In the slumps


Well, I’ve realized that I was a little hypomanic when I made the blog post a little while ago about feeling better. I think it was probably the added dose of abilify that sent me up into the clouds for a little bit. The same thing happened when I first started it, lots of energy and motivation that seemed to disappear into thin air. The high was nice I will admit to that, but at the same time it feels like life was just teasing me, giving me a glimpse of how I should be feeling.

I’ve been having pretty bad depression and anhedonia for the past month or so, and an intense writers block because of it. I’ve opened up wordpress several times, and even written a hundred words or so, but I just feel completely empty and blank. On top of that, the passion I was feeling about writing sort of went out the window and I just found myself not even caring to puts the words down.

The total numbness has to be the worst part of depression for me. I don’t feel things very much, other then fear and anxiety and the odd bit of anger. That, and the sense of impending doom, do wonders for making a person feel like giving up and spending a bunch of time browsing useless internet articles.

I think that maybe part of why I’ve been unable to write is the expectations I have for myself, or from anybody who might read this blog. I don’t want to be a broken record when it comes to expressing myself, but I honestly don’t know how to mix it up and make it any more interesting. My life is boring and lacking passion, there’s not a whole lot for me to write about because it’s the same damn thing everyday. I start worrying that I must be a burden on people reading, or they’re just reading because they feel sorry for me, and I clam up. I think what I really want is to be interesting enough to read, and to at least have some kind connection with the readers through the experiences I have. I want to share and be accepted for who I am. There are times when worrying about who’s reading holds me back, especially when I get angry or irrational.

Perhaps I should just write the blog as a journal, and not worry so much about attracting readers. I won’t lie, that little notification that somebody has liked my post feels really good. I think a lot about boring people or sounding like I’m being too whiny or saying the same things over and over. Maybe I need to just express the nothingness though, get it out of me into words. It might be a good idea to take up the mentality that if people don’t like what I write about, they don’t have to read it. Let go of feeling like I want to make a living off of a blog and just write.

The feelings I have are real. The depression is real too. I can only do what I can do, and expecting myself to be some amazing writer with interesting posts every time is ridiculous. If I could just allow myself to bore people, and say to myself that I can’t force anything to work out, then maybe I would allow more freedom for myself to find my creativity.




Med Change

I went to the psychiatrist today. I told him about the depression I’ve been going through the past month, as well as the brain fog and lack of focus/memory. He thinks I’m sensitive to the medications, and that seroquel is the culprit. He’s lowered the dose of seroquel, told me to just stop it completely if I don’t see improvement after a week or so.

It’s really frustrating how slow the process of working out medication can be. There’s always a month between seeing the psychiatrist. There’s really no other way though, the meds take time to take effect or lose effect.

I feel dumb as a post right now, that is for sure. My creativity is thrown out the window, and I notice myself drawing a blank quite often.

It’s really making my writing suffer and that sucks, because it feels like I found something that soothes the mind. It’s not really writer’s block. It’s closer to asking a child to write a masterpiece. The faculties of my mind are just not there right now. My word recall is terrible as well. I can just barely grasp the ideas that are floating around my head. Focusing on the thoughts is like trying to read the advertisements on a nascar as it zooms past you.

I’m so frustrated. My mind is blank. Fuck it, I’m done for now.


Writing for the sake of writing

pacifies the endless churning

of racing thoughts and unfinished

emotions that haunt the broken

faculties of my psyche


A certain freedom contained in

the words written on the page

that takes me away to another place

where schizoaffective is just

a bad word that remains unspoken


Our kiss brings endless reason

to the world that I live in

There is both before and after

and you have seen me

broken in a heap


The warmth of your body

next to mine in our bed

is all that I need to forget that

for now, my mind is sick

and full of rotten ideas


Thru sin and ecstasy you were

always the force that kept my heart

beating and free from the disease

of hate and selfishness

that consumes me

The Hollow, Conclusion

The Hollow, part 1

The Hollow, part 2

Frank wouldn’t usually show up for the dirty work, but Tony Riggs had made this personal when he demanded a favour. Frank was tired of these favours, Tony really wasn’t the hot shot that he thought he was, and didn’t deserve all the special treatment. He dusted off his blue suit with the golden pin stripes as he walked through the dusty barn, a lavish .45 auto pistol with silver accents filling up his right hand. At the end of the corridor was a wash stall for horses, Eddie was waiting there with Sarah Riggs, her head in a purple cloth bag and her hands tied behind her back.

When Frank reached the wash stall, a simple pump of his finger ignited Sarah’s hair and drove a bullet through the fleshy parts of her skull.



Felix’s eyes felt heavy as he opened them, and he could feel a gentle throbbing in his chest. He felt a force holding him into his chair, and reached down to his torso to lift the dead weight of his body. The bright chrome chain wrapped around him wouldn’t give.

“Sit back,” Tony said, grinning, “take in the view.”

Judging by the moon, Felix guessed that barely any time had passed. The car was still surrounded by the raw-skinned freaks that had eaten the driver.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” Felix asked.

“I’m still going to kill you” Tony said, flipping open the cylinder of the revolver. He popped out the spent round, and replaced it with new brass.

“I loved Sarah, Tony, it doesn’t have to be this way.” Felix said, his voice cracking, hands shaking. Of everything Felix said in his last moments that night, this was the most true.

“Loved her like what? The toilet you shit on?” Tony said.

“No, I- look man, “Felix stuttered, not knowing whether the crack of hot lead or the bite of the undead would take him.

Tony reached into the back and pulled Felix’s sleeve up, presenting tiny red pinholes in his skin. “You’ve been shooting up again,” he said, his face now turning a soft red and his voice rough “Sarah told me about that.”

“We were going to have a kid together,” Felix was crying now, “I took care of her.”

An engine blaring on straight pipes came ripping from the distance at the end of the road. Lights peaked through the trees on the windy gravel road.

“You didn’t deserve her,” Tony’s last words to Felix as an orange van came up beside them, skidding to a stop as the person driving noticed the crowd around the old Chevy. The things outside the car clicked their teeth and watched as the door opened on the van, cowboy boots hitting the ground.

Tony saw his chance and waited, watched as the group of bloody corpses ran at the van, overtaking the man in the boots in seconds.Tony reached across the seat and pushed open the driver side door. He opened his own door and slid out of the seat as quietly as possible, and began trailing up the road while the zombies sucked the life out of the driver of the van.

Felix began screaming, realizing the door was wide open to the monsters outside, “I never hit her man! Hey! Don’t leave me here!”

As the rotting humans flocked to the sound of Felix wailing, Tony made his run for the van, and made it without drawing much attention. A few of the undead broke off from the gurgling and moaning coming from the Chevrolet, and rushed towards the van. Tony hit the gas, hard. Two thumps and then the van was roaring down the road.




Eddie began dumping gasoline onto the dark chestnut boards of the old barn. He sprinkled the last of it on Sarah’s body, then climbed the ladder up to the loft where Frank was sitting on a derelict stool.

The sound of the big engine of the van Tony had stolen made the boards shake as it came up the driveway a few minutes later. Frank took his pistol out of the holster strung up to his chest under his jacket.

Footsteps made the wooden floors creak as Tony made his way up the corridor towards the wash stalls. When he reached them, an unworldly silence filled the barn.

The silence was broken by a massive thump as Tony dropped down onto his knees beside Sarah. No sound came out of Tony’s mouth, instead his mouth quivered wide open and his eyes darted between the body and the brain fragments littering the wall. He clenched his fists and began to sob.

The last thing he heard was the click of the auto pistol’s safety being released.

Frank made his way down the ladder, slow and elegantly. He didn’t look at the mess he had created, instead he stepped over Sarah’s body like he would a puddle on a rainy day.

Eddie followed, and made his way to the front door of the barn. Frank lagged behind, he wanted to be the one to put a flame to the fuel. He flicked open his zippo lighter, and clicked the wheel around a couple times. It wouldn’t light.

“Frank, I think you better see this,” Eddie yelled at him from the door.

The zippo finely took a light, and he held it up in the air. Eddie screamed as two dark figures engulfed him. Frank watched as the shadow things ripped into Eddie’s stomach. His mouth agape, frozen in awe, he dropped the lighter onto the floor. It ignited the gasoline immediately, the flame meandering like a snake on the trails Eddie had spilled out all over the floor.

The shadow figures saw the sudden brightness, and began sniffing the air from Frank’s direction.

The fear that Frank felt was like no other. He couldn’t explain it if he had tried, it was a visceral thing that disjointed every part of his mind. It was the fear of incomprehension. He ran for the ladder, climbing in a fury, his legs missing the rungs and bashing his shins on the solid wood. By the time he was at the top, the shadow things were two thirds of the way down the corridor. The fire was now a few feet off the ground, the Riggs siblings bodies totally entrenched in it.

Frank fired off 6 shots rapidly, one of which exploded the head of one of the shadow figures. Only they weren’t shadows anymore, the fire made the raw flesh glisten. The remaining fleshy thing made it to the ladder and began climbing. Frank fired the remainder of the magazine, and the flesh monster fell in a heap to the floor.

Frank cried. Like so many men he had executed, he cried and begged for his life. The fire wouldn’t listen. It grew, tips of flames dancing closer and closer to the loft. Frank pointed the pistol at his own head, and pulled the trigger, only to hear the click of an empty chamber.

Depression, and passion for writing

I’m starting to wonder if my lack of creativity and motivation to write has something to do with being so sedentary. Living with depression, I don’t really get out and do things very often. My days are mostly the same, spending time in my room on the internet, doing nothing really that productive.

I know that depression dulls out feelings anyways, and that’s definitely affecting my writing. But I think too that lack of input isn’t helping.

It’s a little disheartening to hear the stories of great writers and the lives they lived. Adventure isn’t an active part of my lifestyle, and I feel like I won’t ever live up to other writers who have simply experienced more then I have.

I wish my illness would play some sort of role in spicing things up. Use it as my muse. But it does just the opposite, depression really means blank, nothing, empty. There’s no foundation to build upon. I don’t know any way I can write about nothing. You can’t describe it really. It’s just there and it sucks.

I find myself wanting to just rant about how bored I am, but I refrain because I don’t want to overly bore the people who happen to read my blog. It lacks substance enough as it is, I don’t want to make this a big whining pit of despair.

The medication I’m on also sort of dumbs me down. It’s like I have all these things going against the grain for me. Life is trying to tell me to sit down, shutup, and slowly die. I won’t do that though. I still push on and do my best to write. I hope that if I keep doing this, maybe a year from now I won’t have so many problems. I might not have creative experiences to draw on, but I can still hone my writing skills.

I really enjoy doing poetry lately. It’s funny because I used to hate poetry in highschool. Thought it was the lamest thing ever. Now, I enjoy the freedom it offers you as a writer. It can be as structured or unstructured as you want.

One thing I’ve noticed about writing is that I actually still want to do it while I’m super depressed. I still care about it. And that’s huge, because most things I stop caring about while in a deep depression. I may not be able to write much while feeling that low, but it’s a good sign that I still crave it.

I’ve been afraid to commit to writing for a long time. I’ve always wanted to do it, since I was young. I went through phases of thinking it was lame, people would make fun of me, etc. It was only recently that I realized that was all bullshit, and I can do whatever I want with my life. The people who would call me “artsy fartsy” aren’t people I respect anyways.

Now It’s all I can think about. I’m a little obsessed. Which could be a good thing or a bad thing, as I tend to get really attached to something, and then slowly lose interest until I quit. I’ve learned some things about discipline though, and I think I might need to stick it out through the hard times when I don’t enjoy.

All I know is right now I feel passionate about writing. And it’s good to feel that way.

Writer’s Block II


Phantom that I seek

Let me catch you, so that I may tickle your raw flesh

and steal a kiss from your swollen lips


You came close to death

You slumped into the depths of my imagination

and lived only through the gentle prodding


Where do you hide muse

When I find you, I will cut open your tummy

and spill the delicate intestines onto canvas