Haunted Basement

Alright, there is nothing natural about wanting to kill yourself. But when it isn’t a gradual decent into despair, instead it is an immediate plunge into suicide notes and holding knives to close to the skin, then you know that something else is at play.

Have you ever had a basement that just really vexes you? It tickles you the wrong way. I just moved into one and unconsciously coupled it with my depression.

So, I had not had suicidal thoughts in quite a while. I must say that Prozac + regular exercise + good friends + some intensive therapy + the end of THAT freaking winter really did me a lot of good. I have been feeling great! Other than the occasional moments when I decide eating gluten is a good idea and my intestines hate me for the next 24 to 48 hours. But that is a different story.

Back to this basement. I fell asleep on the couch after watching a documentary on Wild China. Beautiful sights. Beautiful music. The narrator was nice and God knows they scripted for him better transitions than I can write or dream. So, to say the least, I slept peacefully. For about three hours. There is absolutely nothing abnormal about this. I have come to accept the fact that I can only sleep in three hour segments and then I awake wired like a middle schooler after two Monsters or a Five Hour Energy or one too many caffeine pills. I could use one or all of those right now.

Anyway. I woke up after my restful sleep at 5ish and rolled over on the couch in irritation and attempted to drift away again. I knew this would not work, but I still try every single morning between 3:07 and 5:32am. I know I will be exhausted later on in the day and need a nap. Happens every day.

At around 6:30am I decide that my memory foam mattress in my basement lair is much more appealing than a two person couch with my legs draped over the arm rest. I travel downstairs and curl up with Vincent Frederick Ferdinand III (my beloved green and pink dinosaur that has such a huge head that he can’t stand. I put him on his four legs and he simply falls right on his face. And I thought I had balance issues.). Within a few minutes, I am debating suicide. No joke. Laying there in the pitch black of the basement, my arms curled around Frederick, I cry one tear out of my right eye and stand to the anthem of insane suggestions running through my head. I haven’t heard any of these since before my Prozac kicked in.

Serotonin, why have you forsaken me?!

I walk up the stairs, leaving Frederick behind, and grab my books and phone and iPad and made my way back downstairs, stopping at the knife rack on my way through the kitchen. Weapon of choice in hand, I lock the door to the basement and return to my lair.

I decided to first write down what was bothering me. A suicide note of sorts. I got out the notes app on my iPad and began typing away. Then I got distracted by some ecards and huge lol and looking at pictures of celebrities without make-up. That last one really made me feel better. So, I set my knife down and went upstairs and laid down with my roommate to try to find some sanity.

After getting out of the basement, I immediately started feeling better. And not just in the “I am so glad that celebrity looks like crap without make-up” way, but in the “yes, I actually want to be here” way. Maybe hearing the heartbeat of another human being was all I needed. Maybe I need to up my Prozac dosage.

Those are plausible, but I am deciding to bet on my basement being haunted. I said two posts ago that I write to fight the demons in my head. Maybe I am actually writing to fight the ones in my basement. Damn basement is creepy. And I have to go down there to take a shower. I really need a shower. I don’t want to go down there anymore.

Shower time… Wish me luck! And sanity.

Demons & Writing

In high school English classes I wrote essays about my future as an electrical engineer. I would shape the world. The inventions I would design would find their way into your smartphone: your pockets and life. I would be financially secure in this field of work. I would be prosperous.

In the midst of a growing depression and tedious college courses, I realized that engineering would not bring me happiness. I would never design and create the things I really wanted to: the time machines, the infinite and clean power sources, the space ships, or even a “Jurassic Park.” If I became an engineer, my imagination and creativity would die on the doorstep of the company that I chose to work for. I would not be able to travel and adventure and live as I pine to. Instead, I would live for the sake of filling my pocket with some gold to spend on a typical house with a typical white picket fence in a typical world.

I don’t want typical. I do not even hold onto a desire for a house. And the bureaucratic nonsense surrounding engineering and science and technology is ridiculous.

I told God my plan to be an engineer when I was ten, and, inevitably enough, he laughed at me and put me in a different direction eleven years later. A number of pieces collapsed within my head and all around me and I found within my mind’s eye a knot, a knife, a gun, or maybe just a jump. In the end, my keyboard is actually what won. While I was supposed to be studying electrical circuits and differential equations and Japanese, I instead wrote pages and pages of pathetic pining and whining that I will never share that tell of chemical imbalances and complete changes in perspective.

And so, I write because otherwise I will die. I write because I want my life to be marked with the honest communication that I share with people, not a small contribution to some electrical equipment. And I am going to continue to write until something comes out right and I find whatever it is that I am looking for. I am going to write about worlds that don’t exist so I can take myself and others away. I am going to mold my own path and find my own way without trying to reach standards society asks of me. I write to beat the demons inside of me.