Phil RedBeard

League of Justice #0.4: “Slings and Arrows”

A streak of green light flashed across Krypton’s dark sky. Jor-El, head bowed in thought as he walked, did not see it. He did, however, hear the gentle whumph behind him. Slowly he turned. Standing before him, clad in green robes and a darker green cloak, was Maskill, of the Green Corps. Maskill was the Lantern whose jurisdiction included Krypton. Like the Kryptonians, he was humanoid. He was an old man, worn and tired.

Jor-El bowed to him. “Hail, Lantern.”

Maskill bowed back. “Hail, Jor of the House of El.”

Pleasantries aside, the confrontation began. Jor-El exploded quietly.

“What the hell are you doing, Maskill? The Black Corps stands ready to destroy Krypton! Is this justice? You know I don’t agree with the expansion, not in the way it was handled, but Krypton is a democratic society. I was overruled! Certainly there are many millions more who are innocent of the havoc our emissaries visited on the galaxy. Should they die to pay for the injustice of a few?”

Maskill stood quietly, absorbing Jor-El’s anger.

“Perhaps General Zod was wrong to refuse the Green Corps’ overture of peace, but is it a crime to fight for one’s sovereignty? Now that the Black Corps has forced us back to our own planet, have we not felt our punishment? You know the Black Corps will only stop once every last Kryptonian is dead. Where is the justice of the Lanterns?”

Maskill waited for the fury to dissipate into the night.

“The White Lantern has spoken. The crimes of Krypton’s children are too great to be pardoned. You stole what was not yours to steal. Your excessive mining operations severely damaged the progress of many worlds. Who can say how long you have doomed them to primitive dwelling in your lust for consumption?”

“The time for that argument is long past, Maskill! Your White Lantern is a fool if he cannot see that wiping out an entire planet for its sins is not justice. It is genocide.”

Jor-El had unconsciously strode forward, closing the distance between himself and Maskill.

“Regardless of what was decided, our end is at hand. The Black Corps will destroy us! Will you stand by and let it happen?”

Maskill regarded Jor-El silently.

“It is not for the Green Corps to interfere once the White Lantern has ruled. What was decreed shall be.”

“Damn the White Lantern! Damn his decree! My wife is with child, yet unborn. Shall he die without tasting life to satisfy the justice of the Lantern?”

For the first time, Maskill betrayed emotion. A flicker of sorrow tightened his brow, if only for an instant.

“I did not know your wife was pregnant. But the White Lantern will not relent over one life. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one, especially one who is unborn. The unborn die on countless worlds in countless numbers. This is the way of life. Even those who taste the air of their spheres do not often taste it for long.”

“Dammit, Maskill. Will you do nothing? You have been my friend and mentor since I was a young lad. I’ve always heeded your advice, your counsel. Will you abandon me now?”

“I have already spoken, Jor. The Green Corps cannot interfere. One lantern does not assail another. To invite infighting is to invite chaos.”

Jor-El whirled suddenly, pacing back up the street, then down towards Maskill. He grabbed the Green Lantern by the shoulder and stared into his eyes.

“Will you do nothing? Not the Green Corps, you. Will you allow an evil thing to pass because another has deemed it in a greater good?”

Maskill said nothing. He stared back into Jor-El’s eyes. Moments passed, the air charged with emotion as the two men waged silent war. At long last, Maskill spoke, putting a hand or Jor-El’s shoulder.

“I will not abandon you, Jor of the House of El. Long we have been friends. I will plead your case before the White Lantern. It may be that he will relent and recall the Black Corps. Only his word can stop their destruction.”

Jor-El sighed mightily. He pulled Maskill close for an embrace.

“Thank you, my old friend.”

The moment was shattered by the roar of retro-rockets. The men parted to stare up into the sky. A small craft was descending through the sky. It’s markings identified it as belonging to the Kryptonian navy.

“Zod!” Jor-El breathed. Turning to Maskill, he spoke urgently. “You’d better leave before he lands. Zod has no love for any lantern. He will kill you.”

Maskill smiled playfully. “I’d rather like to see him try, actually.”

Jor-El was in no mood for humor. “I do not jest! Lanterns can die. Zod has personally accounted for many Black Lanterns in this war already. One old Green Lantern would not delay his wrath for long.”

Maskill stood his ground, shrugging, but saying nothing.

Before either could act, the descending vessel opened its bay doors, and five dark shapes leaped towards the ground. Commandos. In an instant, Jor-El and Maskill were surrounded. The commandos were encased in armor, the heads hidden behind dark helmets. Jor-El tried to take command of the situation.

“I am Jor of the House of El, an elder on the Council of Free Peoples. What is your business here? You may not accost citizens without charge.”

One of the five stepped forward, his face mask sliding upwards as he did, revealing the scarred visage of Krypton’s greatest warrior: Zod.

“You may be free to wander dark streets alone, but the green one is named a criminal against Krypton and is a mortal enemy of her people. Are you claiming allegiance to an enemy?”

“Zod, Maskill the Green Lantern is guiltless here. It is the Black Corps that threatens us, not the Green.”

Zod roared. “ONE CORPS! ONE THREAT! I care not for colors and shades of morality. THEY attacked US. Their black knife is at our throat. I am charged with defending Krypton to my last breath. Move aside, Jor, or suffer his fate. Decide immediately.”

Zod lunged forward, battle knife drawn.

League of Justice #0.3: “In the Mind to Suffer”

The constant beeping of the medical monitors intruded into what was an otherwise serene hospital room. A young man around 15 years old stood at the foot of a patient bed, watching. The patient was an older gentleman. His features were strong, noble. His dark hair was flecked with grey at the temples, and streaks of grey mottled otherwise uniformly black locks. His eyes were closed. His breathing was regular and strong, which wasn’t surprising as it was machine regulated. The youth was very much a younger version of the man in the bed. His hair hung long around his shoulders, but otherwise their faces could have been mirror images.

The Martha Wayne Long Term Care wing of Gotham General Hospital was named in honor of Gotham’s beloved first lady. Martha Wayne hadn’t been a politician’s wife, or anyone of any royal bloodline. What she had been was nurturing, caring, and completely selfless. While her husband, Thomas Wayne, ran his multi-billion dollar corporation and worked at Gotham General as a surgeon, Martha cared for the gutter dwellers of Gotham. The nation’s most populous city, Gotham was also knee deep in poverty, crime, and suffering. Martha had devoted every second of her time to bringing hope to a destitute population. Her bright light was snapped off in an instant. Everyone in Gotham knew the tragic story: a family caught in a mugging, a nervous and desperate gunman, and Martha was slain. One of the very souls she tried daily to save snatched her away.

Her husband was also cut down that day. But Thomas Wayne hadn’t died. The gunman’s bullet bored a hole straight through his brain, leaving him alive, but in a coma. Thomas rested in his wife’s loving arms as a long term patient in her wing. Bruce, now a teenager, was orphaned that night in the alley. He buried his mother in the ground and his father in the hospital. Neither would see him grow into a man.

Bruce watched his father breathe and thought dark thoughts. As it did every week when he visited, the sight of his father fueled a growing rage in the young man’s heart. In his head, his parents’ murders played on an endless loop. A scraggly beard. A ragged man. Booming gunshots. Blood. The senseless nature of the act stabbed in Bruce’s brain like an ice pick. The violence of the act burned in his soul like a churning volcano. The gunman had never been caught. Alfred told him later that his parents’s murderer ran past him as Alfred sprinted into the alley. Waiting in the car, he had heard the gunshots. But Alfred was more concerned with his charges than running down a fugitive that night. The police response, though rapid, was poorly coordinated. The panic over Gotham’s most prominent family being murdered overshadowed police procedure. The gunman simply disappeared into the overgrown fraternity of crime. Bruce seethed at the law enforcement ineptitude that allowed a killer to escape justice. He cursed them for their failure, their inability to provide safety at the Opera House and their inability to provide legal closure.

It became too much. Bruce turned abruptly and nearly ran out of his father’s hospital room. He ignored nurses and doctors who nodded or offered greetings on his way out. Though the Gotham day was bright and crisp, all Bruce saw was darkness. All he felt was the gnawing bite of injustice.

In his room, at midnight, on the night of his parents’ death, Bruce vowed vengeance. He was only a boy when he left for the Opera, but he returned a man. He promised the world that he would avenge his parents and that he would never let anyone suffer that pain again. But it galled Bruce to wait. He was only a boy, then. He could do nothing. He was powerless, weak, and small. And so he waited. He grew, he aged, and he matured. As a teenager his childish impatience hardened into careful preparation. He studied everything he could. He buried himself in school, in athletics, in the Gotham Central Library stacks.

Bruce knew that the secret to fighting evil lay in forging the perfect weapon. Having nothing but himself, Bruce dedicated every minute to forging himself into the perfect weapon. Outwardly, everyone saw a young man living life for the parents that he lost. They saw a star football player, a gifted baseball player, a devastating wrestler. They watched a master debater, a chess champion, an artistic prodigy. They saw a young Wayne emerging from tragedy to be every inch his father with all the heart of his mother. That Wayne was a lie, a disguise, an alter ego for the monster of anger, rage, and vengeance that was his true self.

Only Alfred saw both sides of Bruce. The loyal butler cared for his charge as best he could as surrogate parent, guardian, and caregiver. He heard Bruce’s nightmares. He heard Bruce’s fits of rage. He heard Bruce’s sobs of sorrow. Bruce would never openly betray the depth of his feelings to Alfred, but he did relax a bit of his facade at home. More than anyone, Alfred saw the real Bruce Wayne. As much as Bruce loved the family valet, he kept him and everyone else at a distance. Alfred also understood, to an extent, the depth of Bruce’s feelings. He gave the boy space to find himself again, to remake his life. Alfred saw the opportunity to mold a man out of the boy who suffered, and ever so gently and patiently, Alfred guided Bruce’s evolution. As crudely as Bruce built himself into a weapon, it was Alfred who tempered the process, refined the build, and sharpened the edges.

Bruce exited the hospital through whooshing automatic doors. Across the drop-off circle, Alfred was standing patiently next to the family Bentley.

“How is your father today, Master Bruce?”
“He’s still dead, Alfred.”
“The dead only sleep, Master Bruce.”
“Whatever you say.”

Alfred opened the door for Bruce, and the young man slid into the backseat. Entering the driver’s seat, Alfred regarded his ward in the rearview mirror. Bruce’s eyes flashed behind his hair. His face was grim.

“Where to, Master Bruce?”
“Home. I have work to do.”
“Very well.”

Alfred engaged his turn signal and gently pressed the accelerator. The large luxury car purred and pulled forward into the road.

League of Justice #0.2: “To Take Arms”

In the beginning as the universe coalesced, when all was wild energy and expansion, there arose the Guardians the first beings to inhabit space and time. The Guardians were wise with new wisdom, were strong with new power, and were alive with new life. For the first million years they watched stars and planets and moons and nebulae take shape. Over the next millions of millions of years, they watched life evolve in all its forms and wonders.

Of all peoples and forms of life that sprung from the fertile universe, the Guardians were the eldest and the first to die. Though their civilization endured long, it could not endure forever. When the first sun collapsed into a black hole and began to suck everything into its dark maw, the Guardians knew that they too would pass into darkness. They bent all their will, all their thought, all their knowledge into safeguarding the universe.

With a science that none since has learned, the Guardians manufactured a source of creation which they called a lantern, a caster of light. With this lantern they forged rings, small portals that were linked to the lantern. Each ring, when activated, drew upon the lantern. The function of the rings was to draw energy from the universe, energy that had been consumed by black holes, and make it useful again. The rings could convert the energy into matter, or matter into energy, and thus were unlimited in the scope of their power.

The Guardians long studied the beings of the universe throughout every galaxy and solar system. To those who were deemed worthy they entrusted a ring, that thereby they may guard their corner of the universe.

Each being who received a ring was called a Lantern, symbolizing that as the one great Lantern guarded the universe, they were to be a smaller lantern to guard their space. In the beginning all Lanterns were white, as light that is combined of all other colors and wavelengths is white. As time progressed, Lanterns chose methods of protection that to them seemed more fitting to their race, or their culture, or their strength, and they chose for themselves new colors. As time progressed, the Green Lanterns guarded justice throughout the universe. The Red Lanterns inspired growth and progress in the universe. The Blue Lanterns worked to heal the hurts of the universe. The Black Lanterns guarded the sanctity of death in the universe. Still there remained the White Lanterns, who to all others were looked to as the wisest, and eldest, and in all matters the ones to uphold the tradition of the Guardians.

Thus the Guardians died, content in the knowledge their time was full, and that the universe would be protected for the billions of years yet to come by the Lantern’s light.

The Guardians were wrong.

As eons passed and the universe grew old and worn, the light of the Lantern waned. The purity of its light was corrupted. Its true purpose was forgotten. In dusty corners of distant galaxies legends of the Guardians remained, but few remembered where to look, and even less cared. Science passed into legend and myth and became magic. The Black Lanterns soon courted death and waged wars in her name. The Red Lanterns built to themselves monuments and great halls and honored their own grandiosity. The Blue Lanterns receded into mist, content to heal themselves for eternity. The White Lanterns vanished in the expanding blackness of space. The Green Lanterns endured to their purpose, but each to his own understanding and knowledge of morality. To most they became haughty, self-righteous, and capricious enforcers of galactic law and order. Some were no better than thugs.

As each Lantern, according to their species, died they passed on their ring to a successor. Some chose heirs, some left the rings as heirlooms to be found, others hoarded them in secret places. The light of the Lantern diminished further.

And yet there were a few who organized themselves into the Green Corps. These rebels still remembered the ways of the Guardians and held to the true Lantern’s light. Relentlessly they waged war against their fellow Lanterns, but not a war of death and destruction rather a war of ideals and understanding. Slowly they conquered the wayward factions. Slowly they rebuilt the Lantern’s light.

The eldest of the Green Corps, the leader who first waged war was named the White Lantern and to him it was given the task of governance. He made the Black Lanterns into the Black Corps, an army of last resort when a plague or injury too grievous to heal emerged. As a surgeon amputating a part to save the whole, the Black Corps was to purge the universe. What could yet be saved, the Blue Corps was tasked with restoring. Remaining secluded as monks, they came forth at times of great need. The White Lantern made the Red Corps agents of advancement, tasked with aiding only the most advanced of societies with reaching heights of which they could not yet conceive. They became scholars and masters of knowledge. The Green Corps stayed as they were, guardians of justice and order in the galaxy, mandated to be pure of purpose and will.

Such were the grand designs of the White Lantern. And as man seeks to reach and a child grasps, the various Corps stood to their purpose yet imperfectly. The light of the Lantern shone half brighter than it used to yet still only half as it should.

And yet, to the darkness, even a weak light is a welcome illumination.

To remind themselves of their purpose each Lantern was given an oath to pledge. To this oath they held themselves bound and by this oath were they judged:

In brightest day, in blackest night,
No evil shall escape my sight.
Let those who twist Lantern’s light,
Beware my power…
Great Lantern’s Might!

League of Justice #0.1: “To Be”

The summer night clung to the city like a warm, wet blanket. Tall skyscrapers and narrow streets cut off most of the inner city from cooling bay breezes. In the summer, downtown Gotham City was not the most comfortable place to take a walk, especially when one was confined to a uncomfortable suit, and one’s sweaty neck was nearly choked by an oppressive tie. Bruce Wayne would have rather been anywhere but where he was at that moment. Some friends at school were attending a baseball game at Heights Field, home of Gotham’s baseball team the Gotham Rogues. Bruce had an affinity for the sport, an affinity his affluent parents did not share. Instead, determined to infuse a higher culture into their son, Thomas and Martha had attended a performance at the Gotham Opera House, compelling Bruce to join them.

Bruce didn’t harbor any negative feelings towards his parents. He appreciated that they were invested in his life. He just sometimes wished they would invest in his interests as well. At the moment, anyway, he was much more interested in reaching the street. He knew that Alfred Pennyworth, the family butler, would be there waiting for them. The family Bentley would be rumbling gently, and Alfred would have the air conditioning tuned just perfectly. The car would provide a welcome refuge from the sweltering summer sauna. Also, Bruce hoped, he could talk Alfred into a bit of ice cream once the family returned to Wayne Manor, the mansion in which his family had lived for generations on the rural outskirts of Gotham.

Bruce’s formal shoes crunched on bits of glass and grit that had begun to form a jagged covering to the crumbling asphalt that paved the alley. The Wayne family had exited the Opera House via a back door so as to avoid the paparazzi spotlight. Thomas Wayne, while a practicing medical doctor, was also a businessman and one of the wealthiest persons in the nation. There always seemed to be someone who was hoping for a salacious story and a scandalous photo. The alley was lit only by a light at the Opera House door, a pallid pool of yellow luminance, a light now behind the ambling family. Ahead, at the entrance to the alley, the lights from the city streets streamed into the alley, broken occasionally by passing pedestrians. The resulting illumination jumped down the alley like gnarled, grasping fingers. In between was a hazy grayness. Little starlight filtered from the sky above.

Bruce was staring down at his formal shoes, ignoring his parents who walked a few paces ahead and talked quietly to themselves. He was lost in his own thoughts, and paying little attention to his dingy surroundings. He very nearly walked into his father’s legs.

Thomas Wayne had stopped abruptly. Standing in front of the family, appearing as a specter out of nowhere, was a thin, gangly man. He wore a hooded sweatshirt which was several sizes too large for his frame, and a scraggly beard reached out from his face like so many greasy tentacles.

“Your money. Quick.” He rasped. It was then that Bruce saw the gun. It was a .38 calibre revolver, snub nosed, not all that large of a gun, but to Bruce, it was a cannon. From between his mother and father he stared into the gaping barrel. The gun shook, the mugger apparently weak from malnutrition and nervousness. Martha Wayne had frozen in fright, neither speaking nor moving. Thomas held up his hands slowly.

“Take it easy. I’m reaching for my wallet.” Thomas, keeping his left hand aloft, slowly reached his right hand into his formal jacket, and withdrew his billfold. Betraying none of the fear he must have felt, he reached out his arm, offering the leather wallet to the mugger.

The ragged man groped for the wallet, not taking his eyes off the elder Wayne. His fingers brushed it, knocking it to the alley floor. With a muttered curse, he tried to reach down for the wallet while keeping his eyes, and gun, trained on his victims. He couldn’t locate his prize by touch. Looking down for a split second, he tried to spot the wallet on the ground. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Thomas simultaneously shoved Martha backwards while he stepped to the side. Martha, caught off guard by her husband’s split second defensive motion, shrieked. She also stepped inadvertently on Bruce’s foot, not knowing he was there. She began to fall. The commotion caused the mugger to snap his head up. Not taking time to realize what was happening, he panicked.

Boom.

Boomboom.

His first shot was a bit wild, but it caught Thomas Wayne in the temple. The man went down without a sound, his body crashing into the brick wall of the alley, falling into a twisted heap on some garbage. The second shot went through Martha’s chest. The third her head. She continued her backwards fall, collapsing on top of Bruce.

Bruce’s world was suddenly one filled with noise and terror. While his father was talking and moving he had only been slightly alarmed by the situation. He never for a second doubted that his father would remain in control and keep him safe. His father had never once in Bruce’s memory been out of control. Everyone always did whatever his father wanted, usually as soon as he asked. The suddeness of the attack and the loud report of the gun startled him. He watched in horror as his father twisted and smacked against the wall, while at the same time his mother was crashing into him. He felt her body jerk under the impact of the bullets, and then he was crushed under her weight. Martha wasn’t a large woman, but Bruce was small for his age. He felt smothered. He could hardly breathe. The gunshots rung in his ears and he couldn’t hear. The world through his eyes smeared and seemed to jumble itself.

Bruce struggled to lift his mother and squirm out from under her. He pressed a hand into the ground and succeeded in scraping it against the glass and grit. With effort, he freed himself.

“Mom! Mom!” He started to shake her, but his hand slipped across her chest and he fell face first into something sticky. Pushing himself up, he stared into a gaping chest wound. He looked at his hands: they were covered in bright blood. He looked at his mom’s face. Her mouth was contorted, an expression of terror. The top of her skull was blown away and blood covered her face.

Bruce could make no sound. The terrible sight of his mother unnerved him. For a second the world stopped and all he could see was blood and death.

Then something heavy hit him from behind. Adrenaline spiked and Bruce flailed wildly.

“Get off! Get off me!” He struggled against a a firm grip. He was aware of a strong hand grasping each bicep.

Then he heard a whisper, the first sound he perceived clearly following the bang of the gun.

“It’s ok, Master Bruce. It’s ok.”

“Alfred…” The name was more sob than sound.

Bruce Wayne, orphan, crumpled into his butler’s arms. Burying his face into Alfred’s rough, woolen jacket, he broke down in tears. He wasn’t aware of the rush of police boots, nor the strobing of squad car lights.

Beneath Martha and Thomas Wayne, blood pooled, crimson glinting darkly in the dim light.

Disturbed by the commotion, a few bats who nested beneath an overhanging fire escape further back in the alley fluttered off into the Gotham night.

Death and Life

My name is Phil, and I am depressed. Search my blog tags for “depression” and you can read all about it.

Yesterday was an interesting day. I really don’t want to talk about it, but because I made one of the darkest parts of my everyday reality public, I feel like my friends and family deserve a little explanation.

The truth is I lie. A lot. You can be all shocked if you want to, but you lie, too. If you are reading this, I can assume a few things about you: you understand English, you are human, you lie. Our religious culture would have us believe that lying is an abomination before the Lord or a bad thing to do, but it is deeply human. Most lies are not harmful at all. Most lies are necessary. Colloquially, we refer to them as a social contract. I don’t tell nearly every single woman I meet that I admire the curvature of her breasts, or that I really want to have sex with her. I am not a sex fiend or a creep, I am a heterosexual male that is biologically programmed to find females physically attractive. But I lie by omission. And almost every single woman I meet knows this. Don’t ask, don’t tell: web of lies. And that is just one very, very small example.

A bigger example of the lies I tell: I am doing just fine. Yes, I am handling my every day reality. No, I do not want to kill myself.

Yesterday, I posted a suicide note to my Facebook page. I don’t remember what it said, and I have since deleted it. I then ignored my phone and my computer. Because I suffer from back pain, high blood pressure, and mental illness, I have a variety of medications available to me. I don’t know exactly how all of them work, and I have been assured that most of them work fairly well together. Being that I am an intelligent person, I know that becomes less true when you mix non-recommended dosages in non-recommended combinations. I dumped a few pills on the counter and wondered which cocktail would help end the pain the easiest. I’m no pharmacist, so I experimented. I don’t remember what I took, except that there were a fair amount of the pain killing variety included.

I was unaware that my Facebook posting had alarmed the people who saw it. I became aware when my Aunt Jane called me. I can ignore my wife, I can ignore my mother, I can even ignore my dog. I cannot ignore my Aunt Jane. She commands too much respect. All my life I have known two things about Aunt Jane: she is awesome. You don’t cross her. If she tells you to do something, you do it, no matter how much you don’t want to. If she asks you a question, you don’t lie. If she says something, she means it. So I had to answer the phone when I saw Aunt Jane was calling. She convinced me to live. Fortunately, I also did a bad job picking out pills because all I did was get a little fuzzy, dizzy, and sleepy. She may have convinced me to make it through the day, but it was my lousy attempt that made it possible.

Why did I try to end all things? I will try to explain, but it will be hard to understand. Most of you are normal. I am not. I have a mental illness. I do not want to die. Let’s be clear about that. I have many things I want to do, and experience, in life. I love my family and my friends. I love my puppy. I do not want to live. Every day is a constant struggle. Every minute is a battle. I am in constant physical and mental pain. Stress is destroying me. I barely sleep. I cannot relax. I hallucinate (mostly sounds, rarely I see things). I hear knocking at the door. I hear a phone buzzing, or ringing. I see bugs crawling on the floor. The problem is, there is no one at the door, my phone isn’t buzzing, and bugs don’t move that fast. Believe me, I have investigated rigorously. What I experience isn’t real. And that freaks me out.

The only peace I ever get is when I am in a movie theater watching a movie, or when I am building a LEGO set. Immersing myself into a film, in darkness, in front of a large screen, with loud surround sound makes everything else melt away. It doesn’t even have to be a particularly good film, but it makes everything else disappear. For those two hours or less, I am free. Similarly, when I bust open a LEGO set, spill the pieces in front of me, and start working through the instruction booklet, nothing else can intrude. Clicking one brightly colored plastic block onto another allows me to concentrate only on which brick I need next to complete the build. Seeing a building, or a robot, or whatever emerge from the chaos of scattered pieces fills me with ridiculous joy and peace. I cannot explain it better than that. But it is real. That is as close to relief from what I feel as I ever get and it does not last. I cannot build LEGOs constantly. I cannot go to the theater constantly.

If you know me, you might wonder if writing does that for me. Nope, not at all. You have to think to write. Writing for me is another compulsion. I can’t help it. Words beat at my brain demanding release until I get up and let them out. I have been woken up by words that demand to be written. In the middle of the night I will get up and go to my computer and type. Sometimes it takes five minutes. Sometimes it takes hours, but until they are all out, I cannot stop. That is not really much fun, relaxation, and it certainly isn’t peaceful. The only solace I get is that I am really, really good at writing. It is better to have a compulsion you are good at, I guess. But then, people with a cleaning OCD usually clean very well, too. So I’m not special.

Who wouldn’t want to escape my life? Does that sound like fun to any of you? To make matters worse, I am alone. The only other thing that usually distracts me is human interaction. But I have almost none of that any more. My wife left. She isn’t coming back, no matter how much I want her to. No one else is really eager to come over. Most people don’t enjoy hanging out with someone who lives on the ragged edge. I am angry, volatile, sarcastic, acidic, very awkward. I make people uncomfortable. I exude an aura of anger, or negativity. This isn’t intentional. Most of time I am unaware of it. I am just so uncomfortable I don’t know how to act, much less react, even around people I know well, even around my family. It is no wonder my wife did leave, I don’t blame her. I am actually surprised she managed to live with me as long as she did.

So, back to the suicide. I don’t say anything I’ve said to garner sympathy or attention or pity. I am merely trying to explain why yesterday morning, so many people became inescapably aware of the fact that I was actively seeking death. It was, as they say, a call for help. I wanted somebody to know that I was dying from pain.

What can you do to help? Very little. Do not call 911. Nothing makes me trust people less than people who call the cops on me but can’t show up themselves. If you are concerned for my safety, come to where I live. If you find me actually dying, then call 911, ride in the ambulance, and be there when I wake up. Do not tell me you struggle with depression. Unless what I have described is 85% of your daily reality, you don’t. Even if it is your reality, I find no comfort in knowing that other people are as miserable as me. That actually makes me feel worse. Do not tell me what you have endured. I know that my life, objectively speaking, is fantastic. It simply does not matter. Depression does not care about socioeconomic divisions. I gather from the news that a member of the Glee cast died of a heroin overdose. His life, objectively speaking, was better than mine. And yet the guy was alone with heroine and alcohol. In any case, reminding me that some people live worse than I do does not help. It makes me feel guilty, petty, and stupid, none of which relieve the depression. Do NOT tell me how upset I made everyone or how badly I scared X family member. First, I know. Second, I cannot care. It isn’t that I don’t care, I can’t. If I am at the point of trying to end my life, worrying about how my mother will feel is probably not on my mind. That would be on the mind of a rational person. Suicidal people are not, strictly speaking, rational. The decision of death is one made under extreme duress and not as the result of a logical thought progression (usually). Also: it doesn’t help me feel good enough about my life to stop trying to end it.

What can you do to help? Be here. Physically be here. Come to my house and hang out with me no matter how angry, bitter, dark, or un-fun I am. Deep down, I know you care enough about me to be with me, to make the effort to come to me and to stay there. Failing that, simply tell me you care about me. Period. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing else. Then I know that even if you won’t or can’t be with me, chances are you would if you could. That’s it.

And, while I appreciate the offer, no, I do NOT want to talk about it. I have a therapist. She is the only person on the planet I will tell anything and everything. She is the only woman on the planet that can move right past that and still talk to me about what really matters. The only social contract we have is that she won’t judge me and I can tell her anything. Unless you are her, no, I probably will not willingly talk to you. But I DO appreciate the offer. Just don’t worry or be offended when I don’t.

So that, right there, is the brutal honest truth about my everyday and specifically yesterday. Today, I’m ok. I am handling things. (Lying? probably a bit). The truth: I haven’t ODed today. I haven’t thought about driving my car into oncoming traffic. Physically, I am safe.

I’m depressed. Today isn’t as bad as yesterday. Today is a win.

a Villain-elle, Part 2

a Villain-elle, Part 2 (the Joker)

“He will shatter kings in the day of his wrath.” – Psalm 110:5

Never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy;
(The better criminal class kills the bus driver)
Madness, as you know, is like gravity.

Youʼre just a freak, complete, like me.
(I’m a dog chasing cars; a silly face carver)
Never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy.

Want to start taking things a little more seriously?
(Laughing, he takes the knife to her.)
Madness, as you know, is like gravity.

Do I look like a guy with a plan, really?
(I’m just ahead of the curve, not a monster)
Never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy

You’ll need an ace in the hole to face my Harvey.
(He blew him half to hell, a psychopathic murder.)
Madness, as you know, is like gravity.

Why so serious? Introduce a little anarchy.
(Whatever doesn’t kill you simply makes you stranger)
Never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy
Madness, as you know, is like gravity.

Read a villain-elle, Part 3 (Bane), here.

League of Justice #0.0: “Or Not to Be”

[Revised 29 July 2013]

Earth is not unique. Humanity is not alone in the universe. Logically, it is absurd that evolution could only produce one intelligent species in a plethora of galaxies and a myriad of planets. Practically, space is so vast that most intelligent life is too far away from Earth to make contact possible. Realistically, near-Earth intelligent life does not care to intrude into the matters of a backward, primitive population. Humanity will either grow up and stop killing itself long enough to look around itself and thus become worth the universe’s attention, or humanity will annihilate themselves and the universe will wait for the next intelligent species to arise.

On the outer edge of the near-to-Earth inhabited region of the Milky Way galaxy, a small Earth-like world orbits a red dwarf star. The star is called Rao by the inhabitants of Krypton, the planet which orbits the star.

Compared to the more primitive Earthlings, Kryptonians are gods. They live for ages. Their bodies are immune to most biological and environmental pathogens. Their living tissue and bones are nearly indestructible. They are highly intelligent. Ancient Kryptonian history, from before their star turned red, speaks of other innate abilities that Kryptonians once possessed: the power of flight. Hypersensitive sensory abilities. Heat vision. Freeze breath. Most Kryptonian scientists dismiss such claims as ancient evolutionary myth or as subspecies that went extinct long ago, merely tales of mutant variations, freaks of nature.

It is only a matter of time before the entire discussion will reside in the academic halls of some other galactic species. The Kryptonians are fighting a war that they are quickly losing. While the Kryptonians are known throughout the galaxy for their scientific advances, they are also known for their arrogance. Superior knowledge and understanding does not always breed superior magnanimity. While preserving their home planet, agents of Krypton spread throughout their corner of the galaxy as ravaging locusts. Every planet they encountered they exploited completely. Every natural resource, every unique element, every single thing of value they took. In the face of such ecological disaster, the leaders of Krypton were unapologetic. “The universe exists to be used” was their refrain. To their credit, Krypton’s mining crews left inhabited worlds alone, but any uninhabited moon or planet in their path was doomed. Other planetary societies were forced to mine their own planets to the point of disaster because there were no extra-planetary resources for them to cultivate.

There exists in the universe a military force whose duty is that of the preservation of peace. Their origins are told in other tales, but a corps of their ranks, the Black Corps, is tasked with death. When diplomacy and goodwill fails, when military intervention is necessary, the Black Corps advances. The Black Corps pursues total victory. Against them, there is no survival.

Led by the fearless and ruthless General Zod, the Kryptonian army has lasted longer than any other force the Black Corps has engaged. But it cannot last. Zod has ordered the full scale retreat of every Kryptonian warship. Amassed in orbit of Krypton, they make their final stand.

General Zod, assailed from without, is attacked from within. Leading the civilian population of Krypton is an elder statesman, and one of the top Kryptonian scientists: a man called Jor-El. From the beginning, Jor-El opposed war. When the diplomatic Green Corps first approached Krypton and demanded they cease exploitation, Jor-El favored acquiescence. Zod, a warrior from birth, argued for unlimited Kryptonian sovereignty. Zod persuaded Krypton’s ruling council to his way of thinking. Now that the war was nearly at an end, and Krypton herself on the brink of destruction, Jor-El cried louder for an armistice. “Surely we can yet sue for peace and save our civilization!” he cried. Zod was too proud to bow. Zod was ready for his last stand.

Jor-El is a man of peace. But even if he weren’t, he would still be fighting harder than anyone to ensure the continued existence of his planet for one simple reason: Jor-El is also a father. His unborn son will be born to a dead world. The pregnancy was a fluke, a one-in-a-million chance. Bringing a baby into a galactic conflict intentionally would have been unwise and cruel. But, life is not restrained by the eventualities of an impersonal universe. Life explodes wherever it can. At the moment when the Black Corps destroys Krypton, new bacterium will be created. Skin cells will regenerate. A flower will bloom. A seed will germinate. An insect will be hatched. Therefore, the unlikely fertilization of Kryptonian egg and sperm is no wondrous event. When Krypton explodes it will take with it a newly born baby boy.

“Fuck that.” Jor-El murmured to himself.

Jor-El strode with purpose down the deserted streets of Argo City, one of Krypton’s largest centres of population. Martial law was in effect. Every able bodied person was serving in the war. The young, the old, the infirm: they were sequestered in-doors. Jor-El was careful to remain undetected. As a member of the ruling council, Jor-El technically wasn’t under the military’s authority, but he could still be stopped and questioned. In these calamitous days, treason was a popular criminal charge, and Zod wouldn’t hesitate to remove Jor-El’s dissenting voice from the council.

Jor-El clasped his hands behind his back, beneath his cloak. The style of dress demanded a long cloak, or cape. It lent an air of regality, of formality. Jor-El’s cape was a deep crimson, contrasting with his long blue robes. On the chest of his robe, a stylized “S” character was embroidered. The crest of the House of El, it symbolized hope. In this case, hope for Jor-El’s unborn son.

Jor-El hoped he would not be the last son of Krypton.

New Reality

My name is Phil, and I live with depression.

When I began my recovery from the black world of depression I did not know that recovery was even possible. I doubted that my daily experience could ever change. In a way, I didn’t want it to. I did not want to get better. My life, and my everyday occurrences had been organized around my depression. I knew what to expect, how to react, and was comfortable in my environment. None of this means I was happy, but when you know misery, or emptiness, it is amazing how familiar and ordinary that can be.

I am currently re-watching one of my favorite television shows, House MD. Dr. Gregory House has a pain problem, and as an extension of that, a pain medication problem: he is addicted to Vicodin. Throughout all of the 8 seasons, but primarily in the first three, House’s narcotic addiction is a constant source of trouble, discussion, and explanation. Is he an addict? Should he stop taking Vicodin? How does it affect him? Does he need it? The show makes a pretty strong case for the physical pain House endures, but never really indicates exactly how much of House is drugs, or just personality. Either way, House refuses to change anything. He admits he takes too much Vicodin regularly, but the bottom is line is that ever since his infarction, he has defined his life by his pain and his relief of that pain. He recognizes that it isn’t a perfect situation, and abusing the narcotics or not, he isn’t happy. Rehab and physical therapy is a door to a healthier life, but House cannot (or will not) do the work to change. He is comfortable in his misery. I was Dr. House: comfortable in my misery.

But, as I have written about, I sought and found change. It took me over a year and a half of daily work and weekly meetings with my therapist, but by all accounts I have emerged from my depression. Medication and a fundamental shift in how I think about the world has brought me into the light. Then, about two months ago, my life altered significantly, nearly destroying all the progress I have made. I’ve been waiting for my newfound clarity to fog up, for my positive equilibrium to shift negatively. For all the lights to go out. But they haven’t. My recovery is solid. I have found a new reality, and fortunately reality rarely changes. Circumstances change, people come and go, growth and learning take place, but reality is constant. Mostly. I was born and lived under a certain reality. Somewhere around middle school my reality changed into depression. Last year, my reality changed again, out of depression, and into this newness of life I have been enjoying.

And all of that was threatened.

My wife left me. Legally, we are still married, but when she packs all her things, moves nearly 4500 miles east and eight hours into the future, the marriage is pretty much over. I could have gone with her, but following a spouse who is leaving the marriage seemed like the wrong thing to do. Our life, everything we had built over three and half years of marriage was here. Our life was not across an ocean and in a different world. The leaving happened abruptly. I was not ready: physically emotionally mentally psychologically. I had barely emerged from my darkness, and my wife grabbed her opportunity to seize her dreams and leave me behind. I scrambled madly, if only to ensure my own survival. Every plan, every expectation I had for my recovery had to be scrapped, or at best, reworked. Suddenly, I had to find a job. That I was not really ready for a job was beside the point: if I wanted housing and food, I needed employment. I needed companionship most of all, but fortunately I had already adopted a dog. In lieu of a wife, my puppy was all I could count on. At the last minute, I got a job. In between begging my wife to stay, trying to rationalize the sudden end of a marriage, and keeping up appearances for family and friends, I nearly imploded. Once or twice I got close.

Hannah flew away on May the 11th, 2013. We were married on January the 3rd, 2010. My marriage lasted 1,225 days. The fiction we tell friends and family is that this is merely a separation, a time to reevaluate who we are and what we want. The truth is we are never going to be anything other than friends.

Today I vacuumed the apartment, washed dishes, dusted, and tidied up the place. I cleaned the bathroom, changed towels on the racks and sheets on the bed. I swept floors. I had done none of these things since Hannah left. I know, gross to normal people, normal to depressed people. All this time, a little over a month, two things were constant in my head. One, I was not entirely certain I was not going to implode. I felt weak, devastated, lost, unsure of who I was, or what I should do with myself. I’ve been unusually depressed, angry, and numb. Two, I wasn’t convinced that it really was over. I thought Hannah would see the error of her ways and come back. I thought she needed this marriage, or me, or something bad enough to realize her mistake and return to start healing. She didn’t. If anything, she seems to be blossoming and growing in ways she and I never thought she could. She is better off where she is. Without me. And that was something I did not want to admit. Could not realize. Was too painful to face. I did not think I would survive, and everything around me was put on hold until I knew which way the world would fall. Why bother washing dishes if you are going to collapse into a dark depression? Losing a wife and facing a cold, scary world in the space of about a week and a half was about the hardest trial I could have endured (short of a close friend or family member dying at the same time). The surprise is that nothing fell. I covered my head and dove for cover, but the bomb was a dud.

I’ve been sick for several weeks now. General cold symptoms mixed with body aches and pains and psychological turmoil to create a vicious sinus infection and exhaustion. Middle of last week I stopped in my tracks, unable to go on. I could not work, I could not eat, I could barely sleep, and only then with a combination of drugs. But, this time I knew what to do: I got help. This time, mostly medical. A doctor checked me out, prescribed rest and antibiotics. I got both. This morning I woke feeling better than I have in a long time, physically and emotionally, and I knew what I had to do: embrace my new reality.

No wife was going to come back to nurse me to health or help with life. All I had was myself. And though I could scarcely believe it, I was strong enough to meet that challenge. I cleaned up my apartment. I washed my dirty dishes. I vacuumed my dirty floors. I dusted and swept. I made my environment livable again. Neither my depression nor my mangled personal life could hold me back.

My new reality, my restructured life is not fantasy, a cruel joke, or a drug induced dream. It is real. I can face what life can bring, and I can endure. I can rise above. Just me and my dog, my cute little Cordy.

I can live.

Batman and Psychology (2012) by Dr. Travis Langley

“Madness, as you know, is like gravity. All it takes is a little push.” – the Joker, The Dark Knight

Batman is one year removed from his 75th anniversary (as of 2013). First glimpsed in the shadows of 1939, Bruce Wayne’s alter ego is arguably the second most well know “super” hero, second only to his DC Comics colleague Superman. He is ubiquitous. Batman is as popular as Star Wars, as multi-generational as rock and roll, and as intricate as quantum physics. First appearing in comic books, Batman has stalked through newspaper strips, novels, television shows, movies, video games, and he even guest starred on one of Superman’s radio shows. What accounts for this incredible longevity and popularity? Probably the fact that Batman is no super hero. He is as human as any of us, he is unaltered by any fantastical phenomenon or alien technology. Unlike his Marvel counterpart, Iron Man, Batman does not rely on any implanted technology. Where Tony Stark achieves his crime fighting skills through a combination of dash and design, Bruce Wayne endures by way of discipline and hard work. Both men are multi-billionaires, both are geniuses, both wear elaborate suits, but where Tony fails to match Batman is in Batman’s sheer determination. Ultimately, Iron Man is unreachable. It would be impossible to recreate Tony Stark’s suit of armor, based as it is on fictional science technologies. Batman, however, remains within the grasp of any one of us. Given enough money, and the requisite stamina, anybody could become Batman. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. And, where Tony Stark suffers from a medical condition that makes most of his tech necessary, regardless of its applications, Bruce Wayne suffers from grief and chooses freely to be Batman.

Given nearly 75 years of history and development, Batman, while fictional, is as fascinating as any living, breathing human being. Batman is an avatar of the human condition. Despite the seemingly outlandish nature of his universe, ultimately the character is as grounded in reality as anyone. Struggling with pain, loss, and anger and fighting madness and the darker impulses Batman catwalks across the night, riddling out the bad jokes of life and death. Obstacles that are the bane of happiness are foes to be crushed by a hero. Investigating the bat-detective, then, yields clues to our own psyches.

Fortunately, an actual student of the human condition has delved into the bat cave and emerged with a few answers and observations. Dr. Travis Langley, tenured professor of psychology at Henderson State University, is a bit of a nerd. Having been fascinated by the Batman his whole life, he recently published the only psychological exploration of the character that exists today: Batman and Psychology: A Dark and Stormy Knight. Fittingly, Langley is known as a superherologist*, one who studies super heroes.

Batman and Psychology is divided into several sections. The person, the suit, the symbolism, the environment, and the associations of the Batman are all examined in detail, and set against the criminals that oppose him and the world the defines him, and all pass under the microscope of real life, modern psychology. Langley begins by discussing the historical Batman, and narrowing down all the different iterations and manifestations of the character, who, after all, comes from a comic book world in which death and life are fluid concepts, as is the nature of the multiverse itself. The great benefit of studying a character that has been around so long is that the student can take both a longitudinal and a cross-sectional approach. Usually when Langley refers to “The Batman” he means the 75 year old character, the most concrete and unchanging person that is Batman. After all, whether he is back from the dead, back from an alternate earth, or freshly rebooted, some things about Batman never change. But, Langley also often zooms right into a very particular instance, a very exact moment in Bat-time to examine a revelation or to make an observation, whether it is Adam West’s lampooned Batman, Christian Bale’s ultra-realistic Batman, or some comic book version. The juxtaposition of the two research techniques allows Langley, and the reader of his book, to compare and contrast yielding a multi-faceted view of an incredibly complex individual.

After establishing a few parameters and definitions, Langley subsequently evaluates the trauma (the death of Bruce Wayne’s parents, a constant of the Bat-narrative) and the persona (arguably, the defining characteristic: the Bat of the Man). This comprises most of Langley’s focus, and rightfully so, it is the heart of the character. Bruce Wayne endured one of the most horrific tragedies that a person can experience, and made a rather extreme choice that most people do not make. Why is the premier question, and answering it yields the most tantalizing information.

Following from that, Dr. Langley briefly discusses the nature of evil, that is, crime and punishment in Gotham City. Here most of the psychology is brought to bear as various psychological disorders, conditions, and issues are defined and debated as they relate both to Batman and his rogues gallery. This is the technical part of the book, full of the multi-syllabic terms one expects from a doctor of psychology.

Batman is not an island, and he must be viewed in his familial context: his surrogate sons (Robin and other sidekicks), his female associations (most notably: Catwoman), and his surrogate fathers (Alfred, among others). Human beings are social creatures and our company says as much about us as does our actions or appearance. No analysis of a person would be complete without such consideration, and that analysis Langley provides.

Dr. Langley does offer a Bat-diagnosis of sorts at the end of his book, concluding that Batman is most definitely not deranged, even if he is a little “crazy”. I mean, even Bruce Wayne would agree that “a man who dresses up like a bat clearly has issues” however, those issues are not really any different that those which affect ordinary people. Bruce’s issues are perhaps more magnified than most, but what do you expect from a guy who lives in a comic book?

I found Batman and Psychology very rewarding, in both scope and psychology. While I am not any sort of acolyte into the profession, I am a student of humanity and quite interested in the psychological field. I must say, however, that while the technical parts of the book aren’t incomprehensible, they could be confusing. [Author’s note: I don’t know if that constitutes a flaw with the book, or with the educational system of America. I have studied more psychology than the average Jane, so I don’t really know how someone with limited familiarity with psychological concepts would grasp the psychology presented.] I was also satiated with the banquet that Langley cooked up, in terms of the villains that he referenced and the many, many aspects of the Bat-universe that he referenced. Despite that, I occasionally felt like I was reading two separate books: one about Batman, and one about his antagonists. No book about Batman would be complete without at least talking about his number one adversary, the Joker, but I felt that a companion book that was focused on the rogues would have been better suited to an analyzation of their psychology and humanity. What was provided was simultaneously enough to make the point and not enough to do justice to the various characters. Granted, the Joker could be a series of books, but I felt he deserved a little more than he got, even in a book primarily about Batman. [Author’s note: I use the Joker here only as an example: he may be primary, but Batman’s other villains are just as convoluted.]

Batman and Psychology: A Dark and Stormy Knight is a fantastic read, and a great dissertation on a popular superhero, and I fervently hope that Dr. Travis Langley doesn’t stop here. There is much more to be said about the world of Gotham, and the worlds of Metropolis and the greater comic book multiverse. Hopefully a “Superman and Psychology” is coming soon, because if there is another guy with serious daddy/abandonment issues, it’s Clark Kent.

*You can follow Dr. Langley on twitter as the @Superherologist. [Author’s Note: Dr. Langley is my boss. This review was neither asked nor paid for by Dr. Langley. My reviews and opinions are entirely my own, and cannot be influenced by anyone.]

Stress: the Little Mind Killer

I haven’t written about my depression for a while, mostly because for a while I was feeling pretty good and felt like I was finally getting a hold on this slippery thing called life. I won’t say I was wrong about that. I now have a job, a dog, and I don’t spend my days staring at walls like I used to.

But life has a way of sending us down roads we never knew existed. Things transpire in life and relationships that we never could have predicted, setting us up for decisions we never thought we would have to make. I’m being vague here because there are some things that are very real and large in my life that I am not quite ready to address publicly. Hell, I don’t even want to address them in my own mind.

I recently made a trip to see my doctor. I’ve been forgetting things lately, but it is less like memory loss and more like aphasia, where you search for a word but can’t find it. I can’t remember the names of everyday objects, and am forced to describe what it is I am trying to say. “You know, that thing you use for eating…it is metal, and has pointy things on the end, you stab with it…” “A fork?” “Yes, that’s it! Can you grab me a fork please?” No, that isn’t an example. That happened. I also forget things that I know I know, facts and details I would never forget. I don’t have a brain tumor or dementia and I’m not on medication that could do this.

Stress is making me lose my mind.

Stress is a constant companion to depression. When I was in my darkest places, stress was pulling the trigger on the gun labeled depression. I didn’t stare at walls and fail to engage with the world through fear or doubt or lack of imagination. It was the stress that each situation presented that kept me powerless and weak. A trip to the grocery store to purchase food became all about how I would walk, how I would pass people in the aisles, what I would say to the cashier. The stress of how to handle each situation mounted until the easiest way to remain calm was to remain at home. I’ve made a career out of avoiding stress.

Now that I have a handle on my past, and have dealt with some of the overwhelming sources of stress in my life, I can now go to the grocery store with little problem (most days). But what they don’t tell you is that knocking down the giants that surround you only allows you to face the demons you couldn’t see.

So, back to the vague things and the stress that is making me lose my mind. After talking with me for a bit, and a consultation, my doctor told me that I am stressed. Stress (barring the appearance of physical symptoms) is what is making me unable to think, to remember, or to recall that a fork is a fork.

Yesterday, I had a meltdown. My stress caused me to regress backwards into black depression, with the accompanying rage and malice. The one clear, rational thought I had was to put my new puppy in her crate so that, if the worst should happen, she wouldn’t be in danger. I would never, in a million years, willingly or consciously hurt an innocent animal, but depression has a way of making a million years a nanosecond under the right conditions. (No, I didn’t hurt her, but she was very sad at being crated for most of the morning while I inexplicably, to her, was only a few feet away, seemingly asleep.) I called into my therapist and left a message for her to contact me. I was barely able to focus the words over the phone, but I knew I needed something extra to get me through the morning. By noon she called back and we talked through what was eating at my brain. “Phil,” she said, “this is normal. I would have worried if you didn’t have some sort of freakout episode.” She proceeded to calmly guide me into a few healthy behaviors and coping strategies. We will have a real meeting soon. After that, I felt a bit better, and I played with my dog for almost an hour (understandably, she had quite a bit of pent up energy).

I still have no idea what to do about what is facing me, what is clawing at my mind. I’ve moved beyond shopping for cookies and milk to larger life issues that were unavailable for processing when I was trapped in dark depression. Now, I have no choice. They stand before me and I have no recourse but to face them, somehow. I cannot go back. Retreat ends in darkness and death, non-metaphorically speaking. But the stress of how to handle what I must handle is luring me back into depression. Things I once enjoyed, I stare at listlessly. I barely eat. I take my dog for short walks. I can’t sleep (which is why, as I type this, it is nearly 0400).

For most people, stress is what makes a hard day hard, a challenging week challenging, or a situation unpleasant. For those of us among the depressed, stress is the little thing obliterating our mind.

Right now, I don’t know what to do except to return to bed and try to sleep. Short term, I need to work as hard as I can for solutions and a way to move beyond stress, because no one can live under this much stress and tell the tale for very long.

That I am able to articulate all this is a measure of how far I’ve come. I hope through this you understand a little bit what dealing with depression is all about. It isn’t the momentary blues most people talk about: it is a constant life battle.