Don't Rant & Drive (Vlog)

I'm going to bed.

New Videos Series

So this week I've started working on something a little bit different. At work, since I have a healthy amount of free time this month, I'll be making a series of videos dedicated to quick tips for the next I.T. student worker. Since I'll be leaving after December and there's always a transitional "hiccup" with any new employee, I'd like to help ease that in the future. If I have extra time, I'll also be doing some simpler tip-and-trick "how to" videos for people who may just want a little extra knowledge of how to keep their own computers up to snuff. Additionally, I'll be doing some heavier things like gutting a laptop and moving all of its internal components into a new case (which I'm really looking forward to).

Anyway, I've made my first two videos, and I figured I may as well blog them here.

Living With Depression: History and Background (Part 1)

The other night while I was driving back to Moberly from Columbia, I realized that while I've talked briefly about my depression in various blog posts in the past, I've only touched on minute aspects of it and have never actually talked in-depth about what my experience with it is like on a day-to-day basis. So this sparked up an idea that has surfaced intermittently in my mind over the past year or so: a series of blog posts dedicated solely to talking about my personal experience with long-term depression.

IS THIS REAL LIFE? A BRIEF HISTORY AND BACKGROUND

My earliest memory with depression was fifteen years ago, when I was nine years old. It may have started sooner, but this is the earliest that I can look at it and think, "Yep, that's depression." I had been chapter 51'd for attempting suicide by walking down the middle of the street hoping to get hit by a car. While I don't remember much from the hospital itself, I remember being one of the younger kids there. I also remember my dad coming one night to take me home. I can only suspect it was not an authorized release, because he told me at the time not to tell anybody, and when we got home he instructed me not to turn any lights on, but rather closed the blinds and lit a couple of candles. I never actually learned why he did what he did that night, but I do have a couple suspicions. Nevertheless, I digress.

Though social and familial isolation while growing up definitely played a role in feeding my depression, there is also much, much more to it that I've talked about in various blog posts before. One Little Lie and Cutter are two reads that I would recommend in terms of adding a bit more context to the storyline. Most of my memories between the ages of nine and sixteen are blurry to me; unless a memory surfaces randomly in my mind, odds are I won't remember it. I remember "going crazy" (as some may call it), talking to myself and getting lost in mental fantasies only to return to a reality that was generally cold and foreboding. My distaste for reality, of course, spurred more and more elaborate fantasies, sometimes blurring the lines of reality to the point that my dad would question whether my "friends" were actually real (the truth is, I lied to my dad about having friends until I was fifteen just so that he wouldn't worry about me). Had I actually opened up with my counselor as a child about these fantasies, there's a chance I may have actually ended up institutionalized for how closely they sometimes bordered on psychosis. 

The question of whether or not I experienced psychotic episodes as a child is one that I've pondered in great depth, but also one that I've never been able to come to a definite conclusion on. Mostly, this is due to the fact that I was always in control of the fantasies and knew what was real and what was not. The closest I came to a psychotic episode was when I was fifteen and in juvi; I found myself so caught in a mental fantasy (which I had created as a way of coping with the reality of being incarcerated) that for a few brief minutes, I legitimately lost touch with what was real and, in a moment of realization that I can only attribute to a transcendent force that I had not yet become aware of, snapped back to reality. This is the primary incident in question; the rest were less severe. I would have internal dialogues with "voices" in my mind, but I always had some degree of control over them and always realized that they weren't real. I've always chocked it up to a hyperactive imagination.

Though my INFJ personality does lend to being more reclusive than most, depression while growing up certainly affected my ability to socialize. Combine that with the fact that my dad worked most of the time (which I admire to a degree), I found myself alone more often than not and generally operated on my own, internally, intuitively, and spontaneously. Unfortunately, I was also an angry child, lacked moral guidance, and was almost continuously on probation. My early teen years found me in and out of juvi, and eventually locked up for a stretch that lasted fourteen and a half months. Needless to say, I didn't exactly grow up with ideal conditions for becoming a mentally healthy adult. I knew this, too, but only continued to make matters worse for myself; instead of doing something to make a change, I played the victim and blamed everyone and everything but myself, avoided responsibility, and through it all I didn't care. Every day I felt like my head was in a fog; the lines of reality were so blurry that I couldn't make out what I should or shouldn't do.

If there's one thing I'm grateful for, it's that my depression wasn't particularly known while I was growing up. Truthfully, I didn't even know what to call it until recent years; I just knew I felt like shit all the time. Aside from a few incidents that raised concern, I have little doubt that I may have been institutionalized had I been vocal about the truth regarding what was really going on in my mind. I knew this to a degree, and so like many people with whacked-out minds, I was left to fend for myself (mentally speaking, that is). Now I'm not saying that I was utterly insane, or that I should have been institutionalized, but it certainly could have happened. I often wonder why God didn't allow it to happen, but always find myself grateful that it didn't; I've met people who were, heard stories of atrocious things that had happened in such places, and would thus never wish institutionalization upon anybody with mental health issues.

I was seventeen when I tried to kill myself. If there's one thing I remember, it's that the blade was cold, and that it only stung for a moment; once the adrenaline kicked in, I couldn't feel anything. I watched the blood flow and then stop, so I jammed the blade deep into the cut and flicked it outward, watching the gash get wider and wider until the blood started flowing again. I can't honestly say whether I actually cut a vein (because frankly I'm no expert when it comes to medical things like how fast blood flows when you cut a vein), but I remember starting to feel weak and tired after a little while; despite the adrenaline that masked the pain, I just wanted to fall asleep. Nevertheless, I only found myself angry that it didn't work. I've talked about this, before, so that's not what I want to focus on; besides, the scars have faded some over time.

What I do want to focus on is this: I continued to cut myself, intermittently, up until I was 20. I've often told people that I stopped cutting after my suicide attempt, but that's not the truth. The last time I cut myself was during my first year of bible college. One night, almost on a whim, I decided to personally hand my box cutter over to the men's residence director and explain why I was handing it to him. But hold your applause; I only stopped cutting because I was afraid of getting expelled and being left alone halfway across the country with no home to go back to. However, I handed the blade to him personally instead of simply discarding it because I wanted somebody to know that I wasn't okay. And this is where I get to the point of all this talk about self-harm: despite being depressed, I longed for a sense of home, for companionship, and for somebody to know.

This longing is a thread that I can see playing out all through my childhood, teenage years, and very early adulthood. I would be lying if I didn't say that it's still a present thread in my life and in my thinking. Yet the very nature of depression makes it difficult to reach out for help. As a teen, I feared that I would only get in trouble if I asked for more help; I was already under pretty close supervision as it was, and I wasn't about to put myself in a situation that would require even closer supervision. Sure, I had a counselor (who I was required to see), but I didn't even talk to him; either my dad was sitting in on the session, or I feared he (or my probation supervisor) would find out nonetheless. When you're depressed, your first thought isn't that people care about you; neither is it your second, third, fourth, fifth, hundredth, thousandth, or millionth thought (if your mind operates as fast as mine does). I found myself rationalizing to the point that I was convinced that nobody really liked me, and that my isolation was my own fault for being so undesirable.

Yet during all of it I had things that I wanted to do, things that I would become passionate about (even if I lost interest after a while), things that kept my hands busy. As I was generally alone a lot (despite being closely supervised), I found myself absorbed in things that would offer my mind something to focus on, a safe escape from reality. If anything, it offered short-lived blips of happiness that speckled my reality like stars in the night sky. But the problem is that it was always short-lived; I couldn't find a lasting solution to my depression. No hobby that I wrapped myself in could satisfy me. There was no word that could soothe, no blade that could cut deep enough, no pill that could fix, no patch that wouldn't shrink and rip off.

It was as though God wired me as an INFJ with depression (or allowed it to happen) so that only He could satisfy me. It may sound weird (even preposterous to some), but it's how I think nonetheless. Yet I've been told by well-meaning Christians over and over that "if you just have faith, God will set you free from your depression." Little did they know that their words damaged more than they healed; it left me envious of those who seemed to get better and made me question my faith and whether God loved me. I ask: what's so difficult about supposing that God allows some to be depressed so that His glory could be displayed in their lives? Two stories come to mind. The first is John 9; the story of the man born blind, whom Jesus healed. If you haven't read it, go read it now and then come back to this. Jesus said he was born blind so that God's glory could be displayed in Him. The second is 2 Corinthians 12, where Paul prayed and prayed for God to remove "a thorn in his flesh," to which God simply replied, "My grace is sufficient for you."

Perhaps I'm wrong, but I think that depression and other mental health issues are simply an effect of what sin did to this world (i.e. that depression is simply "part of this fallen world," as some would say). I don't think being depressed makes a person any less lovable or desirable, and I don't think that my relationship with God is dependent upon whether or not I am depressed. Though I used to believe the opposite (that if I didn't "feel" God close to me, He wasn't there), I want to encourage you that you're not alone, and God loves you; God has allowed you to be the way you are for a reason. Don't doubt for a moment that He has your best interest at heart. Even if it's dark, He is there. This isn't some sort of sympathetic attempt to paint a silver lining, but the truth: Jesus suffered just as we do. He understands our pain and our struggles. Even if it's dark, He's right there with you, and you're never alone. 


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Part two of this series is coming soon. Keep an eye open.

Roote Ferty Fer (Vlog)

End of Semester (again)

I've figured since the semester has ended and I'm now left with a decently open summer to work and relax and think, I may as well resume blogging (it's been more than two weeks since my last entry).

The busy nature of the end of the semester made it as such that I wasn't adequately able to clear my head and think straight. Struggling to overcome the academic hardship I had brought upon myself through procrastination, catching up on late assignments, submitting papers at the last minute, and pleading for extra time definitely left its mark on this semester (and not in a good way). Most of the classes I was taking were actually quite easy, so easy that I brushed them aside to return to the mires of introspection and wrap myself once more in the familiar cold of depression. This has been a particularly difficult year for me, trying to pick up the pieces of myself in the aftermath of the manifested danger of investing too heavily in one person while trying to decide where I really stood in relation to God and faith. The most difficult portion, definitively, was realizing that the faith I professed I did not live out; that is, while I claimed to believe God was sufficient, my actions clearly showed that I did not.

Of course, the implications of such double-mindedness are far-reaching. I firmly hold that life must be considered holistically (and that compartmentalization simply does not work), so to give you a further glimpse into how my mind and thinking work, here is how I understood the implications of my own hypocrisy. If I claimed that God loves people, and God does not show partiality, then I had to accept that He loved me. But to reject it meant that I had to reject that He loved other people. All of the time and energy I had previously invested in trying to show people their worth before the Creator of the universe was thus being poured down the drain, so to speak; it was impossible for me to truly believe their worth while I loved some but hated others. It was further impossible (if there is such a thing as more than impossible) for me to believe their worth if I was trying to drag them into sin with me. And yet all the time I had spent (intermittently) in ministry went to nothing if I didn't truly have the love of God in me (by definition of what the Word says and what my actions showed, I did not have the love of God in me). I actually wrote a song about the struggle between theoretical faith and practical doubt, and have played it several times for people who only thought it was simply meant to be poetry.

And here I wonder if I have the love of God in me even now; there are people who I cannot stomach to be around, people who I find myself speaking negatively of in secret, people who I deliberately avoid and otherwise blatantly ignore for the sole purpose of not having to subject myself to their mindless or otherwise irritating babble. I refuse to open myself up to people simply out of preemptive judgments I've made regarding their ability to comprehend anything in enough depth to make my talking to them at least worthwhile; often, I find myself feeling that I'm better off saving my breath. Conversely, I frequently withhold from posting an actual status update (versus simply sharing a link) on Facebook because I believe that nobody would even care and that I'm thus better off not even bothering to move my fingers across the keyboard to type the words. 

I didn't want to share this before, mostly because of how personal and immediate it was, but depression hit me harder this year than it ever had before. As the days drug on and on, the calendar began to blur together and some nights I found myself sitting catatonic in my room, unable to even move my thumbs to text someone for help, let alone open my mouth to talk to them had they actually arrived. Some nights, it was a struggle just to stay standing up in the shower and not collapse involuntarily. I numbed out harder than ever. Ascend the Hill sums up the feeling: "Someone make sense of this, I beg you now. Where is grace in this? Where is love in this? Our time is running out. This ruined city longs for the vengeance of our God, but we can't see 'cause ashes fill us all. Broken bones, they still feel numb; oh, the mourning had begun. Corrupting ourselves, God save us now." Being depressed in the midst of people who are full of joy is a bit of a two-edged sword; on the one hand, it's encouraging to be around people who try to lift me up. On the other hand, it's disheartening to see other people overcome something like depression to live lives full of joy while I still feel stuck in this pit. Eventually, even those who promise to stick around move on to more lively friends (save one, a person for whom I cannot express how much I am grateful for). 

Nonetheless, what is easily the most important moment of the year came about roughly a month ago. In August/September, I decided to ignore Christianity and effectively left it behind to pursue my own selfishness, despite having returned to bible college. In December, after a dear friend pleaded with me to at least try to hold on, I decided not to denounce the faith, but at least to ride things out for a while so I could have time to riddle some things out. And then, last month, I found myself utterly face-to-face with the reality of Jesus (and of course the far-reaching implications of such), and knew I finally had to get off the fence and make a decision: either leave my selfishness behind and return to Jesus, or completely harden my heart, depart the faith, leave Central, and allow my selfishness to rule me for the rest of my life.

I wasn't going to make a decision willy-nilly, but I also wasn't going to automatically rule one way or the other out of fear. It wasn't until someone (I honestly can't remember who) reminded me of the love of Christ and how real it actually is that I made up my mind to return to faith and follow Jesus. I'm actually going to church again.

Last Sunday I went to a music store with a friend and played an electric guitar for only the second time since I think January of 2014. The first time was at the music store last fall, and I hated it; playing brought about a swell of emotional memories that I couldn't handle. I actually had to put it down and walk out of the store. This time around, things were different. I picked up a 7-string and played a little bit of Invisible Year (if you've listened to Invisible, you've heard the original concept and should at least have an idea), and to my surprise, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long, long time: passion. I felt alive, like I was falling in love. My hands remembered the notes and the structure of the song better than my mind did, and I was surprised to hear myself playing the full spectrum of rhythm and lead simultaneously and without struggle. It was as though my body had been waiting for the familiar feel of a 7-string guitar neck so it could resume its old forte. I think that after I move in December, if I end up where I think I might, I'll have to start saving to get an electric and amp for the studio. 

Speaking of the studio, I've officially kicked off "project Toaster." To give you a little insight, "The Toaster" is actually a name I've given to a computer I'll be building sometime this fall specifically for audio production and video editing. Although I did purchase the first part for it already, it could be a while before I buy other parts. This comes for a couple reasons; first, most of the parts are very expensive and my bank account couldn't handle trying to purchase them all at once, and second, I'm only buying parts as I find excellent deals on them. In other words, I'm shopping for parts as I can afford them, and buying only when the market is just right. That said, here is a list of parts that will be going into it. Certain parts, like drives (both solid state drives and hard disk drives) are naturally bound by the the speed of technological advancement to get cheaper as time goes on, so I won't be buying those until much closer to the build date. Other parts, like the CPU (processor), motherboard, and case, won't be getting any cheaper for at least a couple years, and I'll have to watch the prices daily to make sure I catch them at just the right time. Why monitor the market so closely? Simply put, to stay close to my budget; if I purchased all of the parts at full price, I would be paying well over $1700 to build this thing; I would very much like to see how close to $1500 I can push it down. 

And speaking of close, it is getting close to midnight, so I must get some sleep. I thought I would come up with some super cool conclusion to this post, but I suppose not. At least I'm blogging, huh?