Oh, the never ending Existential Crisis. The what the fuck am I doing, who the fuck am I, what the fuck am I supposed to do, what is the point of any of this shit and why the hell did I get out of bed today and what has my life become, what’s the fucking point?
I’m sure there’s a more poetic way to sum that up, to explain it, that’s the cutthroat version of. The shit that goes through our heads. If you’ve never had one of these, you may possibly be a robot. Or maybe you’re just lucky in a sense. Because while they’re a bitch, they do force you to take a hard look in the mirror to try to figure it all out. Yourself, the past, what the fuck you want moving forward and it’s a purge of the demons that have been banging around in our heads for a while that we’ve either ignored or have come to not really hear them after a while. And then we snap. And what does that snap feel like?
Hell. And that’s the understatement of the year. It’s where you scream, “FUCK” at the top of your lungs, you want to beat the shit out of something, you scream at the top of your lungs on what the fuck is the point, a slew of shit, everything that’s been rattling around in your head, you scream and cry, pound shit and end up contemplating the entirety of existence itself.
For me, it happens, full-blown, almost quarterly. If I get lucky maybe 3 times a year. And when it hits, it hits. I know when it’s building. I get dark. I lose interest in shit. My negativity takes the wheel and no matter how hard I try to ground myself, it’s a bitch. Now I could be proactive, because I know it’s coming but figure, fuck it, I’m not there yet; so this is clearly something I need to work on.
And I’ll be honest with you. When the sky comes tumbling down, and everything with it; metaphorical cats, dogs, frogs, locusts and bowling balls that knock your head off and it doesn’t seem to let up, one fucking thing after another, we keep going and when it’s over feel like we’ve walked off of a battlefield. No matter how hard we try to keep it together and sort it out after, there’s still a residual of it. And we internalize a few of the cats, dogs, frogs, bowling balls and locusts, they turn into the demons in our heads, jumping around and then quieting down, making a home, waiting for something to stir them, and when they’re stirred, (usually by some pettily shit compared to what we’ve been through), it could be weeks or months later, they go bat shit crazy, rattling the brain, and here comes the what does it all mean, heinous and disastrous Existential Crisis. Granted I have this down to a science now. It doesn’t stop it, I just know it’s phases as it unravels and I roll with it. It usually lasts a few hours, pure and utter insanity and then I begin to sort it out. Pick up the pieces, pick myself up and make an attempt to find a straw to grasp to pull myself out. And then it lifts.
For me it’s always been in the back of my head and will probably always be there, the questions. I’ve been contemplating my own existence since I was young. I do it everyday. I meditate at night and in my practice I meditate to find my purpose, my meaning in this life, what I’m supposed to do, etc. Now this sounds kumbayah, but it’s not easy and I do it to keep hunting for that meaning, to not let up. And sometimes I can’t connect. I can’t hit that higher vibration. There is no feeling behind the words, behind the intentions. Another sign the full-blown Existential Crisis is coming.
For me they’re incredibly dark. I yell at the walls, the ceiling, asking what’s the point, it’s all shit, I didn’t ask for this and give my life to someone who wants it because I sure as hell don’t and it’s the biggest and worst joke of all. Going day in and day out to feed ourselves, get up in the morning to work to keep a roof over our head or food in our mouths, do whatever we have to do to keep ourselves alive to face another day. I punch shit. Which is stupid because my hands are fucked, but I’ve beaten the hell out of them from fight training, sparing and performing. Punching shit doesn’t help them... I nailed an apartment door once that was steal, that snapped me out of it. Now. I am NOT saying any of this is healthy, but shit I go through and right now we’re in weird times and shit is bound to happen, in it’s own way to everyone. We’re not robots. We’re human, and this shit is real, it happens and is nothing to be ashamed of. What I’m trying to get at is this. Don’t hurt yourselves and me talking about my battles with it are not saying it’s a good thing. It’s to show you you’re not alone and give perspective. So… punch a pillow, not a steal door… (Granted I tried that as a kid and it just made me more mad… I destroyed the pillow.) So maybe just rip up a crappy book you’ll never read again, you can even do it to mine… If it helps, fuck it.
My inner demons are monsters. There’s a lot of shit I don’t like, there’s a lot of regret and what the fucks. I try to clean out my mental closet as much as I can to ward off these episodes, but hey, sometimes in life there isn’t a big enough broom and dust pan to do the job and you’re sorely lacking the wheel barrel and shovel fit for the job.
The key is, while we want to give up on life in the moment, we really don’t. Now should somebody tell me this while I’m in the throws of one of these episodes, well, Buddy, you just poured gas on the fire. You have to let it burn out.
I had one of these recently. Over pettily shit and knowing it was pettily in the midst of it I became even more angry and disgusted with myself because I wasn’t grateful for what I had and how fortunate I was and that just flung me further into the madness.
I’m going to be going into some heavy shit in this story; the book I’m writing is based off of this concept. Now remember, as much shit I’ll be talking about wanting to be snuffed off the planet; I’m still here. Work through it. Get it out. Do not let it take you out, no matter how dark the thoughts get, you’ll snap out. If it doesn’t feel like it, pick up the goddamn phone and call someone to help. To talk to you. Talk you off the proverbial ledge.
So, my dealings with the clean up of the dumbass ex were over. Everything was working to me building my life back up my way. I had gotten off the ride and put the coup de grace on the entirety of it. So I should be good, right? All the thinking I did on it to right myself was good, right? Talking to my doctor was good, right? I was good. Ha. Sure I was. Like there was no residual bullshit up there in the shit filled attic of my brain I hadn’t thought to get the wheel barrel out for. There were new triggers I found and smashed the hell out of, but I didn’t do a deep enough of a clean.
It was midweek. I had a shit day at work. I was in a foul mood. The asshole pharmacy had been giving me the run around for days about finishing filling my prescription for my heart medication. I have arrhythmia, but add a mild heart attack, few cardiac arrests and well, you get to pop a pill for the rest of your life. Anyway, the side effects of not getting the shit can be pretty bad. I didn’t feel like having a stroke or something along those lines. Their automated system was fucked, everyday was a different story. This time I got an asshole that told me they canceled it because they were out, and it was my fault that my doctor hadn’t called in a new one, which was news to me.
Some shit I ordered got lost in the mail and I’d have to call the post office, great and then well, the stupid electric and gas company decided to never hit the start button on the utility transfer after I gave them $300 to do it. So I had to make that call since they were billing my complex and had to figure that out and mutter the idiot’s name it was under before.
I got off the phone with the pharmacy, called the electric company and said fuck it with the post office. I thought of my day at work, irritating myself, not paying attention and banged my shoulder on the door going into my bedroom… and it began.
I remember slamming the door, screaming fuck you at it, then just yelling, “fuck, what the fuck!”, and bitching, literally venting at the top of my lungs about the idiots I’d dealt with, that I didn’t need this shit then started saying fuck you, well, yelling fuck you at myself, calling myself an ungrateful and stupid bitch. What a shit head I was, I wanted off the ride, I didn’t ask for this shit, (all yelling and crying, my voice going horse), and of course…WHAT THE FUCK WAS THE POINT?! Life was a shit sandwich I had to keep taking a bite out of everyday; I didn’t ask for this life, it was imposed upon me. And what had I done with it? Nothing. Jack shit. 37 and rebuilding after the bottom had fallen out for I don’t know how many times and the thought of another 37 years of this shit made me even angrier, looking at the ceiling screaming about how I didn’t want it, give it to someone else who did. I’ll swap, give it to someone who is sick or dying that wants to live. I’ll punch out, I’ll gladly clock out, check out, get off the ride and give it to them. I went down the rabbit hole of the friends of mine who’d died. One’s that were wonderful souls and died of awful fucking diseases or were in horrible accidents. I thought of the suicides. That took it down a notch. I remembered how it impacted me. How awful I felt that they had gotten to the point of suffering to take their own lives. And well, that wasn’t an option for me because I couldn’t do that to the people around me. That was a level of selfish I couldn’t get to. I had been at one point, and saw the fall out and despair and hell it put people close to me through. Not that I’m some great thing, but it hurts people when you hurt yourself. I got even angrier that I couldn’t take myself out and had to keep going for other people. That seemed like another load of horse shit.
And then I went into the what the fuck am I here for? What has been the point of all the bullshit? What is the point to all of it? I am my worst critic, I see the worst in me, more than anyone could come up with, I’m my worst enemy and self-loathing, in those times, oh, it’s there. Pure hatred.
I had made it to the floor at this point. Cracking my finger back into place from punching something in my fit of rage. I think it was my desk. Wood is hard. FYI. It will fuck your hand up. And snapping shit back into place sucks. Don’t try it…
So I sat there staring. Just blank. Nothing. Wondering if anything I had done mattered. What the fuck was I supposed to do? What part of my life had I wasted? How did I get here, on the floor, alone? And now, (since I was staying on the ride), what the hell was I supposed to do?
Keep writing. Keep working to make enough scratch to launch this project off the ground. Relate my stories to shit other people might be going through, try to help them through. I’m no saint, I‘m sure as shit no fucking prophet and I sure as hell don’t have all the answers, but if my pain, misery and bullshit experiences, (which I’ll never trade), can help people get through some tough shit, fuck it. I’m in. That’s the focus. Is it my purpose? I have no fucking idea but I know it’s what I can do.
This is what keeps me going. Writing. Helping others, even if it’s that 1/100 I talk about to get through some shit. Whether it’s personally or in society. To relate to times of hell, self-loathing, on the brink of giving up and losing hope. I’ve lost hope numerous times. It’s like a dog that keeps running away and I’m still trying to train it to stay put so it doesn’t get hit by a car.
Through multiple outlets, the goals I have set for myself, high ones, and self-reflection of why I have these moments, checking my head on a regular basis and trying to steady the ship of my own life, I know if I don’t let up on the engine, I’ll get there. It will be a bitch. One I’ve done before. Reinventing myself is something I’ve done many times. I have an idea of the road that lies ahead. I know that it will be covered in my own blood, sweat and tears and my screams will be trapped in the stones that crumble beneath my feet. But I know to keep walking, to keep going. Because if I don’t, there is no Existential Crisis in the future. It’s done. There I am on the floor. No moving forward. If I do nothing, nothing happens.
So I get up. Tell myself to knock it the fuck off, tell myself to unclench my fists and jaw and to get going on what I feel I’m meant to. I grab a pen. I start writing. Usually it’s illegible. It doesn’t matter. I’ve now redirected the fire, flung it in a protective field, one that will ignite the way to get me where I want to go, where I need to go to thrive in my time here. To write. Pour my fucking guts out on the keyboard and grow the bitch from there. I refuse to go down defeated, leaving nothing in my wake, no legacy, nothing to be said for my existence. So I welcome the Existential Crisis. I don’t force them on, I let them come naturally. I let them unfold, I don’t hold back. I embrace the purge until there’s nothing left. Then the smoke clears and there I am. The fire now lighting the path I’m supposed to be on and I start walking. It’s slow at first, then turns into a run. And I run until the ground falls out from beneath me and I climb back up and do it again. And then inevitably stop again, lose my mind, (like hope), also something I have yet to train to stay put, and repeat. And with the knowing that fire will transform to light the path, I can pull myself out of it.
So the next time you feel yourself in one of these situations, know the shit happens. But it’s a purge. You become lighter. Your focus can zero in on what you want and that fury of hatred for life you had moments ago has turned into the fury that will ignite the path in front of you. And run. Run your fucking ass off towards it. Toward what you want. Toward what you feel your purpose is or might be, or even just a vague idea. Nothing is out of reach. That’s all bullshit if you’ve been told it is. If you want it, you can make it, you can be it, you can become it. But it doesn’t’ mean it will be easy. The Existential Crisis will hit again. You will want to give up, but remember like I do, it has phases. Learn them. Let yourself process through it. Scream. Cry. Lose your shit. Then zero in on what you want. You will feel lost. But once the fury has calmed, you will feel it grow again, but this time in a hell, no, I’m not giving up. Fuck failure. Fuck nothingness. Fuck the past of today. I want (insert whatever it may be), and fucking go.
And never quit. We all have a purpose, a meaning, even if you haven’t found what you think yours is, hell I don’t even know if what I think mine is, is; but who the fuck cares? If it drives you, do it. Conquer life. Make something of it. It’s all we’ve got. There’s literally nothing else to do. So whatever you have in your head, start putting it together, put the thoughts to paper, let yourself dream, plan that shit, act on in, build, and run with it. And don’t give a damn what anybody says. It’s your fury, your fire lit path to the destiny you have chosen. That’s what matters. That’s it.
And Hope comes back. The Mind comes back. The Fury redirects. And after my 3-4 times a year of, “what the fucking fuck, fuck this, what’s the fucking point?” comes and goes, then well, I’m alright. Not slap happy but alright. If there’s a fire burning around me to give me the gumption I need to keep going, that fury I love, life is good.
And when the hell did you ever think that would come out of my mouth? Heh. But it did. And with that productive fury, I’m at my best.
May your fires burn bright to light your path, it’s time to run.
Until next time…
If you or someone you know is going through one of these moments and can’t get out or thinking of taking their own life, please reach out and get help or pass this number along so they can get the help they need. Life can be hell, it can be devastating, it can be cruel but it can also be beautiful, and through all of its mishaps, it’s worth living. And something you don’t want to miss. The ups will outweigh the downs even when we can’t see the other side.
Please call if you feel this way or be with the person who needs help to make the call. Here is the number and never be afraid to pick up the phone. It’s what it’s there there for, to help.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255. You will also find on their website a live chat as well. Suicidepreventionlifeline.org
Be well and take care. We’re all in this together… Blessed Be.
I’m sure there’s a more poetic way to sum that up, to explain it, that’s the cutthroat version of. The shit that goes through our heads. If you’ve never had one of these, you may possibly be a robot. Or maybe you’re just lucky in a sense. Because while they’re a bitch, they do force you to take a hard look in the mirror to try to figure it all out. Yourself, the past, what the fuck you want moving forward and it’s a purge of the demons that have been banging around in our heads for a while that we’ve either ignored or have come to not really hear them after a while. And then we snap. And what does that snap feel like?
Hell. And that’s the understatement of the year. It’s where you scream, “FUCK” at the top of your lungs, you want to beat the shit out of something, you scream at the top of your lungs on what the fuck is the point, a slew of shit, everything that’s been rattling around in your head, you scream and cry, pound shit and end up contemplating the entirety of existence itself.
For me, it happens, full-blown, almost quarterly. If I get lucky maybe 3 times a year. And when it hits, it hits. I know when it’s building. I get dark. I lose interest in shit. My negativity takes the wheel and no matter how hard I try to ground myself, it’s a bitch. Now I could be proactive, because I know it’s coming but figure, fuck it, I’m not there yet; so this is clearly something I need to work on.
And I’ll be honest with you. When the sky comes tumbling down, and everything with it; metaphorical cats, dogs, frogs, locusts and bowling balls that knock your head off and it doesn’t seem to let up, one fucking thing after another, we keep going and when it’s over feel like we’ve walked off of a battlefield. No matter how hard we try to keep it together and sort it out after, there’s still a residual of it. And we internalize a few of the cats, dogs, frogs, bowling balls and locusts, they turn into the demons in our heads, jumping around and then quieting down, making a home, waiting for something to stir them, and when they’re stirred, (usually by some pettily shit compared to what we’ve been through), it could be weeks or months later, they go bat shit crazy, rattling the brain, and here comes the what does it all mean, heinous and disastrous Existential Crisis. Granted I have this down to a science now. It doesn’t stop it, I just know it’s phases as it unravels and I roll with it. It usually lasts a few hours, pure and utter insanity and then I begin to sort it out. Pick up the pieces, pick myself up and make an attempt to find a straw to grasp to pull myself out. And then it lifts.
For me it’s always been in the back of my head and will probably always be there, the questions. I’ve been contemplating my own existence since I was young. I do it everyday. I meditate at night and in my practice I meditate to find my purpose, my meaning in this life, what I’m supposed to do, etc. Now this sounds kumbayah, but it’s not easy and I do it to keep hunting for that meaning, to not let up. And sometimes I can’t connect. I can’t hit that higher vibration. There is no feeling behind the words, behind the intentions. Another sign the full-blown Existential Crisis is coming.
For me they’re incredibly dark. I yell at the walls, the ceiling, asking what’s the point, it’s all shit, I didn’t ask for this and give my life to someone who wants it because I sure as hell don’t and it’s the biggest and worst joke of all. Going day in and day out to feed ourselves, get up in the morning to work to keep a roof over our head or food in our mouths, do whatever we have to do to keep ourselves alive to face another day. I punch shit. Which is stupid because my hands are fucked, but I’ve beaten the hell out of them from fight training, sparing and performing. Punching shit doesn’t help them... I nailed an apartment door once that was steal, that snapped me out of it. Now. I am NOT saying any of this is healthy, but shit I go through and right now we’re in weird times and shit is bound to happen, in it’s own way to everyone. We’re not robots. We’re human, and this shit is real, it happens and is nothing to be ashamed of. What I’m trying to get at is this. Don’t hurt yourselves and me talking about my battles with it are not saying it’s a good thing. It’s to show you you’re not alone and give perspective. So… punch a pillow, not a steal door… (Granted I tried that as a kid and it just made me more mad… I destroyed the pillow.) So maybe just rip up a crappy book you’ll never read again, you can even do it to mine… If it helps, fuck it.
My inner demons are monsters. There’s a lot of shit I don’t like, there’s a lot of regret and what the fucks. I try to clean out my mental closet as much as I can to ward off these episodes, but hey, sometimes in life there isn’t a big enough broom and dust pan to do the job and you’re sorely lacking the wheel barrel and shovel fit for the job.
The key is, while we want to give up on life in the moment, we really don’t. Now should somebody tell me this while I’m in the throws of one of these episodes, well, Buddy, you just poured gas on the fire. You have to let it burn out.
I had one of these recently. Over pettily shit and knowing it was pettily in the midst of it I became even more angry and disgusted with myself because I wasn’t grateful for what I had and how fortunate I was and that just flung me further into the madness.
I’m going to be going into some heavy shit in this story; the book I’m writing is based off of this concept. Now remember, as much shit I’ll be talking about wanting to be snuffed off the planet; I’m still here. Work through it. Get it out. Do not let it take you out, no matter how dark the thoughts get, you’ll snap out. If it doesn’t feel like it, pick up the goddamn phone and call someone to help. To talk to you. Talk you off the proverbial ledge.
So, my dealings with the clean up of the dumbass ex were over. Everything was working to me building my life back up my way. I had gotten off the ride and put the coup de grace on the entirety of it. So I should be good, right? All the thinking I did on it to right myself was good, right? Talking to my doctor was good, right? I was good. Ha. Sure I was. Like there was no residual bullshit up there in the shit filled attic of my brain I hadn’t thought to get the wheel barrel out for. There were new triggers I found and smashed the hell out of, but I didn’t do a deep enough of a clean.
It was midweek. I had a shit day at work. I was in a foul mood. The asshole pharmacy had been giving me the run around for days about finishing filling my prescription for my heart medication. I have arrhythmia, but add a mild heart attack, few cardiac arrests and well, you get to pop a pill for the rest of your life. Anyway, the side effects of not getting the shit can be pretty bad. I didn’t feel like having a stroke or something along those lines. Their automated system was fucked, everyday was a different story. This time I got an asshole that told me they canceled it because they were out, and it was my fault that my doctor hadn’t called in a new one, which was news to me.
Some shit I ordered got lost in the mail and I’d have to call the post office, great and then well, the stupid electric and gas company decided to never hit the start button on the utility transfer after I gave them $300 to do it. So I had to make that call since they were billing my complex and had to figure that out and mutter the idiot’s name it was under before.
I got off the phone with the pharmacy, called the electric company and said fuck it with the post office. I thought of my day at work, irritating myself, not paying attention and banged my shoulder on the door going into my bedroom… and it began.
I remember slamming the door, screaming fuck you at it, then just yelling, “fuck, what the fuck!”, and bitching, literally venting at the top of my lungs about the idiots I’d dealt with, that I didn’t need this shit then started saying fuck you, well, yelling fuck you at myself, calling myself an ungrateful and stupid bitch. What a shit head I was, I wanted off the ride, I didn’t ask for this shit, (all yelling and crying, my voice going horse), and of course…WHAT THE FUCK WAS THE POINT?! Life was a shit sandwich I had to keep taking a bite out of everyday; I didn’t ask for this life, it was imposed upon me. And what had I done with it? Nothing. Jack shit. 37 and rebuilding after the bottom had fallen out for I don’t know how many times and the thought of another 37 years of this shit made me even angrier, looking at the ceiling screaming about how I didn’t want it, give it to someone else who did. I’ll swap, give it to someone who is sick or dying that wants to live. I’ll punch out, I’ll gladly clock out, check out, get off the ride and give it to them. I went down the rabbit hole of the friends of mine who’d died. One’s that were wonderful souls and died of awful fucking diseases or were in horrible accidents. I thought of the suicides. That took it down a notch. I remembered how it impacted me. How awful I felt that they had gotten to the point of suffering to take their own lives. And well, that wasn’t an option for me because I couldn’t do that to the people around me. That was a level of selfish I couldn’t get to. I had been at one point, and saw the fall out and despair and hell it put people close to me through. Not that I’m some great thing, but it hurts people when you hurt yourself. I got even angrier that I couldn’t take myself out and had to keep going for other people. That seemed like another load of horse shit.
And then I went into the what the fuck am I here for? What has been the point of all the bullshit? What is the point to all of it? I am my worst critic, I see the worst in me, more than anyone could come up with, I’m my worst enemy and self-loathing, in those times, oh, it’s there. Pure hatred.
I had made it to the floor at this point. Cracking my finger back into place from punching something in my fit of rage. I think it was my desk. Wood is hard. FYI. It will fuck your hand up. And snapping shit back into place sucks. Don’t try it…
So I sat there staring. Just blank. Nothing. Wondering if anything I had done mattered. What the fuck was I supposed to do? What part of my life had I wasted? How did I get here, on the floor, alone? And now, (since I was staying on the ride), what the hell was I supposed to do?
Keep writing. Keep working to make enough scratch to launch this project off the ground. Relate my stories to shit other people might be going through, try to help them through. I’m no saint, I‘m sure as shit no fucking prophet and I sure as hell don’t have all the answers, but if my pain, misery and bullshit experiences, (which I’ll never trade), can help people get through some tough shit, fuck it. I’m in. That’s the focus. Is it my purpose? I have no fucking idea but I know it’s what I can do.
This is what keeps me going. Writing. Helping others, even if it’s that 1/100 I talk about to get through some shit. Whether it’s personally or in society. To relate to times of hell, self-loathing, on the brink of giving up and losing hope. I’ve lost hope numerous times. It’s like a dog that keeps running away and I’m still trying to train it to stay put so it doesn’t get hit by a car.
Through multiple outlets, the goals I have set for myself, high ones, and self-reflection of why I have these moments, checking my head on a regular basis and trying to steady the ship of my own life, I know if I don’t let up on the engine, I’ll get there. It will be a bitch. One I’ve done before. Reinventing myself is something I’ve done many times. I have an idea of the road that lies ahead. I know that it will be covered in my own blood, sweat and tears and my screams will be trapped in the stones that crumble beneath my feet. But I know to keep walking, to keep going. Because if I don’t, there is no Existential Crisis in the future. It’s done. There I am on the floor. No moving forward. If I do nothing, nothing happens.
So I get up. Tell myself to knock it the fuck off, tell myself to unclench my fists and jaw and to get going on what I feel I’m meant to. I grab a pen. I start writing. Usually it’s illegible. It doesn’t matter. I’ve now redirected the fire, flung it in a protective field, one that will ignite the way to get me where I want to go, where I need to go to thrive in my time here. To write. Pour my fucking guts out on the keyboard and grow the bitch from there. I refuse to go down defeated, leaving nothing in my wake, no legacy, nothing to be said for my existence. So I welcome the Existential Crisis. I don’t force them on, I let them come naturally. I let them unfold, I don’t hold back. I embrace the purge until there’s nothing left. Then the smoke clears and there I am. The fire now lighting the path I’m supposed to be on and I start walking. It’s slow at first, then turns into a run. And I run until the ground falls out from beneath me and I climb back up and do it again. And then inevitably stop again, lose my mind, (like hope), also something I have yet to train to stay put, and repeat. And with the knowing that fire will transform to light the path, I can pull myself out of it.
So the next time you feel yourself in one of these situations, know the shit happens. But it’s a purge. You become lighter. Your focus can zero in on what you want and that fury of hatred for life you had moments ago has turned into the fury that will ignite the path in front of you. And run. Run your fucking ass off towards it. Toward what you want. Toward what you feel your purpose is or might be, or even just a vague idea. Nothing is out of reach. That’s all bullshit if you’ve been told it is. If you want it, you can make it, you can be it, you can become it. But it doesn’t’ mean it will be easy. The Existential Crisis will hit again. You will want to give up, but remember like I do, it has phases. Learn them. Let yourself process through it. Scream. Cry. Lose your shit. Then zero in on what you want. You will feel lost. But once the fury has calmed, you will feel it grow again, but this time in a hell, no, I’m not giving up. Fuck failure. Fuck nothingness. Fuck the past of today. I want (insert whatever it may be), and fucking go.
And never quit. We all have a purpose, a meaning, even if you haven’t found what you think yours is, hell I don’t even know if what I think mine is, is; but who the fuck cares? If it drives you, do it. Conquer life. Make something of it. It’s all we’ve got. There’s literally nothing else to do. So whatever you have in your head, start putting it together, put the thoughts to paper, let yourself dream, plan that shit, act on in, build, and run with it. And don’t give a damn what anybody says. It’s your fury, your fire lit path to the destiny you have chosen. That’s what matters. That’s it.
And Hope comes back. The Mind comes back. The Fury redirects. And after my 3-4 times a year of, “what the fucking fuck, fuck this, what’s the fucking point?” comes and goes, then well, I’m alright. Not slap happy but alright. If there’s a fire burning around me to give me the gumption I need to keep going, that fury I love, life is good.
And when the hell did you ever think that would come out of my mouth? Heh. But it did. And with that productive fury, I’m at my best.
May your fires burn bright to light your path, it’s time to run.
Until next time…
If you or someone you know is going through one of these moments and can’t get out or thinking of taking their own life, please reach out and get help or pass this number along so they can get the help they need. Life can be hell, it can be devastating, it can be cruel but it can also be beautiful, and through all of its mishaps, it’s worth living. And something you don’t want to miss. The ups will outweigh the downs even when we can’t see the other side.
Please call if you feel this way or be with the person who needs help to make the call. Here is the number and never be afraid to pick up the phone. It’s what it’s there there for, to help.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255. You will also find on their website a live chat as well. Suicidepreventionlifeline.org
Be well and take care. We’re all in this together… Blessed Be.