Writer’s Block

Do you all remember a time when I would bust out posts every day, sometimes twice a day, sometimes thrice a day? That time ended many months ago, and this writer’s block has continued something fierce. Every once in a while I come on and see how everyone is doing, what’s going on their life and where they are heading and I wonder why I just can’t kick my ass in gear and write.

I’m a writer for God’s sake, that’s what I do.

So, as I sit in class right now, it got me thinking about my writer’s block, others writer’s block, and how people just push through it. So that’s what I’m trying to do, for the sake of the cathartic process, and for the sake of my writing future.

Because I am such a broken human being unique individual with a variation of experiences, I decided to do something for myself and attend an outpatient group. This group meets three days a week, for three hours each day, and I’m on the evening schedule. We learn a lot about coping skills, about forming and maintaining healthy relationships, as well as being open and honest about what’s going on in our head. Some people have substance use issues partnered with their mental health, others don’t.

I’m not sure what I’m learning from it. I know that it gets me out of the house and prevents me from isolating, which is good for me, and I know it’s good for me because I absolutely hate doing it. And I seem to hate doing anything that’s good for me. Ever get that feeling?

Meanwhile, the outside world is falling apart and we’re all sitting around twiddling our thumbs like:


When we should be doing something like this:


Kanye West is trapped in a perpetual state of “mania”, or at least he’s addicted to the “manic” behavior, Trump is still president, sexual assault victims are coming forward and getting pushed back down, people are putting guns to their heads, overdosing, throwing themselves off bridges and the ages are getting younger and younger, there’s rarely anything positive on the news (in America), everyone kind of flipped the bird to school shootings, cops are still shouting “break yourself fool!”, cocking their gun sideways, and blowing seven holes in innocent people like they work for the crips, and meanwhile I’m sitting here on this computer documenting it all, processing it, and thinking back to similar times.

I think maybe, just maybe, we’re all stuck in a pretty serious delusion about our lives: That we can continue moving forward with all of this baggage on our back. Nothing is being discussed, and when a discussion does arise, it turns into nothing more than the internet being divided on the subject for a couple days. Racism is a hot topic, until a school shooting happens. We’re all crying for the students until a cop shoots another unarmed white, black, yellow, blue, brown, rainbow man/woman. As we writhe from the shock, Trump says something outlandish and/or stupid (mostly stupid), and all cameras point to him. They’re so busy photographing his orange face and blonde toupee that they miss the guy standing on the bridge behind them, tears streaming down his face.

There’s no soft way to put things: we’re living in a society in which things are swept under the rug.

I guess it’s nice that you and your friend on Facebook have these deep philosophical conversations over messenger that ultimately ends with one of you quoting words you don’t understand by some unnamed author, hoping that the way you’ve carried yourself and your political stance will help you sound like an intellectual.

And it doesn’t help that when something serious on social media is trending, it doesn’t get taken serious and its fifteen minutes of fame go by in five. This is my argument against May Mental Health Awareness month. There’s nothing impressive about a month of people saying nice things to each other and being supportive when that mindset falls apart in June.

At this point, I’m ranting, because if there’s one thing we all understand about writer’s block, is that you can’t pull the right fucking words out of your head even if your life depended on it. Something has them stopped up like hair in a drain, and I don’t have a long enough whatcha-ma-call-em to dig the mess out. The only solution is to pour corrosive bleach down the hole and let it set. So, I’m pouring bleach on my brain and waiting for the magic to happen.

What will happen to this blog? I’m not entirely sure. I don’t want to get rid of it, I want to help it blossom into what it once was. I want to communicate to real people about real topics and still promote mental wellness. I want to commit to writing at least once a day to gain back old followers and shake hands with new ones. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem, in my own life and in relation to the rest of the world. I want a lot of things, as you can see, and I’m not quite sure what that means.

And that’s today’s Mental Truth.


Yeezus Christ! No One Man Should Have All That Power.

I rapped a lot in high school.

There was this one college prep class I took where I, with an eager group depending on me, wrote two raps and killed it in front of the class. I was the next Dr. Dre, the next Snoop Dogg, the next . . . err, well, I would say Kanye West but people don’t seem to like him very much. I got the rap beat for it illegally (shh, don’t tell anyone) and I taught them (kind of) how to sing the chorus line with me. They sounded horrible. I love them, but fuck I hope they never quit their day jobs in pursuit of a music career.

Point is, I got a lot of props for my rapping. I have social anxiety disorder, but that class was only 15 students strong, including me, and I’d known over half of them for four years. A dream class, right? I just think it’s hilarious that I sweat like a heroin addict without a fix trying to order food in a restaurant or give a presentation or walk down the street against traffic where everyone’s eyes judge my half-assed style and yet I managed to make a successful performance of those raps. That was the crowning jewel of my high school career amid thousands of thousands of hellish days.

I know I have an extroverted personality inside, but it’s shrouded by irrational fears of inadequacy, fears of humiliation, fears of criticism, fears of fear, fears of being afraid of fear, and constant ideas that people’s vocal tones, facial expressions, and lack of eye contact all hint towards their hate of me. I love making people laugh, entertaining them, being the “wild” spirit in the group.

Then there are those days where I just can’t handle the feeling of life. The days I curl underneath my blankets and cringe at the chirping bird assholes outside of my window signaling the rise of the sun. Those are the days even the tiniest amount of light is insufferable on my eyes and the sound of someone talking to me is like little daggers teasing my brain by gently stabbing it. That’s when I’m convinced those people outside exist only to make me uncomfortable, that they hate me, and that I should hate myself for thinking that way.

It’s so weird trying to explain my depression when I’m not depressed, so I don’t think I’ll even try. Instead, I’d like to talk about if I were a celebrity.

1). Paparazzi. If some short little snot nosed bitch with a big black camera came walking up to me in the middle of the street screaming questions in my face or flashing lights in my eyes I’d plant my shoe right through their lens. I mean, I know people say “well, if you want to be a celebrity you’re going to subject yourself to the paparazzi”. Yeah, that’s true, but I feel like that’s just giving those people an excuse to be rude little pricks. You don’t run up on someone and shove a camera in their face, I don’t care if you get a hundred thousand dollars per picture. It’s called respect. Get some. I have the right to defend myself and you know what, I might just have a phobia of cameras and feel threatened by their closeness.

2). I would not buy a Rolls Royce Phantom. I saw one dude on MTV cribs (does anyone still remember that show?) who owned a Phantom and when he opened the passenger door and pressed a button, an umbrella shot out.

An umbrella. You paid 500,000 dollars for an umbrella in a door? Throw that shit in the back seat and come down off your high horse, freak. I’d buy myself a Tesla and hope I don’t get electrocuted driving through a puddle.

3). I’d say the stupidest shit. Maybe I wouldn’t have the drunken balls to run up on stage and snatch a microphone from someone but when Kanye looked straight in the camera beside Michael Myers and said very monotonously “George Bush doesn’t like black people” I died. That was hilarious! Forget all the political B.S, all the backlash, all the arguments over whether it was true or not, and stop taking life so seriously; that was comedic gold. If anything, it gave him more publicity and made him richer. So, I mean, say what you want. Each time you mention his name he gets a quarter.

4). I would not name my child North just because my last name is West.

5). I would not carry around a little dog in my five thousand dollar purse.

6). I would not pay five thousand dollars for a purse.

7). I would not go on a commercial for a charity, tell poor people to donate to the charity, and then give the charity one thousand dollars out of my 54 million dollar salary. If you’re going to give a charity money, give them some money, don’t pussyfoot around acting like you’re a big shot. And don’t ask me to pay for you, I have 0$ to my name fool, who do you think you are?

8). I would give to charity though. I love how the Co-founder of Facebook gave twenty four million dollars to this charity called “Give Directly”. They go into third world places like countries in Africa and just give the people the money rather than trying to go through the governments who are corrupt in themselves. It’s done wonders for reducing poverty and child hunger and there hasn’t been a rise in alcohol sales like everyone says there would be. I know the Co-founder dude probably makes billions, but at least he gave them a good chunk of money. That’s how you do charity.

If anything I think fame would make an otherwise extroverted person more inclined to social anxiety. If I was a celebrity I’d probably be curled up in the closet with headphones on my ears ignoring the world. Hell, I do that now so who’s to say having a bunch of money would change it? Mental Health doesn’t care about your bank account, or your net worth, or your race, or your car door umbrella, or your rapping abilities. If I was a celebrity I’d be open about every obsessive thought, every socially anxious nightmare, every episode of depression, every episode of non-depression, every suicide attempt, and every reason for why I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d love every critic chastising my honesty.

Mental Illness is very humbling. It’s a shame more celebrities don’t have it.

Unless you count deluded egos. Then a lot of them have it.