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When I saw my ex-boyfriend had posted a picture to instagram of himself and his new boyfriend smiling at a worksite with Habitat for Humanity helmets on, a few thoughts came across my mind.
Wow. Good for you guys. Giving something back to the community. Altruism is alive and well. And documented. On an app. No good deed is ever justified until shared with everyone you know. So thanks for showing us all how helpful you are! Very inspiring.
Wow. I should tell them about that time that I held the door open for that large Hispanic family. It was like a darn clown car, so many kids my arm started to get tired! But the appreciative look on that single Latina woman’s face was all I needed as compensation for almost injuring my arm. I guess I could have taken a selfie of that moment but… I guess it just never crossed my mind. Personally I never even thought to tell everyone about my mitzvahs, I just do them and reap a smile as reward. Like the time I held the door open for that old Asian man. Maybe I should share that with them as a fellow philanthropist. Oh bah! They probably wouldn’t want to hear from me. I’m “the ex”. And I don’t have a new boyfriend to take cloyingly charitable photos with in abandoned buildings filled with dirt. I guess I’ll just keep doing these deeds unnoticed. I don’t personally live for the “likes” but of course, to each his own.
Wow. It’s so noble that they’re willing to get down in the mud and really get their hands photographed. But that must be taking a toll on their actual career-paths. You can’t make experimental music videos featuring candles and spoons AND save the world. It’s such a shame because I’m sure they have so much to offer.
Wow! You know what? I think that one day in the next two to three years when my sold-out play, “The Boy Who Could Only Give” wins an Obie, I’ll mention them in my acceptance speech. Or more realistically I’ll mention them in my post awards show interview. My speech is a little jam-packed already with all of the sherpas I need to thank. Then of course I’ll speak on my journey that took my quest to the voyage I’m currently embarking within, and then I’ll need to thank my partner Raoul (stop taking your shirt off you silly goose! We get it! You’re a 10!) and finally I’ll need to thank my parents and God/Buddha/Vishnu/Abraham/Gandhi/Mother Theresa/Oprah.
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Imagine every morning as you wake up, someone takes a shit on your forehead.
Just as your eyes are crustily prying open and you waft into consciousness, a big wet turd greets you for the day. And instead of screaming in disgust and anger you just wipe it away routinely and proceed to the bathroom to brush your teeth. And every so often, scattered throughout the day, at random intervals, poop is flung from out of nowhere right in your face and you just have to pretend like it didn’t happen.
No one else around you is getting doody-bombed every hour so they can’t really relate. Whenever you try to confide in someone about the constant dooky-flingings, it just seems like whining to them.
That’s what depression is for me. An overwhelming sadness that washes over my body throughout my daily life. I could have a wonderful lunch with a friend, be feeling light-hearted and level, and suddenly without explanation the tide rolls in causing confusion and misery. Raping me in the feelings with a gangrenous dick of bitter hatred and shame.
It’s like a contradictory drill sergeant commanding me to waste my life in a toilet of angst.
I know that misery can turn into a self-righteous cycle wherein you lie in bed all day and make yourself sad again and again by embracing your depression as a kind of a character trait but please believe me when I say that I truly do not want to be a depressed person. I desperately want to be happy, or not even happy, just NOT DEPRESSED.
But I don’t have a say in the matter. Depression is like a voice-over written by somebody else. I plead and plead with the director to take out the fucking voice-over because it’s making the movie shitty. But he’s a hack who went to NYFA so he places narration over every boring scene in the annoying film of my life.
Sometimes my only choice is to embrace the depression. To melt into the quicksand and lie slothful in sadness. It’s like I’m wrestling with the devil until I just can’t anymore, so I pause the match so that the two of us can lie in bed together and watch the entire “Gay & Lesbian” section on Netflix.
I often struggle with figuring out if my depression is something that happens to me that I could eventually overcome, or if it’s just how my brain is wired. I can only hope it’s the former.
Sometimes life’s kafkaesque bullshit becomes unbearably droll to a painful degree.
It’s difficult to get things done when you have to swim through a sea of invisible dragon intestines to accomplish anything within any kind of organized system.
Obvious examples would be the DMV, the post office, schools and universities, etc. But sometimes well-trusted systems fail in harmful and unexpected ways.
I got an upper respiratory infection over Christmas and felt like a pile of still-eroding sand. Every time I tried to speak I would sound like Harvey Fierstein and Tom Waits had a baby who was now gargling with salt.
I had gone to the pharmacy to pick up antibiotics and then slumped back into my ill stupor of hate and decay. There were 8 pills. I took one a day. By the 9th day I was still sick. In fact, I was worse. I felt like a slinky made of meat, rolling around in a sandbox.
The following day (two days after I had finished the full dose of pills) I received a call from my pharmacy:
“Mr. Nulman, have you taken the full dose of the antibiotics we gave you?”
“Yeah, so, it turns out that you were given the wrong pills.”
“Yeah, somebody accidentally switched your medication with someone else’s.”
“What have I been taking?”
STEROIDS. I was given steroids instead of antibiotics and yet hadn’t grown one muscle. On top of still feeling like a lumpy heap of garbage under a sun lamp, I had just basically been farted on.
After I had finally gotten better and was no longer hallucinating about demon vaginas queefing on my fragile, gay body in the night, I had come to the realization that my boyfriend, who was home for the holidays the entire time, had no longer wished to be in a relationship with me but decided to go the high school route and instead of telling me, just stopped talking to me.
My spirit had been broken, my singing voice diminished, and my trust for organizations, corporations, and just other people in general had now diminished to an almost non existent point.