Day 304: 30 a day 3 a week.

My new resolution for myself is to write half an hour a day for 3 days a week.

I just want to achieve consistency.

I also will probably end this particular website on March 6th.

I just want to get accountable and try to keep hope alive. 2016 was not a good year for me personally. A lot of set backs for me, and I’m eager to put that all behind me.

So I’m working my way slowly to my goal… today was only like 10 – 15 minutes, there will be more. It’s an ongoing process.

DAY 231: AHAHAHAHAHA

Nothing changes , I’m just miserable and I keep fighting my way uphill, except the hill is like in the center of Jupiter and I’m trying to climb back up into space just to asphyxiate.

#lolanxiety #loldepression

DAY 45: The inevitable struggle

Writing, especially creatively, is a struggle. It is. Writing creatively professionally, or thinking about it, is HORRIFYING.

What’s horrifying is, I have no self-confidence. I have no belief in my skills. I never have. I’ve been told I’m a good writer, and  it helps, but it’s like a tiny gasp of air before the riptide pulls me into the ocean of self-doubt and negativity.

I don’t think it’s more evident that I suffer from anxiety and possibly depression when I try to get myself to write.

I’m 32, and this has been a 13 year struggle to get something out of me. What do I have to show for it? A constantly re-written superhero comic, 3 chapters of a book, countless ideas that have been lost to time… I’ve want to give up daily, and in fact, since I’m not doing anything, I pretty much HAVE given up.

But I think about it, and I want to do it, I have to d0 it. There’s no other way out of this.

DAY 21: So this movie came out….

I’ve been debating doing this. If you’ve known me well enough, you know that a certain movie by Zack Snyder is the bane of my existence. It really hurt me. Deeply. Profoundly.

Why, you ask? How can a movie affect you so much?

Well, let’s start at the beginning. As much as I make a big deal about me and the TMNT, my love for comics and related media don’t come from sharing a name with a Ninja Turtle.

They come from two men: George Reeves and Christopher Reeve.

When I was a child, syndication ruled television, and WWOR (Channel 9 in NYC) would run episodes of the Adventures of Superman repeatedly. I remember watching them, enraptured, towel clamped onto my shoulders (thanks mom), jumping around the living room, pretending to fly. My mom would yell at me for jumping and ask me derisively “don’t you know it’s fake?!?” (thanks, mom). I knew, my parents made every effort to ground me in reality, but I didn’t care.

Then there’s WPIX, Channel 11, currently Pix 11. They ran Superman marathons repeatedly when I was a kid. Superman I – IV, all day on a Saturday or a Sunday, and I’d watch it every time. My favorite for a while was Superman IV, because of the action, and how ridiculously powerful Superman was, but really, Superman: the Movie is still my #1 movie, for purely sentimental reasons. It will never be supplanted, I will never allow that to happen. I don’t care how good your movie is. I don’t.

Part of this obsession with Superman also has to do with my dad. Until 9/11, he worked out of state on and off, so he was never really around. He was also weird and sometimes very mean and angry, yet expected me to be a soft, gentle person, even as he yelled at me and slapped my hands. I’ve attributed it since to part of his schizophrenia, but I’ll never know for sure what was going on in that man’s head.

So I’m a pretty hardcore Superman fan. I’m a pretty hardcore comics fan, because of Superman.

Superman was there for me when my parents wasn’t. He offered me strength and hope when I felt like my world was torn apart when they divorced. He comforted me when I felt isolated and alone in middle school. I owe a lot to the Man of Steel.

With all of that said, I struggle deeply with how I want to review Batman v. Superman. I’ll save that for tomorrow, but I thought I’d elaborate on my inner emotional turmoil. I guess I’ll elaborate tomorrow.

Day 6: The Unexpectedness of Life

So I got a call from my mom yesterday, and she gave me some unexpected news.

I say unexpected, because calling it bad news would just make me feel terrible about everything and I’ll get mopey. So let’s go with unexpected.

About 5 or 6 years ago, I was still living with my parents in a tiny two bedroom apartment. I had just arrived at work, when my neighbor called me and told me there’s a fire in my apartment. I got back, and found my brother in an ambulance getting treatment.

Long story short, we had to move out for a bit while it got cleaned up, and I had to move the vast majority of my stuff into storage. My aunt, who still lived in the neighborhood I grew up in, held onto the stuff for me, until she moved out and sold the house, then it went into another cousin’s warehouse.

That was 2010, I moved into my apartment 2012, and we never could coordinate to get the stuff to my apartment that I moved into.

Then I met Tammy, and we moved in together.

Now, my cousins have some work to do to get the warehouse up to code, so they’re moving my stuff back between my cousin’s house and my mom’s apartment.

Yeah. It looks very likely that I will have to get rid of a lot of my stuff.

For someone who comes from scarcity, I tend to hold on to a lot of things. For a while there, I would cut off the cardboard backs off my action figures and preserve them, because they had text and images on the back.

It comes from the fact that, I grew up poor, and I mean well below the poverty line here in America. Birthdays and Christmases (the few that we did celebrate) were the only time I got toys, and I was a very adept window shopper. I mean I’m great at looking at things I want and walking away.

But then I got older, and I got more allowance, and I got a job eventually, and I struck out on my own.

And spent way too much on comics and toys. Like way too much. Still paying off the debt too much.

And now I’m 32… and I face the prospect of getting rid of everything I accumulated. Not even selling it off really, the warehouse wasn’t temperature controlled, and the books were in cardboard boxes. For all I know, everything could be ruined and I could have nothing to show for 20 years of comic collecting.

It would be nice to not have all of that hanging over my head though, I probably would never see this stuff until I got my own house, and at the rate I’m going, that’s  going to be a WHILE. So I’m heading back to New York next week to assess, and maybe bring a few things back. I’ll probably come back in May to get truck it somewhere and sell it off and bring some of it back home. The toys will probably stay with me.

This is life. It hands you unexpected twists and turns, and you deal with them. You take it in stride, and you move on. I won’t lie, it’s disappointing, but I don’t come from wealth, I don’t have the money to store my collection in an easy way, it’s going to have to go. I’ve had about 24 hours to come to peace with this fact, and for the most part I have.

Day 2: Setting up

So yesterday was my birthday, which marks the beginning of the 33rd year of my life. I am now 32.0027397260273973 years old.

I’ve spent the last few months agonizing over life, and how to handle things. As someone whose lived with a lot of inconsistency and uncertainty in his life, I get a lot of anxiety. I feel under-prepared and at the same time, that I haven’t done enough. Nothing is ever enough, and I freeze. I compare myself to others, I look at people I know who are doing better than me, I look at comic book professionals and where they started out. I look at myself and wonder if I’ll ever get to that point.

Writing for me comes naturally, but it’s mostly writing about me. About my mental state, how I feel, what I think. Expressing myself in this respect is a non-issue.

Expressing my creative side is terrifying. Like a Lovecraftian nightmare of epic proportions, like the dawning realization that we are little motes of dust compared to the rest of the universe.

I am terrified of failure, of disapproval mainly.

The one thing I’ve taken from my relationship with my now deceased father is this: nothing I did or could do would make him happy.

The problem with that line of thinking is this: I’m trying to win the approval of a man who is mentally ill, and by definition has no realistic hold on reality.

And sure, I realize this, I typed those words out didn’t I? I consciously understand…

Emotionally? I have such thick walls of negativity and self loathing up that it takes a huge effort to break through them. I mean a disproportionate effort.

In 6th grade, I wrote an essay about myself, I called myself free-spirited, and if you know me, that can be true of me at times.

My dad ripped me to shreds for saying that. I’m not allowed to be free spirited, not in this world. Everything is about working as hard as you can to scrape by.

I still resent him for making that statement, but I also have adopted that mentality. So really, he won.

It’s taken me all of this time, with him having been gone for 2 years now, to finally go “wait, this is MY life, no one is making choices for me, I don’t have to feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

Now it would be a perfect story narrative to tell you that that’s my attitude going forward, but it’s not. I’ve had this mentality before, and I’ve relapsed into my ball of self-hatred and black-heartedness time and time again.

They say you can’t love others until you love yourself, and I suppose I do love myself, but it’s hidden in this black hole of self-hatred and loathing that’s built up over 32 years of life.

I guess being in my 30s now, this death struggle between me and myself has started to wrap up, especially with my dad gone and my mom miles away. I can’t say I’m fine, but I’m trying to be, I’d LIKE to be. That’s a big step, because self-loathers tend to bask in their self-loathing.

So this is day 2 of Chapter 32, and I feel ok.

I would like to get back to writing fiction and working towards putting something out. I’m not ready to think about hiring and paying an artist, so I won’t. Coming from poverty means money is your most dominant concern, but I’m doing ok, not great, but ok. I’m going to hope things improve, and take it from there.