tina Belcher, unable to answer a question or make a decision.
It's been a month since my world came to a halt.
It's been a month since everything changed forever.
It's been a month since my middle son left us.
My family is still feeling the aftereffects of the loss.
Time stopped at the end of April, and it has yet to restart. We go through the motions, doing the bare minimum needed to operate.
But that's it.
So, how's Josh doing?
I've been getting this question a lot lately.
The short answer is ok. I'm functional. I get up, do my little routine, take my medication, play with my dog, take care of my daughter, manage to crank some wordage on whatever writing project I'm currently on, and babysit my granddaughter.
So, am I ok?
The longs answer is crappy, with a but.
I've been avoiding any real interactions of social media for the last month. Some of you might say, "Well, that's a good thing. Taking a break from the online world is a good thing. Take some time and recharge your batteries. Don't worry. The world will still be here when you're ready to rejoin it. You just take care of you and yours."
But it's not ok.
Online is really the only way I interact with people who aren't my immediate family. I hate talking on this phone, except for the few people I'm really close to (you know who you are). I'm a shitty texter. I don't return texts for a long time, and sometimes I forget that texts are waiting for me to respond to.
I'm a diagnosed agoraphobic with an anxiety disorder fueled by my bipolar disorder. I hate opening the door to reach a single arm out to snag the mail from the box. I make my son conduct any needed interactions with delivery people and whatnot.
What I'm saying is, I'm built for living online.
But I don't care anymore.
I have no interest in political, social, or religious discussions. I've always enjoyed these things, but for the last month, I just don't care, and I don't see that changing anytime soon. Not because I don't think these things matter but because I just don't care what the outcome is anymore.
I hate Donald Trump as much as I ever have, and I'm voting Democrat, but I don't care anymore. I can't be bothered to debate and attempt to convince third party voters that beating Trump is more important than taking a principled stand.
You can all just do whatever you want, and I won't lift a finger or open my mouth to stop you. Vote or don't vote. America will get what it deserves in the end. If we choose to slit our own throat, then that's what we'll get.
But, back to my issues.
Because, you know, this is about me.
I'm not sleeping well. It's not that I don't sleep, I'm no reject from a Nightmare on Elm Street movie. But my sleep is not good or restful. Either I sleep two hours at a stretch, waking and needing at least three hours before I can even attempt going back to sleep. Or, even worse, I sleep fourteen hours and wake up more tired than I was when I went to bed. Neither of those takes into account the constant naps I need. So, add two or three more hours.
I think I could manage the messed up sleep schedule if it weren’t for the dreams. I have been having intense, disturbing dreams. I'm not having traditional nightmares, but they do scare me. I've been remembering these dreams, which is something that almost NEVER happens to me. I'm that person who knows I've had a dream, but I never remember more than the broad strokes and impressions. I'm not going to get into the details of the dreams but suffice it to say they leave me feeling hollow, sad, and guilty.
And finally, how am I doing physically?
My eating habits are all over the place, and none of the places they land are good. I was sticking to a moderate diet for about two months before Stephen passed. I'd lost a few pounds, and my blood sugars were getting better.
But, now that's all been blown to hell.
These days I'm either I'm eating very little and just not caring about the hunger pains, or I eat and don't stop from when I wake up until I go to bed. Even after I go to bed, I will inevitably get up and binge on something I scavenge from the fridge and pantry.
To put it in simple terms.
I eat, and I eat, and I eat until my stomach hurts and I feel like I'm going to vomit.
My blood sugar, remember it was almost under control again, now is all over the place. I'm irritable because of my blood sugar. I have no energy because of my blood sugar. I'm urinating all of the time because of my blood sugar.
And the capper, my feet hurt most of the time because of my blood sugar. I'm seriously starting to get worried about them. I'm having a hard time climbing and descending stairs, and I've stubbed my toe several times and didn't feel more than some pressure.
I understand that three's a direct linkage between my eating habits and everything else, with the exception of not caring about anything. But Part of the not caring leads to the eating, which leads to everything else.
And the cycle continues, and I just don't give a damn anymore.
I've hypothesized in the past that my eating is a subconscious attempt to kill myself. I don't want to die. I haven't felt suicidal in along time, by my measure. But I don't care if I do either.
I just don't care.
But, I'm still functional.
For now.
- Josh Hilden (05/30/2020)
It's been a month since my world came to a halt.
It's been a month since everything changed forever.
It's been a month since my middle son left us.
My family is still feeling the aftereffects of the loss.
Time stopped at the end of April, and it has yet to restart. We go through the motions, doing the bare minimum needed to operate.
But that's it.
So, how's Josh doing?
I've been getting this question a lot lately.
The short answer is ok. I'm functional. I get up, do my little routine, take my medication, play with my dog, take care of my daughter, manage to crank some wordage on whatever writing project I'm currently on, and babysit my granddaughter.
So, am I ok?
The longs answer is crappy, with a but.
I've been avoiding any real interactions of social media for the last month. Some of you might say, "Well, that's a good thing. Taking a break from the online world is a good thing. Take some time and recharge your batteries. Don't worry. The world will still be here when you're ready to rejoin it. You just take care of you and yours."
But it's not ok.
Online is really the only way I interact with people who aren't my immediate family. I hate talking on this phone, except for the few people I'm really close to (you know who you are). I'm a shitty texter. I don't return texts for a long time, and sometimes I forget that texts are waiting for me to respond to.
I'm a diagnosed agoraphobic with an anxiety disorder fueled by my bipolar disorder. I hate opening the door to reach a single arm out to snag the mail from the box. I make my son conduct any needed interactions with delivery people and whatnot.
What I'm saying is, I'm built for living online.
But I don't care anymore.
I have no interest in political, social, or religious discussions. I've always enjoyed these things, but for the last month, I just don't care, and I don't see that changing anytime soon. Not because I don't think these things matter but because I just don't care what the outcome is anymore.
I hate Donald Trump as much as I ever have, and I'm voting Democrat, but I don't care anymore. I can't be bothered to debate and attempt to convince third party voters that beating Trump is more important than taking a principled stand.
You can all just do whatever you want, and I won't lift a finger or open my mouth to stop you. Vote or don't vote. America will get what it deserves in the end. If we choose to slit our own throat, then that's what we'll get.
But, back to my issues.
Because, you know, this is about me.
I'm not sleeping well. It's not that I don't sleep, I'm no reject from a Nightmare on Elm Street movie. But my sleep is not good or restful. Either I sleep two hours at a stretch, waking and needing at least three hours before I can even attempt going back to sleep. Or, even worse, I sleep fourteen hours and wake up more tired than I was when I went to bed. Neither of those takes into account the constant naps I need. So, add two or three more hours.
I think I could manage the messed up sleep schedule if it weren’t for the dreams. I have been having intense, disturbing dreams. I'm not having traditional nightmares, but they do scare me. I've been remembering these dreams, which is something that almost NEVER happens to me. I'm that person who knows I've had a dream, but I never remember more than the broad strokes and impressions. I'm not going to get into the details of the dreams but suffice it to say they leave me feeling hollow, sad, and guilty.
And finally, how am I doing physically?
My eating habits are all over the place, and none of the places they land are good. I was sticking to a moderate diet for about two months before Stephen passed. I'd lost a few pounds, and my blood sugars were getting better.
But, now that's all been blown to hell.
These days I'm either I'm eating very little and just not caring about the hunger pains, or I eat and don't stop from when I wake up until I go to bed. Even after I go to bed, I will inevitably get up and binge on something I scavenge from the fridge and pantry.
To put it in simple terms.
I eat, and I eat, and I eat until my stomach hurts and I feel like I'm going to vomit.
My blood sugar, remember it was almost under control again, now is all over the place. I'm irritable because of my blood sugar. I have no energy because of my blood sugar. I'm urinating all of the time because of my blood sugar.
And the capper, my feet hurt most of the time because of my blood sugar. I'm seriously starting to get worried about them. I'm having a hard time climbing and descending stairs, and I've stubbed my toe several times and didn't feel more than some pressure.
I understand that three's a direct linkage between my eating habits and everything else, with the exception of not caring about anything. But Part of the not caring leads to the eating, which leads to everything else.
And the cycle continues, and I just don't give a damn anymore.
I've hypothesized in the past that my eating is a subconscious attempt to kill myself. I don't want to die. I haven't felt suicidal in along time, by my measure. But I don't care if I do either.
I just don't care.
But, I'm still functional.
For now.
- Josh Hilden (05/30/2020)
May 5, 2020
Wyoming Is More Important Than California?
It’s an election year, and once more, the drive to eliminate the Electoral College is gaining steam.
Although let’s be honest, the drive to smash the antiquated and undemocratic facet of the Constitution hasn’t stopped since it allowed the election of Donald “Tiny Hands” Trump.
And, with the push to gut the worst thing still living in the foundation document of the USA, inevitably comes the screams from, let’s be REALLY honest with this one and piss some people off, white conservative rightwing evangelical about being dominated by the liberal coast. Especially those nasty communist states of New York and California.
To make it excruciatingly clear, what these Mighty Fine Americans are saying is that the fewest number of people should control who the President is? In other words, the largest number of Americans should have their votes nullified.
I want this on front street. I am well aware that Trump in 2016 and GWB in 2000 did not cheat. However, the argument can be made that if SCOTUS hadn’t stepped in in 2000, that election would’ve ended very differently. The Electoral College is enshrined as law in the United States constitution. In other words, it will take a constitutional amendment.
In other words, it’s the law.
Period.
Now, let’s set aside that the Electoral college was put in place to placate the slave states and to LIMIT the power and say of the individual voter. Instead, let’s look at representation in the United States and how it correlates to the blessed Electoral College.
(Note: These state and local breakdowns are very general. I am aware that some places do things very differently. Hey, I’m all for it. At the local level, people should have an extremely high degree of latitude in how they run things.)
At the small city/town/village/township levels, Americans have an equal vote of 1 = 1. This is as close to direct democracy that America has.
At the city level, council members are elected by city districts where they represent specific areas. In some of the bigger cities, these districts have a further breakdown of representation, making them small towns into and of themselves.
At the county level, commissioners and representatives are elected to represent portions of the population on a council or commission. These are more like administrative boards in many areas as opposed to a true government.
Each state has its own way of electing officials. Since this is really about Federal elections, I’ll skip this but suffice it to say they are similar to the Federal system. The majority of the states operate more or less like a scaled-down version of the Federal system.
Now Federal level elected positions are their own beast.
At the bottom of the Washington totem pole, we have the House of Representatives and its current roster of 435 members. Members of the house are elected based on the population of their individual districts. These districts are created by the state governments and are based on the last census numbers. Thus, they the ones that are tasked with representing their constituents first.
Now we can have a whole other discussion about gerrymandering of districts and how it’s worse than the Electoral College, and I’m always down for the debate, but it’s not germane to the current subject.
Next, we have the Senate.
The 100 United States Senators are arguably the real power brokers in America and the most important legislative body in the world. Every state, regardless of population, has 2 senators. This means those awful, horrible states of California and New York (who financially carry a hell of a lot of Red States but let’s just forget that pesky fact) have the same level of say (again, in the most critical law-making body in the world) as the State of Wyoming. Wyoming, a very red state with 600,000 people and a negative population growth of 1%. In fact, all of the Red states added together clearly have more control of the congress than the Blue States even though they have a much lower population.
So, who has a more say over who?
Really think about that.
Finally, there’s the President of the United States (POTUS). The President is supposed to represent each American equally. In fact, the President is the only part of the Federal Government that represents each and every citizen. The President makes treaties and enacts diplomacy with foreign nations. The President commands the Federal Agencies with authority over all states equally. And the President signs or vetoes bills passed by the congress. (such vetoes can be overridden which again, gives congress more power than the President).
So how exactly does the people of New York and Los Angeles having the same 1 to 1 vote for President a bad thing?
Wouldn’t that be the literal example of representative democracy?
Now, once more, I am well aware the Electoral College is codified as one of the highest laws in the nation. It’s part of the Constitution. But here’s the thing, the Constitution has been amended 27 times in the 243 years we’ve been a nation.
In my view, and the opinion of the majority of American’s, it’s time for the Electoral College to join the 3/5ths compromise, pre women’s suffrage, and so many other bits and bobs on the rubbish heap.
- Josh Hilden (05/05/2020)
Although let’s be honest, the drive to smash the antiquated and undemocratic facet of the Constitution hasn’t stopped since it allowed the election of Donald “Tiny Hands” Trump.
And, with the push to gut the worst thing still living in the foundation document of the USA, inevitably comes the screams from, let’s be REALLY honest with this one and piss some people off, white conservative rightwing evangelical about being dominated by the liberal coast. Especially those nasty communist states of New York and California.
To make it excruciatingly clear, what these Mighty Fine Americans are saying is that the fewest number of people should control who the President is? In other words, the largest number of Americans should have their votes nullified.
I want this on front street. I am well aware that Trump in 2016 and GWB in 2000 did not cheat. However, the argument can be made that if SCOTUS hadn’t stepped in in 2000, that election would’ve ended very differently. The Electoral College is enshrined as law in the United States constitution. In other words, it will take a constitutional amendment.
In other words, it’s the law.
Period.
Now, let’s set aside that the Electoral college was put in place to placate the slave states and to LIMIT the power and say of the individual voter. Instead, let’s look at representation in the United States and how it correlates to the blessed Electoral College.
(Note: These state and local breakdowns are very general. I am aware that some places do things very differently. Hey, I’m all for it. At the local level, people should have an extremely high degree of latitude in how they run things.)
At the small city/town/village/township levels, Americans have an equal vote of 1 = 1. This is as close to direct democracy that America has.
At the city level, council members are elected by city districts where they represent specific areas. In some of the bigger cities, these districts have a further breakdown of representation, making them small towns into and of themselves.
At the county level, commissioners and representatives are elected to represent portions of the population on a council or commission. These are more like administrative boards in many areas as opposed to a true government.
Each state has its own way of electing officials. Since this is really about Federal elections, I’ll skip this but suffice it to say they are similar to the Federal system. The majority of the states operate more or less like a scaled-down version of the Federal system.
Now Federal level elected positions are their own beast.
At the bottom of the Washington totem pole, we have the House of Representatives and its current roster of 435 members. Members of the house are elected based on the population of their individual districts. These districts are created by the state governments and are based on the last census numbers. Thus, they the ones that are tasked with representing their constituents first.
Now we can have a whole other discussion about gerrymandering of districts and how it’s worse than the Electoral College, and I’m always down for the debate, but it’s not germane to the current subject.
Next, we have the Senate.
The 100 United States Senators are arguably the real power brokers in America and the most important legislative body in the world. Every state, regardless of population, has 2 senators. This means those awful, horrible states of California and New York (who financially carry a hell of a lot of Red States but let’s just forget that pesky fact) have the same level of say (again, in the most critical law-making body in the world) as the State of Wyoming. Wyoming, a very red state with 600,000 people and a negative population growth of 1%. In fact, all of the Red states added together clearly have more control of the congress than the Blue States even though they have a much lower population.
So, who has a more say over who?
Really think about that.
Finally, there’s the President of the United States (POTUS). The President is supposed to represent each American equally. In fact, the President is the only part of the Federal Government that represents each and every citizen. The President makes treaties and enacts diplomacy with foreign nations. The President commands the Federal Agencies with authority over all states equally. And the President signs or vetoes bills passed by the congress. (such vetoes can be overridden which again, gives congress more power than the President).
So how exactly does the people of New York and Los Angeles having the same 1 to 1 vote for President a bad thing?
Wouldn’t that be the literal example of representative democracy?
Now, once more, I am well aware the Electoral College is codified as one of the highest laws in the nation. It’s part of the Constitution. But here’s the thing, the Constitution has been amended 27 times in the 243 years we’ve been a nation.
In my view, and the opinion of the majority of American’s, it’s time for the Electoral College to join the 3/5ths compromise, pre women’s suffrage, and so many other bits and bobs on the rubbish heap.
- Josh Hilden (05/05/2020)
April 25, 2020
Goodbye Boy
As of this writing, I have six children (3 Stepchildren and 3 Bio Children) and one grandchild. They are the best thing I've done with my life. Maybe the only genuinely good things I've ever had even a minor hand in creating.
I was 19 years old when I met the three people who'd become my children. There was a lot of drama in the beginning from several different directions.
The first and most prominent was my future wife's soon to be ex-husband. He seemed to think he still had a say in what my wife didn't and did not do. Right up to and including dragging out their divorce (that I paid for) until my wife was eight months pregnant.
He was a bad husband, but he was a horrible father.
Don't get me wrong, I was shit father in the beginning, and I'm a barely passable father these days. I think most fathers, if they're honest with themselves, see themselves the same way I do. We try but in the end we have fucking clue what we are doing and make it up as we go along. We try but we fail more often than not. That's just the nature of the gig.
My wife's Ex thought he had all of the answers. I won't be going to go into the details of his background, the years he was married to my life or the way he treated my kids. What I will say is he left a lot of damage in his wake.
He was negligent.
He was mentally, emotionally, and physically abusive.
And when he was tired of them, he completely cut them out of his life.
So, what shape were my three oldest in when I met them?
My oldest son was angry. He'd had a difficult first eight years of his life and was just starting to realize things were different. It took a solid year and the birth of his little sister for him to start opening up and be happy. My youngest daughter has been and always will be her own person. She tested me but in a way that all four-year-olds test their parents. If anything, she was most mentally stable than anyone in the house, her mother and I included.
My middle son, Stephen, was a different story.
As a child he was angry, he was happy, he was lonely, and he was jealous. He wanted to be with his dad, and he hated him at the same time. He hated me, and he loved me in an alternating cycle of anger. He tormented his brother and sister until they developed the size and/or anger to fight back. He stole, he lied, she never finished a year of school after the fourth grade. He started drinking and taking drugs as a young teen. He was disobedient. He had multiple run-ins with the law as a minor.
He was, in a word, complicated.
Why am I telling you all of this about Stephen?
Nobody is perfect. We've all made mistakes, some of them so severe we hide them from our friends and family. I don't believe in whitewashing anything. The truth will set you free, and I am a firm believer in exposing the truth to the light of day and watching the darkness burn.
Once that's done, the healing can begin.
But there was another side to Stephen that diminished as he grew older but never disappeared no matter how bad things got. And they got horrible.
He was kind.
He was generous.
He was funny.
He was helpful.
He had a laugh that turned any situation into a moment of mirth.
He loved animals.
He loved his family.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back and the shoes off of his feet.
He was one of the most sensitive little boys I've ever met, and his childhood trauma permanently scared him.
But I choose to remember my boy.
Adult Stephen was a dark person. He still had his moment of shining goodness. He took care of his Grandmother in her home as she wasted away. I sometimes think her death was the thing that finally broke him.
But he had his other, aforementioned, side.
He was an alcoholic who used the bottle to self-medicate and fight his demons.
But I choose to remember my boy.
He was a drug addict who, in his own words, used the drugs to feel anything.
But I choose to remember my boy.
He spent months in county jail and state prison for drug-related offenses. He cycled in and out of a rehabilitation system designed to strip the government of money and didn't give a fuck about the people they were supposed to be helping.
But I choose to remember my boy.
He tried to get away from this area again and again, but he always came back. The allure of the criminal lifestyle he admitted over and over he loved, and the pull of his addiction always defeated him.
But I choose to remember my boy.
He had a mutually abusive marriage that did more damage to the two of them than good. Many were the nights where our house (they lived with us for two years before we kicked them out) was filled with the sounds of screams.
But I choose to remember my boy.
Many people who didn't know him saw that side of Stephen. When he was out with his "Friends" and frankly being the guy's people are afraid of when they saw him walking down the street, and they moved to the other side. But they didn't really know him because he would never let them.
I choose to remember my boy.
Yesterday, April 24, Stephen took his own life.
I don't know why he did it. I can guess, but I'll never really know. I know how he did it, but I will not talk about that outside of the family, or maybe not even then. I know where he did it, and it breaks my heart.
I'm sad, yes, but that's not all.
I feel guilt, and I feel anger.
I feel guilty because I know I could have been a better father, especially when he was young, and there was a better chance to help him. I'm mad because he didn't just do this to himself. He did this to his brothers and sisters. He did this to his grandparents, who always supported him. And most of all, he did this to his mother, my wife, a woman who never lost hops in him and now feels like she failed him.
But, despite that, I choose to remember my boy.
Tell the truth and shame the devil we'd been expecting something like this for years. There'd been too many trips to the ER after an overdose. There have been too many run-ins with the police or with gangs where he spent weeks healing.
So, we'd thought we were ready.
I can't speak from my wife, and I won't, but I assume my anger with him would bleed into any sadness, I thought my grief and would war with the blame I'd have for him. I thought I knew what would happen after the visit from the police or the call from the hospital.
That was such self-righteous bullshit.
I don't care what happened in the past. He never did anything to deserve what he got out of life. He's not the hero in his story, and he's not the villain either. He's just the victim of a world that never takes a second to give a fuck about anyone or anything that doesn't consider them people.
I don't see a selfish man.
I don't see a drug addict desperately fighting to stay clean.
I don't see the pretty criminal who was never made for that life.
I see the smile.
I hear the laugh.
I feel the generosity.
I remember my boy, not because I choose to but because that's what he is.
My son is dead, and I don't know how to go on.
I was 19 years old when I met the three people who'd become my children. There was a lot of drama in the beginning from several different directions.
The first and most prominent was my future wife's soon to be ex-husband. He seemed to think he still had a say in what my wife didn't and did not do. Right up to and including dragging out their divorce (that I paid for) until my wife was eight months pregnant.
He was a bad husband, but he was a horrible father.
Don't get me wrong, I was shit father in the beginning, and I'm a barely passable father these days. I think most fathers, if they're honest with themselves, see themselves the same way I do. We try but in the end we have fucking clue what we are doing and make it up as we go along. We try but we fail more often than not. That's just the nature of the gig.
My wife's Ex thought he had all of the answers. I won't be going to go into the details of his background, the years he was married to my life or the way he treated my kids. What I will say is he left a lot of damage in his wake.
He was negligent.
He was mentally, emotionally, and physically abusive.
And when he was tired of them, he completely cut them out of his life.
So, what shape were my three oldest in when I met them?
My oldest son was angry. He'd had a difficult first eight years of his life and was just starting to realize things were different. It took a solid year and the birth of his little sister for him to start opening up and be happy. My youngest daughter has been and always will be her own person. She tested me but in a way that all four-year-olds test their parents. If anything, she was most mentally stable than anyone in the house, her mother and I included.
My middle son, Stephen, was a different story.
As a child he was angry, he was happy, he was lonely, and he was jealous. He wanted to be with his dad, and he hated him at the same time. He hated me, and he loved me in an alternating cycle of anger. He tormented his brother and sister until they developed the size and/or anger to fight back. He stole, he lied, she never finished a year of school after the fourth grade. He started drinking and taking drugs as a young teen. He was disobedient. He had multiple run-ins with the law as a minor.
He was, in a word, complicated.
Why am I telling you all of this about Stephen?
Nobody is perfect. We've all made mistakes, some of them so severe we hide them from our friends and family. I don't believe in whitewashing anything. The truth will set you free, and I am a firm believer in exposing the truth to the light of day and watching the darkness burn.
Once that's done, the healing can begin.
But there was another side to Stephen that diminished as he grew older but never disappeared no matter how bad things got. And they got horrible.
He was kind.
He was generous.
He was funny.
He was helpful.
He had a laugh that turned any situation into a moment of mirth.
He loved animals.
He loved his family.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back and the shoes off of his feet.
He was one of the most sensitive little boys I've ever met, and his childhood trauma permanently scared him.
But I choose to remember my boy.
Adult Stephen was a dark person. He still had his moment of shining goodness. He took care of his Grandmother in her home as she wasted away. I sometimes think her death was the thing that finally broke him.
But he had his other, aforementioned, side.
He was an alcoholic who used the bottle to self-medicate and fight his demons.
But I choose to remember my boy.
He was a drug addict who, in his own words, used the drugs to feel anything.
But I choose to remember my boy.
He spent months in county jail and state prison for drug-related offenses. He cycled in and out of a rehabilitation system designed to strip the government of money and didn't give a fuck about the people they were supposed to be helping.
But I choose to remember my boy.
He tried to get away from this area again and again, but he always came back. The allure of the criminal lifestyle he admitted over and over he loved, and the pull of his addiction always defeated him.
But I choose to remember my boy.
He had a mutually abusive marriage that did more damage to the two of them than good. Many were the nights where our house (they lived with us for two years before we kicked them out) was filled with the sounds of screams.
But I choose to remember my boy.
Many people who didn't know him saw that side of Stephen. When he was out with his "Friends" and frankly being the guy's people are afraid of when they saw him walking down the street, and they moved to the other side. But they didn't really know him because he would never let them.
I choose to remember my boy.
Yesterday, April 24, Stephen took his own life.
I don't know why he did it. I can guess, but I'll never really know. I know how he did it, but I will not talk about that outside of the family, or maybe not even then. I know where he did it, and it breaks my heart.
I'm sad, yes, but that's not all.
I feel guilt, and I feel anger.
I feel guilty because I know I could have been a better father, especially when he was young, and there was a better chance to help him. I'm mad because he didn't just do this to himself. He did this to his brothers and sisters. He did this to his grandparents, who always supported him. And most of all, he did this to his mother, my wife, a woman who never lost hops in him and now feels like she failed him.
But, despite that, I choose to remember my boy.
Tell the truth and shame the devil we'd been expecting something like this for years. There'd been too many trips to the ER after an overdose. There have been too many run-ins with the police or with gangs where he spent weeks healing.
So, we'd thought we were ready.
I can't speak from my wife, and I won't, but I assume my anger with him would bleed into any sadness, I thought my grief and would war with the blame I'd have for him. I thought I knew what would happen after the visit from the police or the call from the hospital.
That was such self-righteous bullshit.
I don't care what happened in the past. He never did anything to deserve what he got out of life. He's not the hero in his story, and he's not the villain either. He's just the victim of a world that never takes a second to give a fuck about anyone or anything that doesn't consider them people.
I don't see a selfish man.
I don't see a drug addict desperately fighting to stay clean.
I don't see the pretty criminal who was never made for that life.
I see the smile.
I hear the laugh.
I feel the generosity.
I remember my boy, not because I choose to but because that's what he is.
My son is dead, and I don't know how to go on.
April 22, 2020
Lt. Fumbles Makes Us Sad
Alright, boys, and girls, it’s time for Grandpa Josh to do some teaching.
Pull up a chair, stand, or hunker down on the floor. It makes no never mind to me, I just want you to be comfortable. This won’t be an extended essay, but there’s no need to have sore legs.
Settled?
Okay, then let’s get started.
Today we’re going to talk about depression. I know we’ve tread this topic until it’s well worn and familiar, but. That said, I thought it might be a good idea to take a refresher course. We live in the shadow of Captain Tripps, less attractive special needs cousin Lieutenant Fumbles.
In these days of sickness, quarantine (real quarantine not the underrated American remakes of REC), and idiot leaders determined to kill us all, it’s no surprise people, in general, are depressed. Life has changed, and none of us know when or if it’ll return to something approaching normal.
Deep breath, folks, I’m not going to tell you things aren’t as bad as they seem. That would be lying, and Grandpa Josh tries not to lie. Things are bad. As of this writing, more than 45,000 Americans have died from the sickness. The worst part of this is that almost all of these deaths have occurred since March first. Despite what the conspiracy theorists claims and bald-faced lies from the right, this is going to get worse until we have mass testing and a vaccine.
Those are facts.
Call it COVID-19, the Corona Virus, or the “CHI NA” virus (thank you president racist dumbass) the truth is C19 (what I call it for brevities sake) has changed the world. Things will probably never be the same no matter how much we wish they would be.
What does this have to do with depression?
Patience, I’m getting there.
I remember the first nationally reported cases of HIV/AIDS (or GRID as the homophobes insisted on calling it after it was officially classified as AIDS). What I especially remember was the special issue of LIFE magazine (does anyone else miss LIFE magazine, or is it just me?) with the bold title of AIDS on the cover.
That magazine burned itself in my memory.
For years afterward, the rumor mills dumped uncounted amounts of chaff into the world about AIDS. Only gay men could get it. Only men could spread it. The virus was airborne. And my personal favorite, the virus could be spread from toilet seats. My point is since there were only so many news outlets, sources of fact were limited.
Now we live in the information age (is it still the information age?), and a simple Google search will get you the relevant facts. Again, unless you are a conspiracy nutjob or a rightwing asshole demanding the business and beaches be opened because corporations and multibillionaires need to make bank on our corpses.
Access to almost all information might be doing as much harm as good.
Depression as a mental illness is a real thing. An average healthy person will get depressed when something happens. Loss of a job, natural disaster, death of a pet or loved one, loss of a job, end of a romantic relationship, and of course, severe illness are all perfectly understandable for a serious bout of depression in an average human being.
It’s a bit different for those of us living with mental illness.
This is not to minimize how awful depression is for mentally healthy people. It’s devastating, and the consequences can be dire. What I’m saying is those of us dealing with clinical depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety, phobias, and the multitude of other mental and emotional disorders started out at a disadvantage. The old “One-legged man in an ass-kicking contest” parable.
In other words, we are not handling this very well.
From my personal experience, my symptoms are worse. I’ve spent days on the couch not doing a damn thing, this includes showering and brushing my teeth because there seems to be no point to it.
The aggravation of my agoraphobia has lead to me not even wanting to step outside. I had to go to the grocery store, literally a quarter of a mile away ( no idea what that translates to for you Brits, Canucks, Aussies, and kiwis, and I’m too lazy to look it up) and when I returned home, I slept almost 12 hours.
I either sleep way too much or barely at all.
I’m snappy with my wife and kids, which leads to more depression because I know I hurt their feelings.
As stated before, personal hygiene feels irrelevant, and I mean more than just showering and teeth brushing. I’m not going into it, some things are too embarrassing for even me to share. But I think you can extrapolate.
I’m misplacing things regularly, and if you know me, that never happens.
Nothing makes sense, and everything seems stupid to me.
Oh, but the symptoms of depression aren’t the only problems. Kids I am currently suffering one of the worst manic and OCD episodes of my adult life. Mania has never been my primary symptom, and it isn’t now, but it’s never been this intense.
I am moving small things around the house in some constant attempt to find some alignment of objects. Part of me genuinely believes said alignment will protect my home and family from the forces arrayed against us. I’m not sure who or what those forces are, but I know they’re out there prowling the fenceline.
Waiting.
My mind will not shut down. No matter what, I do thoughts oom through my head at near-supersonic speeds rendering a partial vegetable no longer able to assemble coherent thoughts at my average level of intellect.
Dreams, oh fuck me, the dreams are unbearable. If they were all nightmares, I could probably handle it. I’ve suffered from night terrors most of my life, and weirdly my body has adjusted to them. What I’m dealing with are dreams so intense and realistic that when I wake up, I’m convinced for a moment that the dream was reality and waking is the dream. I know that doesn’t sound so bad, but when it happens four to six nights a week, it is a special kind of hell.
But that’s not the worst, not by a long shot.
I am hearing and seeing things.
I’ve never suffered from hallucinations, and I am not convinced these are real ones. But damnit they feel real. It’s human shapes and whispers. Sometimes I can make out the details of the persona, and sometimes I can understand the words, but never enough to bring clarity to them. It happens without a buildup, and I haven’t bee able to detect a trigger. I know they aren’t real, in my head, but they feel real. I don’t tell my psychiatrist because damnit I’m on enough pills, especially antipsychotics, and those fuckers are no joke.
I fear I might be losing it.
Alright, enough feeling sorry for myself. I know there are a lot of people worse off than me. People with no one to talk to. People being triggered by the other mentally ill people in their lives. People who won’t take therapy seriously and think they can do it on their own.
And, finally, the people I get the most pissed at.
These are the people who, at one time, sought help. They have been prescribed medication. Then, once they were feeling a bit balanced, decided medication is for the people who are really sick and that they are stronger than those poor pitiful people.
Remember, kids, pity is the first step on the road to hatred.
These people, no matter how good and selfless they are when they are balanced, do more damage to the people around them then you can possibly imagine. Unless you live in one of those hellish situations, then you know exactly what I’m talking about.
What does all of this have to do with C19 and depression?
Things are bad, and we’re all suffering. Now more than ever, we need to look out for one another. We need to reach out to those in need. We need to do our best to ease suffering. Whether you’re forced to stay at home, or you’re on the frontlines, we’re all in this together.
Mental illness is my personal cross to bear in these troubled times, and I wanted to share some of that with you. I wanted those of you in similar or worse situations to know you’re not alone. I wanted the people who do the unrecognized job of caring for the mentally ill in their own homes that you are appreciated.
What do I want to convey most of all?
I want you all to know that the only way we’ll gt through this is if we aren’t selfish. If we aren’t mean. And if we aren’t dismissive of the trials and tribulations, our brothers and sister are facing.
What I want is for people to be kind.
- Josh (04/22/2020)
Pull up a chair, stand, or hunker down on the floor. It makes no never mind to me, I just want you to be comfortable. This won’t be an extended essay, but there’s no need to have sore legs.
Settled?
Okay, then let’s get started.
Today we’re going to talk about depression. I know we’ve tread this topic until it’s well worn and familiar, but. That said, I thought it might be a good idea to take a refresher course. We live in the shadow of Captain Tripps, less attractive special needs cousin Lieutenant Fumbles.
In these days of sickness, quarantine (real quarantine not the underrated American remakes of REC), and idiot leaders determined to kill us all, it’s no surprise people, in general, are depressed. Life has changed, and none of us know when or if it’ll return to something approaching normal.
Deep breath, folks, I’m not going to tell you things aren’t as bad as they seem. That would be lying, and Grandpa Josh tries not to lie. Things are bad. As of this writing, more than 45,000 Americans have died from the sickness. The worst part of this is that almost all of these deaths have occurred since March first. Despite what the conspiracy theorists claims and bald-faced lies from the right, this is going to get worse until we have mass testing and a vaccine.
Those are facts.
Call it COVID-19, the Corona Virus, or the “CHI NA” virus (thank you president racist dumbass) the truth is C19 (what I call it for brevities sake) has changed the world. Things will probably never be the same no matter how much we wish they would be.
What does this have to do with depression?
Patience, I’m getting there.
I remember the first nationally reported cases of HIV/AIDS (or GRID as the homophobes insisted on calling it after it was officially classified as AIDS). What I especially remember was the special issue of LIFE magazine (does anyone else miss LIFE magazine, or is it just me?) with the bold title of AIDS on the cover.
That magazine burned itself in my memory.
For years afterward, the rumor mills dumped uncounted amounts of chaff into the world about AIDS. Only gay men could get it. Only men could spread it. The virus was airborne. And my personal favorite, the virus could be spread from toilet seats. My point is since there were only so many news outlets, sources of fact were limited.
Now we live in the information age (is it still the information age?), and a simple Google search will get you the relevant facts. Again, unless you are a conspiracy nutjob or a rightwing asshole demanding the business and beaches be opened because corporations and multibillionaires need to make bank on our corpses.
Access to almost all information might be doing as much harm as good.
Depression as a mental illness is a real thing. An average healthy person will get depressed when something happens. Loss of a job, natural disaster, death of a pet or loved one, loss of a job, end of a romantic relationship, and of course, severe illness are all perfectly understandable for a serious bout of depression in an average human being.
It’s a bit different for those of us living with mental illness.
This is not to minimize how awful depression is for mentally healthy people. It’s devastating, and the consequences can be dire. What I’m saying is those of us dealing with clinical depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety, phobias, and the multitude of other mental and emotional disorders started out at a disadvantage. The old “One-legged man in an ass-kicking contest” parable.
In other words, we are not handling this very well.
From my personal experience, my symptoms are worse. I’ve spent days on the couch not doing a damn thing, this includes showering and brushing my teeth because there seems to be no point to it.
The aggravation of my agoraphobia has lead to me not even wanting to step outside. I had to go to the grocery store, literally a quarter of a mile away ( no idea what that translates to for you Brits, Canucks, Aussies, and kiwis, and I’m too lazy to look it up) and when I returned home, I slept almost 12 hours.
I either sleep way too much or barely at all.
I’m snappy with my wife and kids, which leads to more depression because I know I hurt their feelings.
As stated before, personal hygiene feels irrelevant, and I mean more than just showering and teeth brushing. I’m not going into it, some things are too embarrassing for even me to share. But I think you can extrapolate.
I’m misplacing things regularly, and if you know me, that never happens.
Nothing makes sense, and everything seems stupid to me.
Oh, but the symptoms of depression aren’t the only problems. Kids I am currently suffering one of the worst manic and OCD episodes of my adult life. Mania has never been my primary symptom, and it isn’t now, but it’s never been this intense.
I am moving small things around the house in some constant attempt to find some alignment of objects. Part of me genuinely believes said alignment will protect my home and family from the forces arrayed against us. I’m not sure who or what those forces are, but I know they’re out there prowling the fenceline.
Waiting.
My mind will not shut down. No matter what, I do thoughts oom through my head at near-supersonic speeds rendering a partial vegetable no longer able to assemble coherent thoughts at my average level of intellect.
Dreams, oh fuck me, the dreams are unbearable. If they were all nightmares, I could probably handle it. I’ve suffered from night terrors most of my life, and weirdly my body has adjusted to them. What I’m dealing with are dreams so intense and realistic that when I wake up, I’m convinced for a moment that the dream was reality and waking is the dream. I know that doesn’t sound so bad, but when it happens four to six nights a week, it is a special kind of hell.
But that’s not the worst, not by a long shot.
I am hearing and seeing things.
I’ve never suffered from hallucinations, and I am not convinced these are real ones. But damnit they feel real. It’s human shapes and whispers. Sometimes I can make out the details of the persona, and sometimes I can understand the words, but never enough to bring clarity to them. It happens without a buildup, and I haven’t bee able to detect a trigger. I know they aren’t real, in my head, but they feel real. I don’t tell my psychiatrist because damnit I’m on enough pills, especially antipsychotics, and those fuckers are no joke.
I fear I might be losing it.
Alright, enough feeling sorry for myself. I know there are a lot of people worse off than me. People with no one to talk to. People being triggered by the other mentally ill people in their lives. People who won’t take therapy seriously and think they can do it on their own.
And, finally, the people I get the most pissed at.
These are the people who, at one time, sought help. They have been prescribed medication. Then, once they were feeling a bit balanced, decided medication is for the people who are really sick and that they are stronger than those poor pitiful people.
Remember, kids, pity is the first step on the road to hatred.
These people, no matter how good and selfless they are when they are balanced, do more damage to the people around them then you can possibly imagine. Unless you live in one of those hellish situations, then you know exactly what I’m talking about.
What does all of this have to do with C19 and depression?
Things are bad, and we’re all suffering. Now more than ever, we need to look out for one another. We need to reach out to those in need. We need to do our best to ease suffering. Whether you’re forced to stay at home, or you’re on the frontlines, we’re all in this together.
Mental illness is my personal cross to bear in these troubled times, and I wanted to share some of that with you. I wanted those of you in similar or worse situations to know you’re not alone. I wanted the people who do the unrecognized job of caring for the mentally ill in their own homes that you are appreciated.
What do I want to convey most of all?
I want you all to know that the only way we’ll gt through this is if we aren’t selfish. If we aren’t mean. And if we aren’t dismissive of the trials and tribulations, our brothers and sister are facing.
What I want is for people to be kind.
- Josh (04/22/2020)
February 19, 2020
Land of the Free
“I don’t want my money going toward illegal immigrants in any way!”
“If they’re here illegally, then they are illegal!”
“The money spent on them comes from the American Citizens, not from the Federal Government!”
- Unnamed Internet Warriors
I’ve been sparring with for the last three days with some family and their extended circle over the issue of “Illegal Immigration” in America. I’m a firm defender of legal immigration and but let me be upfront, like I’m ever anything but upfront in these missives, I straddle the middle of the immigration issue when it comes to undocumented individuals.
I believe immigration is essential to the survival of the nation.
I believe that the asylum process is, if anything, not open and encompassing enough.
I believe that the legal immigration process has to be expanded and streamlined. Right now, we have the most complicated and exclusionary immigration process in the “Free World,” whatever that means in this day and age.
Ok, I think we can all agree that no matter what I say or what evidence I provide, no one with a stratified position will have their views and opinions changed by this. So be it, it is what it is, and there’s really no point in me continuing counterpointing the various claims made by people on the internet. Maybe in real life, I might have a chance of changing hearts and minds, but somehow I doubt it.
All of that said, there’s one more angle I wish to try. by. But hopefully, an angle that helps put the current situation in America in a bit of perspective.
Almost all of the Ant-Undocumented Immigrant crowd has unequivocally stated they don’t want their money via the federal government (and how I wish some of them would understand and get it through their thick skulls that it’s basic economic fact) used in any way shape or form on undocumented people entering or living in the United States. But they were thrilled when Representative Nancy Pelosi handed the Trump administration 4.6 billion ($4,600,000,000) for increased border security. So apparently they like some of their money spent on a useless wall and sticking families in concentration camps.
Ok, all of their views, no matter how distasteful and hypocritical, have been heard. I don’t agree with 98% of what they’ve said, but they’ve been heard and noted. Now can they say the same for the views from the left? Will they consider what we have to say about how OUR money spent? Do those of you fixated almost exclusively on the immigration situation know what I (and tens of millions of others) DON’T want OUR money spent on?
• Unending Wars: Since 2001, more than 6 trillion ($6,000,000,000,000) dollars have been spent for absolutely zero gain. Not to mention the thousands of American men and women (not to mention the hundreds of thousands of civilians) killed in these pointless wars.
• Corporate Subsidies: The United States of America spends an estimated (conservatively) One Hundred Billion ($100,000,000,000) on welfare to corporations yearly.
• The Trump Tax Cuts: America citizen now foot the bill for almost 2 Trillion ($2,000,000,000,000) in tax cut to the top 1% and the most profitable corporations on the planet.
• Foreign Aid: The United Staes spends almost Fifty Billion ($50,000,000,000) on aid to foreign countries. As an example, we basically pay for all of the Israeli defense budgets while they have things like Universal Education and Universal Healthcare.
• Runaway Defense Budget: The 2020 United States budget is seven hundred and eighteen billion ($718,000,000,000) dollars. To put this in a global perspective, The United States spends more on national defense than China, Saudi Arabia, India, France, Russia, the United Kingdom, and Germany combined.
I could go on, but these are the most egregious examples.
So I ask, should I have to pay for all of this?
Should you have to pay for all of this?
Are you ok paying for all of this?
What’s worse for the nation, undocumented people coming into the country, or the way we are being fleeced by the rich?
The situation with immigration is a dog whistle as old as time. Anytime in history, the political and economic elite have felt threatened by the people they see as beneath them they try this. They turn already poor people against the people beneath them, and in the end, all that happens in hate and, in the worst cases death. This has happened in America several times in the past. It’s a tried and true tactic because it works.
A few facts about undocumented people before I finish:
• Undocumented Immigrants contribute more in tax revenue than they take in government benefits.
• Undocumented Immigrants workers often take jobs that boost other parts of the economy.
• Immigrants, in general, are crucial to offsetting a falling birth rate.
Almost all of us are the descendants of Immigrants, both legal and illegal. Without Immigration reform, America will be in danger of falling behind. Many of the greatest minds in American history were first-generation immigrants. Immigrants in all stripes contribute exponentially more to this country than they take. You’ve all allowed yourselves to believe a false narrative because the elite wants you scared of the other, so you don’t see what the real problems are and what you should actually be terrified of.
Anti-immigrant people are mad at smoke and shadows.
“If they’re here illegally, then they are illegal!”
“The money spent on them comes from the American Citizens, not from the Federal Government!”
- Unnamed Internet Warriors
I’ve been sparring with for the last three days with some family and their extended circle over the issue of “Illegal Immigration” in America. I’m a firm defender of legal immigration and but let me be upfront, like I’m ever anything but upfront in these missives, I straddle the middle of the immigration issue when it comes to undocumented individuals.
I believe immigration is essential to the survival of the nation.
I believe that the asylum process is, if anything, not open and encompassing enough.
I believe that the legal immigration process has to be expanded and streamlined. Right now, we have the most complicated and exclusionary immigration process in the “Free World,” whatever that means in this day and age.
Ok, I think we can all agree that no matter what I say or what evidence I provide, no one with a stratified position will have their views and opinions changed by this. So be it, it is what it is, and there’s really no point in me continuing counterpointing the various claims made by people on the internet. Maybe in real life, I might have a chance of changing hearts and minds, but somehow I doubt it.
All of that said, there’s one more angle I wish to try. by. But hopefully, an angle that helps put the current situation in America in a bit of perspective.
Almost all of the Ant-Undocumented Immigrant crowd has unequivocally stated they don’t want their money via the federal government (and how I wish some of them would understand and get it through their thick skulls that it’s basic economic fact) used in any way shape or form on undocumented people entering or living in the United States. But they were thrilled when Representative Nancy Pelosi handed the Trump administration 4.6 billion ($4,600,000,000) for increased border security. So apparently they like some of their money spent on a useless wall and sticking families in concentration camps.
Ok, all of their views, no matter how distasteful and hypocritical, have been heard. I don’t agree with 98% of what they’ve said, but they’ve been heard and noted. Now can they say the same for the views from the left? Will they consider what we have to say about how OUR money spent? Do those of you fixated almost exclusively on the immigration situation know what I (and tens of millions of others) DON’T want OUR money spent on?
• Unending Wars: Since 2001, more than 6 trillion ($6,000,000,000,000) dollars have been spent for absolutely zero gain. Not to mention the thousands of American men and women (not to mention the hundreds of thousands of civilians) killed in these pointless wars.
• Corporate Subsidies: The United States of America spends an estimated (conservatively) One Hundred Billion ($100,000,000,000) on welfare to corporations yearly.
• The Trump Tax Cuts: America citizen now foot the bill for almost 2 Trillion ($2,000,000,000,000) in tax cut to the top 1% and the most profitable corporations on the planet.
• Foreign Aid: The United Staes spends almost Fifty Billion ($50,000,000,000) on aid to foreign countries. As an example, we basically pay for all of the Israeli defense budgets while they have things like Universal Education and Universal Healthcare.
• Runaway Defense Budget: The 2020 United States budget is seven hundred and eighteen billion ($718,000,000,000) dollars. To put this in a global perspective, The United States spends more on national defense than China, Saudi Arabia, India, France, Russia, the United Kingdom, and Germany combined.
I could go on, but these are the most egregious examples.
So I ask, should I have to pay for all of this?
Should you have to pay for all of this?
Are you ok paying for all of this?
What’s worse for the nation, undocumented people coming into the country, or the way we are being fleeced by the rich?
The situation with immigration is a dog whistle as old as time. Anytime in history, the political and economic elite have felt threatened by the people they see as beneath them they try this. They turn already poor people against the people beneath them, and in the end, all that happens in hate and, in the worst cases death. This has happened in America several times in the past. It’s a tried and true tactic because it works.
A few facts about undocumented people before I finish:
• Undocumented Immigrants contribute more in tax revenue than they take in government benefits.
• Undocumented Immigrants workers often take jobs that boost other parts of the economy.
• Immigrants, in general, are crucial to offsetting a falling birth rate.
Almost all of us are the descendants of Immigrants, both legal and illegal. Without Immigration reform, America will be in danger of falling behind. Many of the greatest minds in American history were first-generation immigrants. Immigrants in all stripes contribute exponentially more to this country than they take. You’ve all allowed yourselves to believe a false narrative because the elite wants you scared of the other, so you don’t see what the real problems are and what you should actually be terrified of.
Anti-immigrant people are mad at smoke and shadows.
January 21, 2020
Boom-Baba Boom-Baba
“Your butt is wide, well mine is too
Just watch your mouth, or I'll sit on you
The word is out, better treat me right
'Cause I'm the king of cellulite
Ham on, ham on, ham on whole wheat, all right”
- "Fat" Weird Al Yankovic
Are you overweight?
Have you ever known the joys of needing two seats on a bus or airplane?
Do you fear going somewhere and learning the toilets are undersized?
Do you have to buy new pants and shorts with alarming regularity because you wear through the fabric on the inner thighs?
Do you purposely wait until everyone else has gotten their food before you do so you don’t look like a pig?
Do you know the shame of not being able to reach all of the ways back when you’re wiping and having to wear your soiled shame until you can slip away and change your underwear?
Are you covered in stretch marks that inevitably become the home for painful pimples?
Do you take multiple showers during the day because you sweat profusely, and the odor makes even you gag?
Are there times when you’re afraid to stand up because you might fall down and not be able to get back up?
When you eat, is there a rush of pleasure followed by a self-loathing so intense you want to die?
Are you treated like a joke, a burden, and a second class citizen in your own country?
In other words, Boils and Ghouls, are you FAT?
Americans have historically worshiped the fit and thin physical form. We like to see the body as a temple that must be maintained and honed. This view is reinforced by popular culture and media. We are constantly shown the “Beautiful People” and told how we can be like them if we weren’t so lazy and pathetic.
If we’re thin, we have worth, and if we’re not, we are worthless.
The irony of this is that the majority of us are overweight, in many cases morbidly so. I am part of that dynamic.
I am Josh, and I am morbidly obese.
I’ve always been heavy. When I was a kid, my weight, like of some many other fat kids, was the tool bullies used to humiliate me. I wasn’t brave back then, tell the truth and shame the devil I’ve never been brave, and I handled the bullying by being passive and doing my best t avoid confrontation. This was the tactic I used in stressful situations for the majority of my life.
Was my weight gain as I got older related to my molestation?
I’m sure it didn’t help, but I have to be honest and say that I probably would’ve been fat anyway. Life wasn’t easy for young Josh. Broken home, alcoholic father, a mother with a substance abuse problem, and well-meaning family members who regularly reminded me that I was chunky and needed to lose weight.
I’m not writing this to make people feel sorry for me. Just stating facts.
Like I said upstream, I was bullied. I wish I could say that I never made it easy for the bullies to do their business. But I did.
One time in third grade, I wore a pair of pants I knew were on their last leg. Halfway through the school day, I ran a little too fast, and the ass completely split out. I attempted to hide it out of shame, but of course, that was pointless.
Another time, in eighth grade, I wore a t-shirt so small that it made me look like I had an impressive set of boobs. All-day, I was humiliated with taunts and jeers. The worst was when one of the popular girls offered to give me her bra so that I wouldn’t jiggle like a whore.
These stories can stand for all of the others from when I was a kid.
The second half of my life has been a little easier when it comes to bullying. A few people have taken shots at me as an adult, but adult Josh is more likely to step to an asshole and hide the fact that he’s terrified to the point of nearly wetting himself during every second of the encounter.
Adult humiliation has been more personal.
All of the things in my opening questions have happened to me more than once.
The last several years have been quiet on the weight front. I haven’t really lost any weight, but I haven’t really gained any either. I’ve been oscillating around the same number (265) with a margin of ten pounds either way. I hadn’t suffered any humiliation, other than in private, in a few years.
That all changed two days ago.
After the incident I’m about to relate happened I was beyond pissed off at myself.
It was dark out and cold as fuck when I went to my truck to go to the store. The driver's side door was frozen shut. No surprise there, considering this is Ohio in mid-January. I opened the passenger side door and climbed over the center console slipping into the driver's seat. It was difficult, but I was in my driveway, and no one could see me, so I was unconcerned. Still, you want to talk about humiliating? Hauling my fat ass over that center area even with nobody watching left me hating myself more than a little bit.
I drove to the grocery store.
When I arrived at the store, the door was still stuck, but I managed to muscle it open from the inside, saving myself the humiliation of climbing over the center in a well-lit parking lot. Getting out, I closed the door, but it wouldn't latch. Thinking the mechanism was still stuck, I slammed the door. The door "latched" but it made a sound I didn't like.
I decided to deal with it when I finished shopping, I left it be.
When I returned to the truck, I tried the door, and it wouldn't open. The other doors opened easily, so I knew it wasn't still frozen. Then I made a mistake, I grasped the handle and pulled hard. Something in the handle mechanism let go.
With no other options, I loaded the groceries into the back of the truck and once more crawled in through the passenger side. This time lots of people saw me, and there was a clear snorting laugh from someone I never saw. To be upfront, I didn't look at any of the people. I didn't need to see the looks of ridicule or, worse, pity.
In many ways, the pity is worse than the scorn or amusement.
Once behind the driver's seat, I tried opening the door from the inside. As you can probably guess, there was no joy. I drove home, climbed over the center once again, unloaded the truck, and collapsed.
Not sure what I'm going to do.
I'm rubbish at all things mechanical, and I doubt I have the money to fix this at the moment. My only option is to risk humiliation every time I take the truck out. The very idea of that course of action makes me want to vomit and hide in the house, pretending there is no truck. Something that would be nothing more than an irritation or an annoyance to a reasonable person has me freaking out and considering burning my truck to the rims, so I never have to climb over the middle again.
I'm a fucking mess.
But I’m fat and an American.
We’re supposed to be ashamed,
We’re supposed to hate ourselves.
Our feelings don’t matter.
We are less than human.
- Josh (01/21/2020)
Just watch your mouth, or I'll sit on you
The word is out, better treat me right
'Cause I'm the king of cellulite
Ham on, ham on, ham on whole wheat, all right”
- "Fat" Weird Al Yankovic
Are you overweight?
Have you ever known the joys of needing two seats on a bus or airplane?
Do you fear going somewhere and learning the toilets are undersized?
Do you have to buy new pants and shorts with alarming regularity because you wear through the fabric on the inner thighs?
Do you purposely wait until everyone else has gotten their food before you do so you don’t look like a pig?
Do you know the shame of not being able to reach all of the ways back when you’re wiping and having to wear your soiled shame until you can slip away and change your underwear?
Are you covered in stretch marks that inevitably become the home for painful pimples?
Do you take multiple showers during the day because you sweat profusely, and the odor makes even you gag?
Are there times when you’re afraid to stand up because you might fall down and not be able to get back up?
When you eat, is there a rush of pleasure followed by a self-loathing so intense you want to die?
Are you treated like a joke, a burden, and a second class citizen in your own country?
In other words, Boils and Ghouls, are you FAT?
Americans have historically worshiped the fit and thin physical form. We like to see the body as a temple that must be maintained and honed. This view is reinforced by popular culture and media. We are constantly shown the “Beautiful People” and told how we can be like them if we weren’t so lazy and pathetic.
If we’re thin, we have worth, and if we’re not, we are worthless.
The irony of this is that the majority of us are overweight, in many cases morbidly so. I am part of that dynamic.
I am Josh, and I am morbidly obese.
I’ve always been heavy. When I was a kid, my weight, like of some many other fat kids, was the tool bullies used to humiliate me. I wasn’t brave back then, tell the truth and shame the devil I’ve never been brave, and I handled the bullying by being passive and doing my best t avoid confrontation. This was the tactic I used in stressful situations for the majority of my life.
Was my weight gain as I got older related to my molestation?
I’m sure it didn’t help, but I have to be honest and say that I probably would’ve been fat anyway. Life wasn’t easy for young Josh. Broken home, alcoholic father, a mother with a substance abuse problem, and well-meaning family members who regularly reminded me that I was chunky and needed to lose weight.
I’m not writing this to make people feel sorry for me. Just stating facts.
Like I said upstream, I was bullied. I wish I could say that I never made it easy for the bullies to do their business. But I did.
One time in third grade, I wore a pair of pants I knew were on their last leg. Halfway through the school day, I ran a little too fast, and the ass completely split out. I attempted to hide it out of shame, but of course, that was pointless.
Another time, in eighth grade, I wore a t-shirt so small that it made me look like I had an impressive set of boobs. All-day, I was humiliated with taunts and jeers. The worst was when one of the popular girls offered to give me her bra so that I wouldn’t jiggle like a whore.
These stories can stand for all of the others from when I was a kid.
The second half of my life has been a little easier when it comes to bullying. A few people have taken shots at me as an adult, but adult Josh is more likely to step to an asshole and hide the fact that he’s terrified to the point of nearly wetting himself during every second of the encounter.
Adult humiliation has been more personal.
All of the things in my opening questions have happened to me more than once.
The last several years have been quiet on the weight front. I haven’t really lost any weight, but I haven’t really gained any either. I’ve been oscillating around the same number (265) with a margin of ten pounds either way. I hadn’t suffered any humiliation, other than in private, in a few years.
That all changed two days ago.
After the incident I’m about to relate happened I was beyond pissed off at myself.
It was dark out and cold as fuck when I went to my truck to go to the store. The driver's side door was frozen shut. No surprise there, considering this is Ohio in mid-January. I opened the passenger side door and climbed over the center console slipping into the driver's seat. It was difficult, but I was in my driveway, and no one could see me, so I was unconcerned. Still, you want to talk about humiliating? Hauling my fat ass over that center area even with nobody watching left me hating myself more than a little bit.
I drove to the grocery store.
When I arrived at the store, the door was still stuck, but I managed to muscle it open from the inside, saving myself the humiliation of climbing over the center in a well-lit parking lot. Getting out, I closed the door, but it wouldn't latch. Thinking the mechanism was still stuck, I slammed the door. The door "latched" but it made a sound I didn't like.
I decided to deal with it when I finished shopping, I left it be.
When I returned to the truck, I tried the door, and it wouldn't open. The other doors opened easily, so I knew it wasn't still frozen. Then I made a mistake, I grasped the handle and pulled hard. Something in the handle mechanism let go.
With no other options, I loaded the groceries into the back of the truck and once more crawled in through the passenger side. This time lots of people saw me, and there was a clear snorting laugh from someone I never saw. To be upfront, I didn't look at any of the people. I didn't need to see the looks of ridicule or, worse, pity.
In many ways, the pity is worse than the scorn or amusement.
Once behind the driver's seat, I tried opening the door from the inside. As you can probably guess, there was no joy. I drove home, climbed over the center once again, unloaded the truck, and collapsed.
Not sure what I'm going to do.
I'm rubbish at all things mechanical, and I doubt I have the money to fix this at the moment. My only option is to risk humiliation every time I take the truck out. The very idea of that course of action makes me want to vomit and hide in the house, pretending there is no truck. Something that would be nothing more than an irritation or an annoyance to a reasonable person has me freaking out and considering burning my truck to the rims, so I never have to climb over the middle again.
I'm a fucking mess.
But I’m fat and an American.
We’re supposed to be ashamed,
We’re supposed to hate ourselves.
Our feelings don’t matter.
We are less than human.
- Josh (01/21/2020)
January 8, 2020
The American Forever War
Some of you may have noticed I’ve been radio silent on politics since the impeachment. I wanted some peace from the chaos for the holidays. It sounded like a good idea in my head. I spent a couple of weeks avoiding as much political bickering as I could, and in return, Christmas through New Year was a more or less pleasant experience.
Minus the holiday issues, of course.
Let me be clear, there was no serious drama this holiday season. Rolling into the Christmas stretch, I had no excitement. Christmas is my favorite time of the year (for me, that’s Thanksgiving Day until New Year’s Day). But this year I was just meh on the subject. I Wasn’t dreading it. I just didn’t care. Most years that would’ve been enough for me to say, “Fuck it” and bow out. But I didn’t mostly for the sake of my Granddaughter. This was her first Christmas, and I wanted her to be able to look back at the pictures/videos and know her grandfather was there and engaged.
And it worked.
Christmas Eve, more important to me than Christmas Day because all of my kids gather at our house, was wonderful. Christmas morning in front of the tree and Christmas afternoon at my Grandparent’s house were wonderful as well. Three days later, we spent the evening with my daughter’s in-laws family from Jordan. They’d come to meet their first granddaughter. We had a wonderful evening of eating, drinking, and music.
Yep, as the ball dropped on 2019, I had a glimmer of hope for the next year.
I should have learned to temper my optimism because now we have this clusterfuck.
The first trickle of news indicating the United States may have assassinated one of Iran’s top Generals, and a national hero to boot, got my attention. I know a bit, or maybe more than a bit about the region, and I am relatively well versed on who the man was and what he’d done. The man in question, Major General Qasem Soleimani commander of the Iranian Quds Force, was a monster and war criminal.
This is not up for debate.
The question for me, and I hope for those of you reading this, isn’t did the man deserve to die but if we should have killed him when and how we did. If he’d been killed during a battle or as part of a declared war, this would be a non-issue. That’s not what happened, though. What happened is that the United States used a drone to kill him on the grounds of the Baghdad International Airport. Baghdad, the capital city of what is supposed to be an allied nation. We destroyed a section of their largest airport and could’ve killed innocent Iraqi’s, our allies, to assassinate the man.
Again, for those of you in the back of the room, he was a monster.
The President and his sycophants keep saying the killing of the General saved a lot of lives. They’ve said it over and over yet have provided no details or proof to the people of the United States or the Congress. But let’s say it did save a significant number of lives. Let’s give Trump and the MAGAt’s that.
New question.
Why did Trump have him executed? I have a single thought on this. Trump assassinated Soleimani because of Obama. Now hear me out before you scoff or laugh at this. Trump has no foresight, he makes no plans, and there isn’t a logical cell in his brain. Trump has one clear goal since taking office, destroy President Obama’s legacy.
How does this fit my statement?
One of Obama’s single biggest achievements was neutralizing Iran as a potential nuclear power. Hard work from all of the major nations on Earth led to Iran giving up its nuclear weapons program. It also began what could have been a real normalization of relations between Iran and the west. Trump killed that deal. And why? Because he wants to “Renegotiate” the deal and make it his as opposed to Obama’s.
The next isn’t an achievement of Obamas. It’s a black mark. The attack on the American Consulate in Benghazi Libya resulted in four dead American citizens, including the ambassador, and fuel for GOP and Teaparty conspiracists that’ll last for decades. Trump spent years hammering Obama and Hillary Clinton on the Benghazi attack. Fast forward to New Year’s Eve and the attack on the American Embassy in Baghdad. During the attack, a mob occupied sections of the embassy for a short time before retreating. Trump saw this as his Benghazi moment, read his twitter if you don’t believe me, and responded with the assassination of General Soleimani.
Thus, making him better than Obama.
So, I ask again, should we have killed Soleimani?
No.
Soleimani was a hero in Iran. He was a hero in Iraq, where he’s been leading the Quds Force and Iraqi militia units against ISIS and knocking the crap out of them. He was one of the top military commanders of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps. Killing him has been seen as an act of war to the Iranians and proof to our supposed allies in Iraq, who want us out of the country now, that we don’t give a shit about any of them.
But did they really need any more proof?
Iran promises a proportional response to our actions. Trump has threated to bomb fifty-two Iranian cultural sites (by the way that’s a war crime boils and ghouls) if that happens.
What comes after we do that?
Let’s take a look at a few facts.
As of right now, Iran has no nukes (thanks Obama!). They do have the 14th largest army in the world. They possess modern weapons. The Iranian military is composed of battle-tested troops. And maybe most disturbingly, they pull the strings of the largest network of militias across the middle east and Asia, almost all of which were organized and trained by General Soleimani. And let’s not forget they have a really good relationship with China, a country that can stand toe to toe with us.
The American Neo-Cons. fundamentalist Christians, multinational oil companies, and the Israeli and Saudi governments have been saber-rattling and pushing for war with Iran for decades. They want the Iranian oil supply. They want to control Iran and keep them under a boot in order to “Preserve Peace” in the Middle East and, more importantly, protect Israel.
I don’t care if you’re Republican, Democrat, Independent, conservative, liberal, progressive, moderate, or any position I missed. We have to stop this before it’s too late. This isn’t Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, or Afghanistan. This has the potential to spread worldwide and destroy us. Millions, maybe tens of millions, could die.
And for what?
Because a rich racist child wants to show up the black man he hates.
Much like the European continent at the turn of the twentieth century, there are dozens, maybe hundreds, of different hostile factions and interests crammed into the tiny box we call the Middle East. Inevitably the match was going to get lit, and the powder keg would explode.
I fear Trump lit the match because he’s a petulant child.
But hey, it’s awesome we got to show the Iranians just how big our American dick is. That’ll help keep our spirits up when it’s 2030, and we’re still slugging it out across what’s left of the Middle East. That, of course, assumes we aren’t busy playing bust nuts with the Russians and the Chinese.
One last thing, Ahem…
NO MORE FUCKIGN FOREVER WAR!
- Josh (01/06/2020)
Dayton Ohio
Minus the holiday issues, of course.
Let me be clear, there was no serious drama this holiday season. Rolling into the Christmas stretch, I had no excitement. Christmas is my favorite time of the year (for me, that’s Thanksgiving Day until New Year’s Day). But this year I was just meh on the subject. I Wasn’t dreading it. I just didn’t care. Most years that would’ve been enough for me to say, “Fuck it” and bow out. But I didn’t mostly for the sake of my Granddaughter. This was her first Christmas, and I wanted her to be able to look back at the pictures/videos and know her grandfather was there and engaged.
And it worked.
Christmas Eve, more important to me than Christmas Day because all of my kids gather at our house, was wonderful. Christmas morning in front of the tree and Christmas afternoon at my Grandparent’s house were wonderful as well. Three days later, we spent the evening with my daughter’s in-laws family from Jordan. They’d come to meet their first granddaughter. We had a wonderful evening of eating, drinking, and music.
Yep, as the ball dropped on 2019, I had a glimmer of hope for the next year.
I should have learned to temper my optimism because now we have this clusterfuck.
The first trickle of news indicating the United States may have assassinated one of Iran’s top Generals, and a national hero to boot, got my attention. I know a bit, or maybe more than a bit about the region, and I am relatively well versed on who the man was and what he’d done. The man in question, Major General Qasem Soleimani commander of the Iranian Quds Force, was a monster and war criminal.
This is not up for debate.
The question for me, and I hope for those of you reading this, isn’t did the man deserve to die but if we should have killed him when and how we did. If he’d been killed during a battle or as part of a declared war, this would be a non-issue. That’s not what happened, though. What happened is that the United States used a drone to kill him on the grounds of the Baghdad International Airport. Baghdad, the capital city of what is supposed to be an allied nation. We destroyed a section of their largest airport and could’ve killed innocent Iraqi’s, our allies, to assassinate the man.
Again, for those of you in the back of the room, he was a monster.
The President and his sycophants keep saying the killing of the General saved a lot of lives. They’ve said it over and over yet have provided no details or proof to the people of the United States or the Congress. But let’s say it did save a significant number of lives. Let’s give Trump and the MAGAt’s that.
New question.
Why did Trump have him executed? I have a single thought on this. Trump assassinated Soleimani because of Obama. Now hear me out before you scoff or laugh at this. Trump has no foresight, he makes no plans, and there isn’t a logical cell in his brain. Trump has one clear goal since taking office, destroy President Obama’s legacy.
How does this fit my statement?
One of Obama’s single biggest achievements was neutralizing Iran as a potential nuclear power. Hard work from all of the major nations on Earth led to Iran giving up its nuclear weapons program. It also began what could have been a real normalization of relations between Iran and the west. Trump killed that deal. And why? Because he wants to “Renegotiate” the deal and make it his as opposed to Obama’s.
The next isn’t an achievement of Obamas. It’s a black mark. The attack on the American Consulate in Benghazi Libya resulted in four dead American citizens, including the ambassador, and fuel for GOP and Teaparty conspiracists that’ll last for decades. Trump spent years hammering Obama and Hillary Clinton on the Benghazi attack. Fast forward to New Year’s Eve and the attack on the American Embassy in Baghdad. During the attack, a mob occupied sections of the embassy for a short time before retreating. Trump saw this as his Benghazi moment, read his twitter if you don’t believe me, and responded with the assassination of General Soleimani.
Thus, making him better than Obama.
So, I ask again, should we have killed Soleimani?
No.
Soleimani was a hero in Iran. He was a hero in Iraq, where he’s been leading the Quds Force and Iraqi militia units against ISIS and knocking the crap out of them. He was one of the top military commanders of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps. Killing him has been seen as an act of war to the Iranians and proof to our supposed allies in Iraq, who want us out of the country now, that we don’t give a shit about any of them.
But did they really need any more proof?
Iran promises a proportional response to our actions. Trump has threated to bomb fifty-two Iranian cultural sites (by the way that’s a war crime boils and ghouls) if that happens.
What comes after we do that?
Let’s take a look at a few facts.
As of right now, Iran has no nukes (thanks Obama!). They do have the 14th largest army in the world. They possess modern weapons. The Iranian military is composed of battle-tested troops. And maybe most disturbingly, they pull the strings of the largest network of militias across the middle east and Asia, almost all of which were organized and trained by General Soleimani. And let’s not forget they have a really good relationship with China, a country that can stand toe to toe with us.
The American Neo-Cons. fundamentalist Christians, multinational oil companies, and the Israeli and Saudi governments have been saber-rattling and pushing for war with Iran for decades. They want the Iranian oil supply. They want to control Iran and keep them under a boot in order to “Preserve Peace” in the Middle East and, more importantly, protect Israel.
I don’t care if you’re Republican, Democrat, Independent, conservative, liberal, progressive, moderate, or any position I missed. We have to stop this before it’s too late. This isn’t Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, or Afghanistan. This has the potential to spread worldwide and destroy us. Millions, maybe tens of millions, could die.
And for what?
Because a rich racist child wants to show up the black man he hates.
Much like the European continent at the turn of the twentieth century, there are dozens, maybe hundreds, of different hostile factions and interests crammed into the tiny box we call the Middle East. Inevitably the match was going to get lit, and the powder keg would explode.
I fear Trump lit the match because he’s a petulant child.
But hey, it’s awesome we got to show the Iranians just how big our American dick is. That’ll help keep our spirits up when it’s 2030, and we’re still slugging it out across what’s left of the Middle East. That, of course, assumes we aren’t busy playing bust nuts with the Russians and the Chinese.
One last thing, Ahem…
NO MORE FUCKIGN FOREVER WAR!
- Josh (01/06/2020)
Dayton Ohio
December 27, 2019
Out With A Whimper
My personal essay series has been pretty quiet this year. Not because nothing’s been going on, but because too much has been rocking my world. If you follow me on traditional social media, you might have some idea of what I've been going through. That said, I haven’t been talking about some of the things I’ve been dealing with, and that might have been a mistake. In keeping my issues to myself or confining it to a small group of friends and family, I broke the cardinal rule of my mental health regime I established in 2012.
I stopped talking.
Really the absence of sharing started back in 2017, but as of this summer, it’s reached a height not seen since my mini-breakdown of 2010/2011. That breakdown resulted in my finally seeking medical help for my mental and emotional situation. Also, this was when I started my journaling (I will never not hate the fucking word blogging, and I will never use it if I can avoid it) for good and ill. The good being finally processing some of the shit I’ve been carrying around and the bad being the feeling of others I never meant to hurt but did.
I’m sorry, Dad.
That said, there were more than a couple of people who I hope had their feeling wrecked in the process.
A quick comment. My journaling started under the advice of my doctor. I was unwilling to attend regular therapy, and I still am, but I needed to unload and unpack all of the baggage I’d been carrying for thirty-five years.
The journal entries I made during 2011 and 2012 saved my life.
Full stop.
Do not pass go and do not collect two hundred dollars.
Through them, I made the first steps in dealing with my PTSD from my rape as a child, my sexuality, and my fight against bipolar disorder. The journals allowed me to open up to my wife about issues I’d been afraid to broach for years, and through that, my marriage grew stronger.
Long story short, I got better.
Fast forward to 2017.
I’ve talked about the issues and drama surrounding my middle son ad nausea in the past, so I’m just going to give a quick recap of the situation up until the summer of 2017. In September of 2015, my middle son and his wife came to live with us. They were substance abusers, and the next two years were hell. There's no need or desire for me to rehash any of what went on during those two years. If you’re interested, check my journal entries during that time and the six to seven months following to get the basic rundown. When my son finally “Left,” I thought that was the end of my major problems.
Boy howdy was I fucking wrong about that.
Not only did issues with my son intensify, but I also started rapid cycling in my depression/bipolar disorder. I’m not going to go into any great detail on these issues because they all need their own journal entries and not paragraphs in the end of the year rundown.
Some of the highlights of the next year and a half (mid-2017 until the end of 2018) were me getting and leaving three good jobs. My wife decided we needed to buy a house even though I’d been adamant since we lost our first house that I would never own another one. In the end, she bought it, but my name isn’t associated with it at all. Near the end of 2018, I got the best job I’ve ever snagged and frankly a better job than I ever expected to have. We had a great Christmas, and we rolled into 2019 with a bright future on the horizon.
2019 has nearly broken me.
On January 7, 2019, I was fired from my job for a YouTube video I’d made in 2014 about how much I loved working in the Adult Care industry and how weird it could be at times. I took the firing to three lawyers, each of whom said it was a BS firing, but because of the way Ohio labor laws are written, there was nothing I could do. I filed for unemployment and appealed the hell out of it, but my former employer fought it, and in the end, I received nothing.
Between mid-March, when my unemployment was denied for the last time, and mid-June, I was hired for five different jobs, and I was unable to keep any of them. The long and the short explanation is anxiety.
It started with constant apprehension and an inability to sleep. It ended with me hiding in a janitor's closet and crying while I tried to catch my breath because the very idea of mopping fifty feet of hallway overwhelmed me.
I felt like I was lost.
I felt like I was crazy.
I felt like I was useless.
I felt like I wanted to die.
When I was nearing my breaking point, the night of the closet meltdown, my wife told me to quit my job and make a doctor's appointment. I did what I was told, and three days later, I was sitting in Doctor J’s office crying. She told me I’d progressed to a new level of mental illness and needed to apply for disability. It wasn’t the first time it’d been suggested, once I’d even started the process but stopped halfway through. She also said I needed to start seeing a Psychiatrist because first, it was mandatory for disability, and second a psychiatrist could prescribe medication she couldn’t.
I took her suggestions.
I’ll talk about the process of applying for disability later. I will say I was denied within two weeks of applying, but I’d done my research and knew that was par for the course in the process. I’m in the middle of my first appeal, and if that is denied, I’ll secure a disability lawyer. This all transpired in June and July.
The rest of the year has been a mixed bag. I turned forty-three. My first grandchild was born in October. The transmission in my truck that I still owe ten thousand dollars on died, and we had to take out a loan to fix it. My wife got promoted with no pay raise and then had her workload doubled with no raise during a consolidation process. Now she’s miserable, and I feel helpless about it. My middle son popped back up into our lives, and while my wife is receptive to a possible relationship with him, I am not.
So yeah, a mixed bag.
Now we’re moving into 2020. I have no real expectation of a better year. Maybe I’ll get my disability. Maybe my wife will get a better job. Maybe things will work out with my son. Maybe my father and I will talk again. Maybe Trump won’t be reelected. Maybe Bernie will be President. Maybe I’ll get my blood sugar back under control. Maybe I’ll lose weight. Maybe I won’t lose a foot to diabetes. Maybe I won’t have a panic attack before my oldest son’s wedding in August. Maybe I’ll love Christmas again.
Maybe I’ll sit on that bench on the beach in Mexico.
- Josh (12/27/2019)
POSTSCRIPT: Yes, I am 100% aware this entire journal entry comes off as whiny and self-indulgent. I don’t think I’m a victim of people or the universe. This is just the hand I’ve been dealt and drawn. This is just how I feel.
I stopped talking.
Really the absence of sharing started back in 2017, but as of this summer, it’s reached a height not seen since my mini-breakdown of 2010/2011. That breakdown resulted in my finally seeking medical help for my mental and emotional situation. Also, this was when I started my journaling (I will never not hate the fucking word blogging, and I will never use it if I can avoid it) for good and ill. The good being finally processing some of the shit I’ve been carrying around and the bad being the feeling of others I never meant to hurt but did.
I’m sorry, Dad.
That said, there were more than a couple of people who I hope had their feeling wrecked in the process.
A quick comment. My journaling started under the advice of my doctor. I was unwilling to attend regular therapy, and I still am, but I needed to unload and unpack all of the baggage I’d been carrying for thirty-five years.
The journal entries I made during 2011 and 2012 saved my life.
Full stop.
Do not pass go and do not collect two hundred dollars.
Through them, I made the first steps in dealing with my PTSD from my rape as a child, my sexuality, and my fight against bipolar disorder. The journals allowed me to open up to my wife about issues I’d been afraid to broach for years, and through that, my marriage grew stronger.
Long story short, I got better.
Fast forward to 2017.
I’ve talked about the issues and drama surrounding my middle son ad nausea in the past, so I’m just going to give a quick recap of the situation up until the summer of 2017. In September of 2015, my middle son and his wife came to live with us. They were substance abusers, and the next two years were hell. There's no need or desire for me to rehash any of what went on during those two years. If you’re interested, check my journal entries during that time and the six to seven months following to get the basic rundown. When my son finally “Left,” I thought that was the end of my major problems.
Boy howdy was I fucking wrong about that.
Not only did issues with my son intensify, but I also started rapid cycling in my depression/bipolar disorder. I’m not going to go into any great detail on these issues because they all need their own journal entries and not paragraphs in the end of the year rundown.
Some of the highlights of the next year and a half (mid-2017 until the end of 2018) were me getting and leaving three good jobs. My wife decided we needed to buy a house even though I’d been adamant since we lost our first house that I would never own another one. In the end, she bought it, but my name isn’t associated with it at all. Near the end of 2018, I got the best job I’ve ever snagged and frankly a better job than I ever expected to have. We had a great Christmas, and we rolled into 2019 with a bright future on the horizon.
2019 has nearly broken me.
On January 7, 2019, I was fired from my job for a YouTube video I’d made in 2014 about how much I loved working in the Adult Care industry and how weird it could be at times. I took the firing to three lawyers, each of whom said it was a BS firing, but because of the way Ohio labor laws are written, there was nothing I could do. I filed for unemployment and appealed the hell out of it, but my former employer fought it, and in the end, I received nothing.
Between mid-March, when my unemployment was denied for the last time, and mid-June, I was hired for five different jobs, and I was unable to keep any of them. The long and the short explanation is anxiety.
It started with constant apprehension and an inability to sleep. It ended with me hiding in a janitor's closet and crying while I tried to catch my breath because the very idea of mopping fifty feet of hallway overwhelmed me.
I felt like I was lost.
I felt like I was crazy.
I felt like I was useless.
I felt like I wanted to die.
When I was nearing my breaking point, the night of the closet meltdown, my wife told me to quit my job and make a doctor's appointment. I did what I was told, and three days later, I was sitting in Doctor J’s office crying. She told me I’d progressed to a new level of mental illness and needed to apply for disability. It wasn’t the first time it’d been suggested, once I’d even started the process but stopped halfway through. She also said I needed to start seeing a Psychiatrist because first, it was mandatory for disability, and second a psychiatrist could prescribe medication she couldn’t.
I took her suggestions.
I’ll talk about the process of applying for disability later. I will say I was denied within two weeks of applying, but I’d done my research and knew that was par for the course in the process. I’m in the middle of my first appeal, and if that is denied, I’ll secure a disability lawyer. This all transpired in June and July.
The rest of the year has been a mixed bag. I turned forty-three. My first grandchild was born in October. The transmission in my truck that I still owe ten thousand dollars on died, and we had to take out a loan to fix it. My wife got promoted with no pay raise and then had her workload doubled with no raise during a consolidation process. Now she’s miserable, and I feel helpless about it. My middle son popped back up into our lives, and while my wife is receptive to a possible relationship with him, I am not.
So yeah, a mixed bag.
Now we’re moving into 2020. I have no real expectation of a better year. Maybe I’ll get my disability. Maybe my wife will get a better job. Maybe things will work out with my son. Maybe my father and I will talk again. Maybe Trump won’t be reelected. Maybe Bernie will be President. Maybe I’ll get my blood sugar back under control. Maybe I’ll lose weight. Maybe I won’t lose a foot to diabetes. Maybe I won’t have a panic attack before my oldest son’s wedding in August. Maybe I’ll love Christmas again.
Maybe I’ll sit on that bench on the beach in Mexico.
- Josh (12/27/2019)
POSTSCRIPT: Yes, I am 100% aware this entire journal entry comes off as whiny and self-indulgent. I don’t think I’m a victim of people or the universe. This is just the hand I’ve been dealt and drawn. This is just how I feel.
