Rehabilitating my injury is now a complex routine. There are times I do things, times I don’t. There are things I consume, things I don’t. Focusing on the routine, the regimentation of recovery, is keeping my mind on things that matter, and off things that don’t.

I get depressed at night. I used to wonder how common it was, but one thing I know is that people don’t like to talk about it. If people do experience it,  most react by trying to hide from it. That’s pretty clear. They seek out distractions, anything that triggers dopamine release– drugs, sex, people pleasing, etc. I’ve seen it, I know about it. It makes no sense to me that people would prefer to go through their one-and-only life… in hiding.

Drug addiction and all of that are really addictions to hiding out, avoiding.  Addictions and addictive behaviors are sustained and rewarded by escapism. Some people will probably live their whole lives as an escapee, on the run, thing to thing, person to person, hiding place to hiding place. I can’t say I blame them much, but I know that’s a bullshit way to live. I know that’s not for me, even though confrontation (rather than hiding) causes pain.

When depression sets in I feel hurt. I think about where it comes from and I never find an answer. I wonder if there’s some sort of stealth regret somewhere in my past that fires on me from the subconscious. If there is I sure wish I knew what it was. I mean, I’ve definitely been foolish and haven’t forgotten those times– they’ve helped me grow, never circling back, always forward. The biggest loser in life is the person who doesn’t learn, who repeats mistakes. The muscle of judgement gets a little stronger every time you use it, and doubly so when you use it correctly, like any other part of your body. Growing is everything. Idling, playing around, wasting time doing stupid, distracting shit– is nothing. It’s never been different.

I don’t know where my depression comes from. I probably just have too many wishes for certain things I know about to be different than they are. It’s hard to accept certain things, I know that much. It’s hard to not want to cause some sort of change, to be disruptive when things are fucked. Maybe a big enough something would force a reset and things would come back “right”.

My reaction to pain is still intensity. I’m thinking about that alot lately.

Two little old black ladies came to my door about an hour ago.

“Good morning, how are you today?”

“Hi.”

“We’re here on behalf of  <some group>. There are some people who think that natural disasters are God’s way of punishing us for sins. Have you ever thought about that?”

“I’m completely certain that natural disasters are not caused by a god.”

“OK then, well would you mind if we left this small magazine with you?”

“Yes I mind. Thanks, bye.”

I should have invited them in to talk. That would have been positively disruptive. But how far do you ever get with someone who’s stoned on belief in the absurd, or an addict, or someone so afflicted with emotional issues that they just refuse to think about certain things, to hear certain things. How far do you ever get with a person so disinterested in seeing or knowing what’s really there, the real thing about themselves, about the actual world, about what actually matters.

Sometimes I feel like I’m surrounded by retarded zombies and it gets lonely. Sometimes I even wish I were a zombie too, one shallow thought to another, la-la-la, then death.

Zombies don’t exist to themselves, only to people who see them, see the walking shells, predictable, controllable, lame and without meaning– except to the people use them, appreciate them for being usable, for being zombies.

Without reality, life is just a dream. How terrible would that be– never even knowing reality, how the joys of what’s real make fantasy joy seem like the worst waste of time, the boring thoughts of spoiled children hiding out until they die.

What waste.

Time for PT.