Author Archives: Skippy

It’s not just sad

It’s not just sad. Though I most often use that word. The word “depression” has lost some of its meaningfulness as a way of explaining what this beast is that accompanies me.

There’s this scene in Cool Hand Luke where Paul Newman is fighting with George Kennedy and he’s being pounded but he won’t stay down. Luke can barely stand, hardly raise his arms anymore but he won’t stay down on the ground and let it be over. Sometimes my depression is like that.

There this scene in Mash where Painless the dentist decides that he would rather die than go on living. Hawkeye and the gang plan a funeral charade for him. Painless preps himself, climbs in the coffin, takes his pill and waits to die. Lt. Dish “helps” him out in the midnight hour and Painless wakes up the next morning and goes about his business like the evening never happened. Sometimes my depression is like that.

There is this scene in the Color Purple where Mr. runs Nettie away from Celie and Nettie stands in the road as he pelts her with stones. She screams, with her arms raised and hands open, she screams “Why!!?? Why?” Sometimes my depression is like that. It’s not just sad.

Sometimes I ask why; sometimes I’d like to just lay down and die but most often I just keep getting up barely standing, worn out and beaten. I am unwilling to lose to the beast. It can walk with me if it must, but it won’t ever win. Just so you know.

why? what’s the point?

I can’t decide if I need an answer to this question. I am doing a lot of sitting. Thinking. I keep doing things that I think I should do to get to the next thing I will be doing. Then all of a sudden, I feel the question “what’s the point?” And I can’t come up with a suitable, sustainable response.

what’s the point of continuing to pay the mortgage on this house. why not just let it go and shoot myself in the head? then no more questions about what’s the point. or figuring out what to do next so that I can keep paying the mortgage on this house or any house for that matter.

move from here to some other place I’ll have to keep up with. doesn’t matter if it’s a tiny house, or an RV or a condo. the same things I do here, I’ll have to do there so what does it matter?

I know this is exacerbated by my not having some outside entity directing at least part of my day to day hours. I know this is about my having to be in control of everything that I do and having some of the things I do not mean or amount to anything. I can’t figure out what are the important things anymore. Even if I find something important, doesn’t mean that it or its importance will last.

I can’t kill myself so I have to figure something out.

I love books

I love books, have always loved books. When all else appears to fail, a book never does. Inside is a story. Someone took all the words they needed and organized and ordered them to tell me something I wanted to know. Without even knowing that I existed.

Tide and Time

It takes energy to swim against the tides in one’s life. To reach over and over again in a direction that sometimes opposes the flow of what has gone on before when one turns for a new path, a new thought and an old forgotten dream.

And I am tired. Tired. Tired of striving, desiring, wanting, pushing, digging, holding, waiting, hoping. Tired of effort and drive and persistence and perseverance.

I want to be here now and be done with the rest.

I’m tired
and can’t do it anymore.
Can’t don the cape and leotard
can’t sling the gun or roust the horses
for yet another frontier
I’m going to stay right here
awhile and decorate the hole
I’ve dug myself.

bubble time

I climb into a bubble with you. At first it was just my bubble. I would practice wrapping myself in it for you. Practice feeling the touching of you through this bubble where it was just me by myself, practicing feeling you. And sometimes when we were together, when I had invited you to a fucking and you said yes, i would step aside and watch you and me fucking and I stood in my bubble and watched you; you were there fully, doing what I was doing, us fucking one another, each other, the other. And I saw you see me smile, and you smiled. There. Then. I had already invited you into my bubble where you were with me and I could practice feeling the touching of you with you there.

That’s what I wanted to say to her but that hadn’t happened yet. When she asked if I was in love with her. She would not understand that answer from me. She was still caught up in trying to translate the most basic things of me that it would have been impossible for me to get through just using the word “fucking” for what she called “making love”. See the words make a difference. It’s not just the word itself but how and when and tone. They can mean the same thing but they often only mean opposite sides of the the same thing; like one is good and one is bad. One you do with the one you love; one you do with only throwaways. So fucking means throwaway and making love means keep and God forbid you should want to keep the one you fuck.

That’s where we would end up. Not at the place where I fell in love with her. So what I said instead was “no, I’m not in love with you.” She was surprised. I knew she was surprised. Everyone was always in love with her. I loved the idea of her for a very long time. From the moment I met her really but I wasn’t what she wanted and we disappeared from each other quite easily. But then she would show up in my dreams, shadowy and smiling and I would look for her passively, like show up to group gatherings at the places she liked to go or ask people about her and then there she was. Long after I had given up seeing her again. But when I did, when I saw her…beeline.

what happened between then and now is just color commentary. I was hers but she kept picking me up and putting me down and I didn’t care. I was staying close. I would bask in the moments when she would let me inside of her bubble. I could see more of her. I could see the mask; could see that she knew that I saw it and would let me behind and she would show off for me in all of her glory. Then. Again. Every time. I would fall again and again and again.

So I said “No, when she asked” because I hadn’t fallen again. But I would. I did. I will. Always.

geeking on about Grey’s

This season (the 13th I think of Grey’s Anatomy) is developing a story line where Richard and his leadership is coming under scrutiny. They did a brilliant thing and mined the information from 12 seasons of Richard Leadership to challenge him. It’s all wrapped up in Alex’s consequences of beating up Deluca, the return of Leah Murphy who came to study cardio-thoracic surgery with Maggie, Bailey becoming the Chief she’s been working to be, and various and sundry minor story lines – Meredith’s love life, Avery and April.

Leaders make decision’s every day and they probably all can’t be right. Richard made decisions about the hospital, the staff, and the doctors and nurses for 12 seasons. He couldn’t have been right about everything. Nobody is right about everything. Sometimes the choice isn’t even between what is right or wrong. Richard often had to decide he was right about what is best or to figure out what is best in addition to considerations of moral and/or ethical right.

Some episodes, his leadership about any particular issue could be on display. and his choices effected the choices of other characters. (Isaac’s Spinal Tumor). The brilliant part is that the writers have continually connected episodes to choices or outcomes of other episodes. (Mary came back after Derricks shooting but died unexpectedly after living through the shooting threat) to as the push the story into future seasons.

This can only be possible because Shonda Rhimes has had a long, long range view right along side an Agile Development methodology for the short term view. Every episode has some strings in the short view that can be connected to in developing the long range.

That’s cool.


that’s my fear. I don’t know what I’m doing. even about the most basic of things. like how to clean. I’m so afraid that I don’t know what I’m doing that I don’t do anything. I sit back and plan and think on how to do what I want to get done. I think that somehow I can find the right tool, find the right method where I can snap my fingers and sparkle sparkle.

The thing is, mostly what is required is that I stop thinking and start doing what I want done; or keep thinking while I put my time and effort into picking up a mop.

Somehow, I think if I were smarter or more competent then I wouldn’t be having these issues. If I were smarter and better and did everything right my dogs would not be ruining my floors with urine. It’s not that I haven’t mopped in months, it’s somehow that I’m not smart enough. Seriously, that’s how I think.

I really don’t know how I got to feeling so entitled. Like I’m owed an effort free house, an effort free existence. I don’t know what that is.


I’m uncomfortable right now. I keep trying to ease the discomfort, make it go away by covering it with external fixes. Something out there has to be the answer; something out there has to be the thing to bring me comfort.

Except, what if there’s nothing out there? I did school already. It didn’t make me comfortable. And although I absolutely enjoyed the last year away from here, somewhere new, doing something hard for me but exciting and challenging in a good way too, it didn’t make me more comfortable. I felt like I was doing something tangible to change my life, improve my life. I felt like I was doing something that could be validated by the world as something worth doing which means that my life is not a waste. But my life is not improved. I’m right back where I started. Except that I’m not.

It feels like I know that school is not going to work for what I want anymore. That the debt is not worth the validation that I’m craving. I want the validation, I don’t think I want to pay for it anymore.