The Purge

Writing has always been a way for me to transcend through difficult times and sort out the confusion of my moods and thoughts before they swallow me.

It’s become a way to creatively disable the suicidal urges, self-destructive tendencies and throw a soggy band-aid on my diseased mind, so I can continue to drag my feet through life.

As the psychiatrist who involuntarily admitted me to the hospital told my wife, “he’s been sick for a long time.”

“A long time” translates into nearly 1,000 pages of previously unreleased grunge poetry, suicidal prose and short stories that – today – are being released, exposed and purged from my conscious.

Why has this writing never seen the day of light?

Because of its darkness.

Letting my depression speak would’ve exposed my struggle at a time when I wasn’t ready to bear the burden of admitting that I brawled with bloody knuckles against these ruthless mental demons.

Also, depression debilitates you with safeguards from exposure; a low self-esteem, embarrassment and crippling perfectionism.

Since the medications have soaked into my bloodstream, things have changed and I no longer fear the labels that I assumed come with the cold, naked honesty of what I wrote.

And, most importantly, my perfectionism has dulled and I see beauty in my own ugly.

So, today I purge all of the projects that I’ve been dragging along behind me in secret.

Yowl / dShadows.  The Curse of Twenty-SevenThe Ruse of AmbiguityIn GloomBun.Ko

You can read them for free as a PDF on

Or, you can purchase the eBook editions on Amazon.

Or, you can wait until October and purchase them in print (signed).

Regardless of whether or not anyone reads them, today marks a new beginning in my life.

The purge has begun and it won’t stop until all the sludge that weighs me down is scooped up and tossed aside, so that I can walk on clouds, again.

Before I go, let me issue a warning…

Breathe in only small whiffs of my work at a time, or you too might get swallowed.

Happy Pills

Before I was ever offered happy pills, I was adamantly against the idea of medication.

The propaganda against psychology – paid for by the Church of Scientology, amongst others – convinced me that psychiatric drugs were a ploy by the shadow government of the world to numb/dumb us all down and lock us into a hypnotic and dulled conformity.

…sounds like the schizophrenic paranoia of someone who might need medication.

I digress.

Secondly, there is a stigma attached to happy pills and the act of swallowing them is like admitting that you are bipolar, schizophrenic, depressed and so – by that logic – as long as you don’t take the pills, you don’t have to fit into an uncomfortable label.

But, the most embarrassing reason that I avoided taking pills is the fear that it would “kill my creativity.”

I thought that little demon’s voice in my head was what inspired my creative impulses and was worried that without it screaming at me, I wouldn’t be able to write and that was more terrifying then watching my life crumble around me because I was too stubborn/scared to seek help.

Then I realized something.

If the endgame of depression is suicide, soon enough I wouldn’t EVER have the opportunity to be creative.

So, I accepted the help.

Actually, I had no choice in starting to take the happy pills because I was Involuntarily Admitted at the hospital, meaning they made the decisions for me, legally.

I was ready, regardless.

I’ll admit that at first I felt like the creativity was being sucked out of me.

My mind became blank and I had a hard time expressing myself, vocally or in writing.

But, that was because the layers of voices howling at me, criticizing my every move, encouraging me to kill myself had stopped and my mind was clear.

Five months later and I’m finally able to express myself, again.

Those five months were a struggle, but they would’ve been without happy pills, also.

My only regret?

Not having asked for help sooner, because until my mind emptied itself, I didn’t realize how bad things were getting.

The torment of my mind became normal and it was trying to kill me and the only way it would’ve stopped was if I was dead.

Weeding the Garden

I was weeding my garden. It was overdue. Weeds were suffocating the nutritious vegetation.  The life. Late into the evening I tugged on the root of a weed that wouldn’t budge. I yanked at it until the flesh of my palms rolled back and bled. I got a heart-shaped shovel and stomped on it, but the root was unharmed. This root needed to be dug out. I shoveled. Dug. Deeper. Ouch. That hurt. Kept digging until no longer was I digging a hole, but I was digging to escape, upwards. The root kept going and going and I kept digging and digging until finally, dirt fell on my face and I broke through to the other side. That root was a tree on this side and it cast a deadening shadow. It was the home of many evil spirits. They poured out of the hollow and slithered into my hole. I jumped in behind them and began falling. By the time I slowed down and started climbing, the spirits had plonked their rotten seeds in my garden. I was too late. Rain was in the forecast, heavy. I didn’t have a raincoat. I got caught in the flood and drowned.


I was forced to attend Sunday School at the only Lutheran Church in our town as a remedy from my sprouting pre-teen aggression and rebellion.  It was awful and I devoted myself to being a pain in the ass to the teachers and the congregation.  I would show up wearing my skull jacket every Sunday, making sure I’d forget a roach in the pocket while I’d blare “Antichrist Superstar” by Marilyn Manson through my discman headphones.

Like my dad said, “too bad that didn’t work.”

I somehow passed my Catechism -a oral test based on the memorization of the Ten Commandments, a few selected Bible verses and the Lord’s Prayer; none of which I remembered- and I was officially a member of the Lutheran Church.

I’ll be honest for the first time in my life; my rebellion within the walls of that church made me nervous.  I felt like I was fucking with something bigger than myself.  Something that I didn’t understand.  Something that might have a real consequence and not just a wooden ruler to the knuckles.

I was afraid, but committed to being banished from the church, eternally.

The truth is that I do believe in something, but I’ve never admitted it because it almost seems rationally irresponsible to my scientifically-driven ego to do so.

Atheism is fashionable to the intellect.

I believe that WE are a soul and each soul is the piece of something bigger; the godhead or GOD.  Therefore, we are all connected in the cosmic sense that we originated from the same place; Heaven.

Why we left Heaven was because each one of us transgressed against GOD in Heaven, so he banished us to the lowest of planes; Hell.

Thereafter, we spend as many lifetimes as it takes to make our journey back through each spiritual plane -there are seven and we are on the third in the physical- walking through hell to find our way back to the godhead/Heaven.

Each body/vessel that our soul occupies is used to gather experiences that’ll lead to a small piece of insight that we need to progress to the next spiritual plane and therefore, when we are reincarnated, we carry with us the experiences of all our past lives, so that we haven’t lost the formulas to the questions of the answers we need.

Before God banishes us to the depths of Hell, he gives us the opportunity to sign-up for all of the different sufferings we will experience on our journey.  All the heartbreak, sickness, death, etc.

I like to remember this; all the hardship and hurt that we experience in life our soul signed-up for, having faith that it could handle the pain.

As we collect experiences -especially from the insight of suffering- our soul manifests itself into new spiritual planes of existence until one day it’s again back in Heaven, reconnected with the godhead.

Therefore, I think life is -on this plane- learning through all the sensory inputs.

We have to learn what we’ve lost in Heaven before we’re able to return.