Depression Sucks

This post has been on the backburner for some time but I can’t let it stew any longer. Recent events won’t let me keep my thoughts hidden. Yeah, I know I have a long stance on not talking about personal issues but I feel it’s time to come out in the open on something that plagues most writers or anyone with a creative mind.


wpid-20140723_181918.jpgOn August 11, 2014 we lost someone I considered a brilliant mind to suicide. Robin Williams. I’ve seen most of his works and thoroughly loved the depth of his reach. From comedy, drama, and to all out creepy; he did it all. While he put a smile on our faces, demons were slowly eating away at his soul. Drugs weren’t a part of his life recently. He said in an interview that John Belushi’s death steered him away from cocaine that but good old alcohol? It cradled him like a babe.

Someone suffering from alcoholism can’t just have one drink. That is the spiral down a deep, dark path that is very hard to claw out of. It’s a mechanism to dull the pain of depression. I, for one, get giddy when I’ve a few too many.

As far as pharmaceuticals prescribed by a professional not working the bar at the local watering hole, I know first hand about the drugs that combat depression. None will warp your mind into some happy go lucky person. Some will squeeze away your creativity leaving you nothing but a zombie or far worse. That demon gnawing at your soul could grow to heights you cannot control until you stand on that cliff with jagged rocks below, inviting you to spread your wings and die.

I’m of the belief that suicide isn’t the coward’s way out. I’ve been at that cusp, wanting to stick my head in a sink full of soapy water and just inhale. I’m here to say I didn’t have the courage to do it. I was too scared.

Depression isn’t about the people around you. Sometimes they’re the cause, partially in my case, but not the stop all for the root of the problem. When a person is a giver more than a taker, I feel that the possibility for quid pro quo goes out the window. Face it, not everyone is a giver by any means. We all have met that one person that only thinks of themselves. Me, me, me! Now imagine that person clinging to another who is battling that soul-sucking demon known as depression. Nothing in your life is good enough. Your self-worth is a jumbo jet with both engines on fire over a sweeping desert.

We have a breaking point and it’s a bit messy.

For me, my marriage was a sham and I felt like I was nothing but a carpet to stomp on. What I wanted out of life didn’t matter. So, in order to get me out of my deep hole, I took medication. My son was my world and I didn’t want to leave him behind to suffer as I was. Yet another reason I didn’t take my life. At first, I saw the difference in taking those cute little pills. I could function again at work and be productive. As time went by, and I neared the end of my prescription, however, I realized that any creativity I had was non-existent. I couldn’t write one word. Then I flipped out at work, thankfully, after hours. Something simple as forgetting where I hung my jacket had me in hysterics. Was this what my life had been reduced to?

Here I was, miserable in my situation, and taking a drug that wasn’t going to solve the root of the problem. I quit taking them, doctors be damned. My eyes had opened to the truth and, as I said before, I had a son that needed me. I was the one doing Cub Scouts and being involved in his sports to the point that I helped coach his hockey team. Me. The mum. I don’t regret it.

So when I heard the news about Robin Williams, my heart broke. I know first hand how easy it is to hide depression. There’s no physical wounds that show and all we need is that moment away from the crowd to curl up in a ball. I’d smile at people but as soon as they walked away, the smile was gone. All for show. Just like when I was in social situations. Ha-ha, she’s a funny girl. All I could think of was how could I just get a closet to hide in.

To this day I still struggle with depression but I accept that it is a part of me and does not rule my world to an extent. I have trouble going outside to do yard work. Sometimes my housework doesn’t get done because my energy is zapped from the cloud over my head. Worrying about how I’m going to pay my bills or what if something happens to my house or car or my fur babies … it’s just not as easy as telling yourself to ‘deal with your shit’. It takes commitment and understanding and sometimes people are so wrapped up in their lives that they just don’t see it.

Remember, there are no scars externally.

How many times have you said to someone “How are you? Are you okay?” and they reply “I’m fine”. If they’re like me, they don’t want to burden someone with what we feel is our problem. Not really the case when you have a family around you but still, that’s how we feel inside. It’s a heavy burden to bear and not one to take lightly. Why the hell would I want anyone to shoulder the pain inside?

So, as I go through my week and reflect on the tragedy, my mind wanders to Philip Seymour Hoffman and Heath Ledger. While drugs played a part in their deaths, I can’t help but remember how they portrayed themselves in public view vice how they might have been behind closed doors.

I wish depression marred our perfect flesh so someone could see the pain within. I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m asking for understanding. It’s a heavy load to bear and no one has the right to judge someone should they take their life. Sorrowful end to someone who refused to burden others, IMO. Conversely, you cannot help someone that doesn’t want it. Sometimes, they have to look into the mirror and be a coward ….

…and live.

Just One Taste: The Romance Novel Book Club

I love this story. What started out as a fun way to poke fun at romance novels evolved into something so much better. This character just grew throughout the book. In writing this, I bared a lot of my soul. While I’ve never had the pleasure of tripping falling on a man as well-endowed as I made Matt, I have learned to stop the cycle of self-loathing and see the world around me.

I have to thank my friend Julie who was my inspiration not only for the secondary character in this book but to finish it. That it went to print just overjoyed me. I’ve held a book with something I wrote in my hands before but I shared the limelight with others. This glow is all mine. :)

The Romance Novel Book Club 3D

Melody licked the dewy drop from the end of his shaft, sending shivers down Armando’s core. She teased and prodded before taking him fully into her moist, hot mouth, driving his senses wild.

“Enough!” he growled as he laid her down on the downy bed.


Wait. What? He stopped her? No man in my life had ever stopped me from performing the fine art of fellatio. Heart’s Desire was supposed to be a romance novel, not epic fantasy.

I checked the cover again. The author, who apparently wrote enough horizontal bop-capades to earn her a spot on the New York Times Bestseller’s list, sure made her male gigolo sound like the cabana boy of my dreams. Too bad I couldn’t have him leap from the pages.

I popped another truffle in my mouth, suckling on the chocolate about as erotic as Melody working the pole in the novel. I groaned more or less in disgust, thankful the tasty chocolate treat dulled the bitter taste in my mouth.

How hard could it be to write one of these things anyways? I mean, if I took everything I wished happened in the bedroom and wrote it down, throw in a little misguided mistrust and a jilted lover, and bam. I’ve got the poster child for a romance novel.

I tossed the book aside, fully realizing the meaning of ‘fiction’. If all the men acted that way in life, I wouldn’t be digging in the ‘magic’ drawer by my bed every night.

My lips pursed.

Perhaps that’s what I get for not being a virgin or not falling for the fumbling hands of a man. I really wanted to dive into the book and slap the shit out of Melody at that point. The girl needed a wake-up call into reality. It wouldn’t be long before she leaned against his chest and Armando prodded her head with gusto toward his raging crotch rocket.

Every novel I read had the same formula. Some stubborn virgin female fell for the village playboy. Sometimes the local royalty were thrown into the mix too. They made hot monkey love and had a little mistrust due to a misunderstanding because they refused to communicate with anything but the voices inside their heads.

Okay, maybe that last part could be part of my world.

Then it’s off to the Chapel for a proper marriage, and the woman popped out a few kids. Cue the happily ever after epilogue. My fingers curled around another truffle, my tongue darting out to lick the tip in an illicit manner. Fellatio was fun so long as a little quid pro quo on the vag happened.

“Oooo … Armando! It’s so big! It will never fit down there!” I swooned back onto the couch and rolled my eyes. I dropped the truffle into my mouth.


I hadn’t found one man I had ever dated who had a penis I even questioned about fitting in my hooha. It doesn’t mean I think my ‘soft velvety petals’ were as big as the Grand Canyon, just romance novels over exaggerated the male anatomy.

My eyes stared at the book lying imperfectly on the coffee table. The picture of Melody half-naked with Armando ravishing her pale skin tickled my nether regions. Go ahead, Patricia, you know you want to finish reading it, my mind taunted me. Masturbation material, remember? I sighed and threw my hands up. Leaving the book, I decided to indulge in a shower to test out a new showerhead I bought.

“Oooo … Armando! It’s so big!” I cooed again in a high-pitched voice. I shrugged out of my clothes.

I seriously needed to get laid by something not made of silicone and that didn’t make my water bill sky high.


I rubbed the towel over my wet hair and scrubbed the toothbrush across my teeth.

Hygiene, I thought.

All these stories I had been reading centered back in the Middle Ages and such. How clean were the nether regions back then? I couldn’t imagine an author selling a book that went along the lines of ‘Oh, Melody. You taste like the fish with which I broke my fast.’ Nom nom nom. I had a better chance of ruining another shirt with a Häagen-Dazs stain than to ever see those lines in print. Trust me, I don’t waste good ice cream by wearing it.

Unless my hips counted.

Yeah, sure, call me bitter because I was single going on thirty-five in a few months. The fact was, I’d played the market and I had yet to find one man who fit the description of any romance novel hunk. I wasn’t talking about the twenty-one-something drunken club scene prowling I did either. Go ahead and test the market—the local Laundromat, super market, coffee house, and library (hey, I was desperate).

He simply doesn’t exist.

Reading those self-defeating novels was the brainchild of my best friend since childhood, Julie. Sort of a book club—with two members, both single. One night after a particularly laughable passage, we shared a couple of bottles of Merlot and pinky swore if we didn’t find ‘the one’ by forty, we’d become full-blown lesbians and move to Boston to have a civil union. The marriage, we giggled, would be open so we would have variety beyond our collection of naughty toys. Considering Julie and I had been through a lot, it was the least we could do for each other.

Julie and I met in our home town of Middleofnowhere, USA. If it wasn’t a church, corn field, or some sort of livestock, it didn’t exist in our realm. Julie and I made our own brand of mischief to rival the boys. They, of course, got blamed for it. Who would believe that two innocent little girls in pigtails could sneak into the square in town and hang the mayor’s boxers on the flagpole?

Collectively, we’d done enough wicked things to make Paris Hilton seem like Mother Theresa. We shared everything. I gave my shoulder to Julie when she went through her divorce. She held my hair when I lost my cookies from binge drinking when the latest boyfriend ran scared.

Heart’s Desire still sat on the coffee table, staring sadly with invisible eyes. I picked it up, thumbing through the pages. One by one, I marked steamy scenes with Post-It notes—my date for tonight if I failed to pick up male company.

We were going out to a local Italian restaurant for dinner. Casa Favolosa was our favorite eatery for more than just the food. Julie had her eyes on the bartender, and I fixated on our usual waiter, Matt. The plan would be for me to find out when he got off work and ‘conveniently’ still be picking at my pasta when his shift ended.

I mentioned I’m desperate, right?

I paused with my make-up bag in hand, the hour-long task of dolling myself up looming, and set it down.

Not tonight.

If the girls in the romance novels didn’t smear hoochie make-up on to snare in their catches, neither would I. I decided to go on strike, with maybe a hint of laziness thrown in. Besides, I was pretty sure Matt was a boob man so I spread a little scented lotion into my perfect golden globes.

They’re always milky white in the novels, weren’t they? The village maid happened to avoid the sun so much her skin was perfectly flawless. Another passage I’d never seen sprung to my head.

Melody flashed a smile to Armando, her dull incisors like a portrait of yellow clover flowers. Her skin, roughened and dark, like dirt hanging from the carrots she harvested, scratched along his massively huge man boobs.

Eh. Men have boobs too. Adjusting my own, I nodded to my reflection, stating my mantra of ‘Give me sex or pass the vibrator’. I either seduced Matt into having wild non-committal romp with a thirty-something under-sexed female or I dialed the pink phone myself.

Purchase Links:
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