In fact, I just recently had a (relatively heated) discussion about this very thing just over the weekend. It’s not the first time I’ve had this discussion and I doubt it will be the last. Most of these discussions are rooted around the idea of defining poetry in a way that excludes. For instance, an argument could be that just writing sentences with random line breaks doesn’t make something a poem.

To me, a poem is a poem because of intent.

Is the above example I just quickly wrote a poem?

Yes. Is it silly and not really a great poem? Also yes. A sentence can be a poem. A word can be a poem. A paragraph can be a poem. Prose poetry exists. Line breaks do not make (or break) what a poem is. My argument and stance is simple: intent is what makes a poem a poem.

An Argument of Craft?

Over the course of this argument about what makes a poem a poem, craft almost always comes into play. And I can understand why. We create poetry. We craft it. But, the debate about craft usually goes further than that. Because when we talk about craft in poetry and art, we don’t typically mean that we are crafting the poem. Craft most often refers to the technical capability/ability, structure choices (line breaks, punctuation), and diction/language.

So, the argument kind of shifts into a poem can’t be a poem (even with intent) without craft. I’ve never liked this take on poetry because it has the potential to exclude poems like the example I provided above. And it has the potential to exclude people who haven’t developed their craft yet.

But a poet’s first poem is still a poem, even if it isn’t any good.

And that really starts to shift the discussion into something beyond what makes a poem a poem. Being bad at something doesn’t preclude it from being the thing you are trying to make. Say I need to make a boat, but I don’t really know what I’m doing yet. So, I just cut down a tree. That’s my boat. Is it a good boat? I mean, I can ride on it and it floats.

Art is subjective. So trying to define something by saying it’s good is going to cause everyone to have a different definition. And that’s not really a bad thing. Except when definitions are used to exclude.

If you Google “What is a poem?”, you’ll get something like this: “A poem is a piece of creative writing that uses language, rhythm, and imagery to express emotions, tell stories, or share ideas.” And honestly, that seems relatively straightforward, yeah? It’s not a bad definition. It still doesn’t really nail down what a poem is. It leaves it pretty subjective still.

Which, again, is not a bad thing at all.

For me, though, I prefer a slightly different definition. One that’s a little more openly inclusive. To me, a poem is a piece of writing that rewards you for reading it like a poem. (This definition is loosely borrowed from this blog post by David Ebenbach, which is a fantastic read by the way) Honestly, not that far from the Google definition. I like this definition a little bit more, though. Because it allows more to be poetry. It could be a typo on a menu. A text to a friend. A quick little post on social media. A greeting card.

Because poetry is everywhere and should be everywhere. What do we lose when we allow more things to be poetry? Does the world suffer if there is more art in the world? We lose nothing and the world does not suffer.

Art Should be Accessible. Full Stop.

Unfortunately, the history of poetry (and art) tends to be filled with exclusionist, elitist, and classist sentiment. Which is interesting, considering early poetry predates written language and literacy. Poetry was recited or sung (with or without musical accompaniment). This is another rabbit hole for another time perhaps, as I’ve also seen plenty of arguments that poetry is different (and somehow better?) than song lyrics. Interestingly enough, early poetry was about almost anything, sometimes even something as simple as instructions for how to do a task. See? Poetry can literally be anything.

And then we started to move on to the likes of philosophers and westernization. And this is where poetry begins to get defined in a way meant to exclude so it could become an elite pursuit. Aristotle created three kinds of poetry and rules so that they could separate poetry from prose (which to them was more logic and explanation driven). And also so they could define and “quantify” high-quality poems. Meter. Rhyme. Forms. Poetry became harder on purpose. Because the elites wanted to remain elite. They wanted to exclude the common man because art and poetry was reserved for a special class of person.

So here’s the thing. I will never stop saying that art is for everyone. That creative nature is what makes us human. The need to create art. To consume art. Art is a form of escape. It’s a form of therapy. It’s a form of protest. Art is deeply integrated into every aspect of human history, from early cave paintings to someone finding an old toilet and signing it.

And, whether you agree with it or not, that’s the absolutely beautiful and most amazing thing about art. It can literally be anything! And it can literally be done by anyone!

At this stage in art, good or bad shouldn’t even be a part of the discussion. Because good or bad doesn’t make something art. Just because you don’t like something doesn’t make it suddenly not art.

Good? Bad? What’s the Difference?

This is the part where I say good or bad doesn’t matter. Plus, it’s incredibly subjective and we could argue until the heat death of the universe if we disagree about something being good or bad because it’s literally just personal preference. And that’s okay!

Because good or bad isn’t the point.

The whole point of any art, like poetry, is to create it. Is to consume it. You should create art because you want to. Because you like to. You don’t need any more reason beyond that. Of course, whether you share it or want to get better at it is entirely up to you. Everyone’s journey is going to be different. This is why you will find me, anywhere I can, endlessly encouraging and telling people to keep writing. To keep sharing. And to keep creating!

Because the world can always use more art.

This is why you’ll find me on Threads, on Instagram, and elsewhere giving feedback and advice and encouragement to people. Because I don’t lose anything from it. Just some time, really. But what I gain is the knowledge that there’s one more artist in the world, creating because they want to create. I’m more interested in encouraging people to take those first steps into writing a poem.

Why? Because often I’ll find that people are afraid because they don’t know what a poem is. They come across the gatekeepers and elitists that trumpet their version of what poetry is and it scares newcomers away. Because they don’t know what a poem is. Or should be. Or what it can be.

And a poem can be a note to a friend. It can be a shopping list. You just have to want it to be a poem.

I will always, ALWAYS, argue that more people creating, consuming, and just generally interacting with art is always a good thing.

We should never exclude anyone from art. Well, except for maybe the elite.

From,

A poet with an MFA in Creative Writing and Poetry.

But the truth is I haven’t really done any of that in months. Or longer. I did manage to play some WoW a weekend or so ago, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like I was playing to enjoy it. It felt more like doing something I was supposed to. Like a chore. Or work. And that’s not fun. Especially for something that’s supposed to be a hobby and fun. I found myself getting angry and frustrated while playing. Kind of the opposite of how I should have been feeling, right? So I haven’t logged in again for a bit. Because what’s the point?

And that feeling is largely true of everything I want to do or try to do. It feels like something is missing. I feel angry and frustrated a lot. Even when I try to “just change my mindset.” We’d all love it for it to be that easy, yeah? To manifest the silver lining, the glimmer of hope, the light at the end of the tunnel, the sun breaking through for the first time in forever. But it doesn’t work that way. And of course that only pisses me off more. It’s a constant ache and a constant hole of what could be. What should be. What needs to be. I want to do more with my days than sitting at another desk after work or just sitting on the couch doom scrolling social media. I want to read. I want to write more. I want to get out of the house to take photos or just go for a walk or something.

Yet, something holds me back.

A voice? A feeling? I’m not really sure how to describe it. Just a kind of ache for wanting to do those things but not being able to actually get myself to be able to do them. I will grab my laptop or a notepad and get it ready so I can write. And then I don’t. I will grab my Kindle and get it ready so I can read. And then I don’t. It feels like it takes an insurmountable amount of effort and energy to stop scrolling and do something else instead. Even if it’s something I want to do. Even if I feel bored and restless and lost when I’m just scrolling on my phone.

I am the opposite of a ghost in this situation. I cannot pass through the wall no matter how badly I want to do so. I am trapped in a room and I can’t get out.

And so this has gotten me to start thinking this weekend about deleting social media from my phone. All of it. I remain reluctant. Some of that reluctance is (even if this hasn’t been true for over a year) social media has served as a kind of lifeline for me. A way to reach community that I couldn’t have any other way. Of course, lately I’ve been completely passive on social media, so it’s not like that community is actually there. If I don’t actively participate in social media, no one reaches out to be active. That’s just how it is. I get it. Many people have lives that pull their attention so it’s easy to let the less tangible online side slip away. Nothing wrong with that. But it is lonely for those of us that don’t really have that offline community to fall back on, you know? Obviously, deleting social media doesn’t mean that I cut it from my life. I just want to make using it be more deliberate (and hopefully active, instead of passive). And so that potential is part of what causes me to hesitate. The “what if” of it.

But it goes beyond that.

That’s an easy “fear” to flag and blame. The truth is I’m afraid of filling my time. It’s the what do I do with the small moments of downtime during work and whenever else I would normally scroll for a few minutes? It’s the moments after dinner or during a TV show that is more just background noise. I am afraid of trying to give up social media and a reliance on my phone (at least mostly) because I don’t know what to do instead. Yes, I realize I just said I want to read more and write more, etc. But it doesn’t feel real. Like, tangible. It’s like it’s too nebulous? But I don’t know how to define it beyond “I want to write.” I don’t know what my goals are. I don’t know how to determine what my goals are.

I’m lost.

And scrolling social media kind of helps me ignore that. But I mean we hear this all the time, right? How giving up social media magically frees up all this time to be productive and amazing. As if any kind of leisure time (that isn’t a book) is wrong and a bad use of time or something. Because clearly the reason people aren’t successful is because of phones or social media or video games or TV or any other number of things that aren’t being peddled as the go-to by some self-proclaimed guru.

But I digress.

The desire to write feels amorphous. It’s hard to grasp, hard to define. And it’s not like I ever have usually ever just sat down with the desire to write a poem or something and did. I have always needed an idea or some kind of inspiration first. I probably need to change that. See about finding prompts or something. Or maybe even just doing some journaling. My therapist has continuously talked about scheduling and routine. I’ve been resistant. Partly because I don’t feel like I know where to start. Well, okay, sure. I should schedule things I want to do and need to do. To build that routine. But I have such a block about putting “Write for an hour” or “Read for an hour” or whatever on my calendar, because what if I don’t feel like doing that right then? Or I can’t? So it’s easier to not put it on the schedule because then I can’t fail, you know?

But this circles back to the main root of the problem. I need to understand how to define goals. How to define what I want that time to look like. What I want to write. Because, as I said, I’m not the type to just sit down and bang out a poem or something. I need inspiration or an idea. Which, yeah, I probably need to start looking for some prompts and stuff like that. Something else to tackle that I don’t have energy for.

Depression sucks.

The other piece is reading. I have books. I have a Kindle. I have a pile of poetry books I still need to read. Yet. Yet it all just sits. I buy more ebooks and download them. My Kindle remains charged and ready. But I can’t get myself to start reading that next book. Of course, I’ve always had a problem here. I love reading. I love good books and good series. They become like friends. You get to know them. Carry them with you everywhere. Spend hours and days and weeks with them. And then you finish the book and it’s all over. That friend is gone. But I’m not ready to move on from those stories and those characters. So it becomes practically impossible to pick up the next book. Because how could it be the same? How could it be better? I’m not ready. There’s that thought there’s no way the new book could be as good. It couldn’t live up to what I just finished, you know?

And so I don’t want to start reading a new book because I’m not ready to move on. It’s like I need a beat to process the end. Maybe this ties into writing? Maybe a reading journal? I’m kind of thinking as I go here, which if you know me, I always do. And that may very well be a solution. But again it all ties back into energy and motivation and drive. Oftentimes, I very much have a problem with energy because of depression. And an issue of overplanning and getting stuck in the weeds of figuring what I need to be able to do something because of ADHD. For instance, my desire to work on giving up or cutting back social media has sent me down a rabbit hole of “maybe I need a new phone, like a smaller one, so the screen isn’t as big so it’s not as easy/fun to look at social media or videos—oh, maybe one of those flip phones—or maybe I should get that new Kindle Scribe Colorsoft—I totally want to read comics and stuff so that could work, plus taking notes—forgetting that I already have a Kindle Paperwhite and an original generation Kindle Scribe—and a phone that I can just delete social media apps off of—because it’s easier to escape down the planning track and getting the right “gear” or kit together to be able to accomplish my goals.

Goals that I don’t really have because I haven’t been able to actualize or put together goals for years now. And that’s probably the scariest part about all of this. Coming face to face with that realization is sobering and a little scary. I turn 40 in a couple of weeks. It’s not like it was when I was in high school, first learning about writing and planning my first novel (that I’ve never written). Knowing I wanted to write. And my plan was to teach. I wanted to become a college professor. Maybe. I mean, I was 18 and trying to figure out what life was going to be like, just like every other 18-year-old. But the truth is even then that goal or aspiration was nebulous at best. That’s how it’s always been, though.

I’ve never fully grasped or defined an idea of what I want to do. At this point, I’m still not sure how to go about defining what my actual goals are. Like, what do I want to write? Do I want to finish writing a book? Work on some more poetry? Focus on getting published? See if I can start trying to make some money? Maybe I just want to share my writing and connect with people and create community and just share what I do to try and help other people dealing with depression and shit.

Maybe all of it.

And this is why I’m afraid of deleting the social media apps off my phone. Not even actually giving up social media. Just deleting the apps and making it that little bit harder to use. So far this weekend, I’ve pretty much avoided social media. I’ve hit up Reddit here and there, but I’ve kept how long I’ve scrolled to a minimum. And I thought about my goals. I shopped journals and notebooks and pens (and phones).

And I wrote this.

I don’t know if I’m any closer to anything, but writing this out helps me think and process. And hopefully it will help someone else if they are struggling with the same thing.

Oh, and if you have any writing prompts or things you use to help with writing sessions, feel free to send them my way.

By good reason, I mean one that feels valid. One that feels like it would satisfy some imagined pretentious professor or peer who believes that the only good poem is one that follows a specific meter and rhyme and… You see, I am afraid of disappointing someone that doesn’t really exist over something that doesn’t really matter. But it does matter, doesn’t it? Otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this or talking about this or struggling with this so much. Maybe it’s an imaginary pressure. Maybe it’s real.

Regardless, it’s a pressure that I feel and it comes from the idea that there has to be a valid and tangible reason that I want to write or get published or do whatever creatively. It’s easy to think there has to be a profoundly deep and meaningful answer to that question: “Why do you write?” And just look at how often that question gets asked and look at all of the answers to that question and you will see precisely what I mean. Hell, you can even look at the aesthetic statement I had to write for my master’s thesis in grad school. A simple answer wasn’t allowed. I think my aesthetic statement was like 10 pages or something? I had to drill down (and probably even bullshit a bit) to get to the answer that I needed to present.

I might have to go back and read it again. But I know the gist of it matched the “theme” I was writing about (which is something else I need to talk about—this might be a wild and rambly ride, so hold on!). It was about juxtaposition of sorts. And if you don’t know what juxtaposition means, it basically boils down to placing two dissimilar or unalike ideas or things together in a way that highlights their differences or creates contrast. That kind of thing. So, I would look at different types of hauntings and innocence and beauty and that kind of thing. My title poem of my thesis explored the idea of a ghost with a physical body. And how awkward that would be. Or looking at innocence and loss. And I always tried to look at things from a new and unexpected way. I can share some poetic examples if there’s interest, but that’s really not the point of this.

The truth is it’s much simpler than that. And it’s okay. We don’t have to have complex and convoluted reasons for doing things or for wanting to do things. Why did I have to essentially write a 10-page paper on why I like to write? This makes it sound like I didn’t get anything out of pursuing my MFA. That’s not true. It was valuable and I don’t regret it. I just wish I wasn’t so young and naive about it? But I’m not sure how to fix that problem.

Because the reality of all of this is that the reason I like to write and the entire reason that I write is incredibly simple and not very deep at all.

I like to write.

That’s it. That’s the reason. And yes, that means I like to write because I like to write. So what? Why is that problem? Why do we expect more? Why do reasons have to be so complex or mired in “deeper meaning” or whatever other bullshit we feel is necessary? Maybe it’s because of some imposed and driven desire to prove ourselves to others? To ourselves? I know I struggle with it. And it’s caused me to completely quit writing and doing anything creative for a VERY long time.

If I can stop writing for such a “stupid” and “simple” reason, why can’t I write for one? You know? It’s like we spend so much of our time trying to stop ourselves (and others) from doing things. And why? For what reason? Why do we want to stop enjoyment and creativity? Why is there a need to police what people do in their free time or what they do for fun (or hell, even work)?

It has destroyed and shattered my confidence in my own ability. And I’ve written some phenomenal poems. But I don’t have a good enough reason to be writing them? This goes further as well: publishing. I’ve self published a small collection of poems. Because I WANTED to. Reason enough? I’ve been drawn to try and publish traditionally as well. And I often get asked why I want to publish. What’s the reason? What’s the goal?

This question always makes me shut down. I want to publish because I want to publish! Why can’t that be enough? I often say it’s because I want to share my words/work. I want that external validation (and this one rears its ugly head a LOT). I want options (while this may have changed and I haven’t really looked into this for a long time for a wide variety of reasons, I know many college professorships in relation to creative writing and poetry tend(ed) to focus heavily on being traditionally published). I want options even if they pipe dreams at this point.

Because I still want to dream. I want something that I do to matter in this life. I want it to be more than just working a job or career or whatever. Would I love to be able to teach or mentor writing or something like that? Absolutely! Do I think it’s a feasible career change at this point in my life? Honestly, no. Maybe that’s me being defeatist. Maybe it’s realistic. I really don’t know. But I know I want to do something.

And depression doesn’t make that any easier. I absolutely have time after my work day and on weekends to do more. To look into writing workshops or places where I could volunteer or maybe teach or do something. But I have such a weird relationship with my free time and motivation. That has a lot to do with depression and ADHD and I’m working on that. But it’s like I’m really protective of my non-working time. But not good with it? Depression makes everything confused and difficult. And it makes me feel guilty when I can’t do something simple that I want to do. For instance, maybe I want to read a book. But the act of grabbing the book (or Kindle) and actually starting reading is insurmountable to the point of impossible. And so I keep just scrolling Reddit or TikTok or whatever instead of reading.

And it’s so incredibly frustrating. Beyond frustrating. I will feel bored and anxious and like I want to be doing anything other than staying on my phone. But I can’t. I physically can’t make myself set the phone down and grab the book instead. There are times I won’t go for a walk (that I want to go on) because putting on socks and shoes is too much of a challenge. Do you know how stupid that is? How frustrating that is? How bad it makes me feel? But knowing all of that and feeling all of that doesn’t suddenly and magically make me able to do the thing and overcome depression.

I’ve heard this a lot: “Just go outside and go for that walk! Just overcome it! Willpower!” All that does is twist the knife and highlight what I already can’t do. Of COURSE I feel better when I do something that I want to do. Of COURSE I feel better when I go outside for a walk, or play fetch with the dogs, or take photos, or read a book, or write a poem, or whatever the fuck it is I’m trying to do. OF COURSE IT HELPS. But that doesn’t mean I can actually do it. THAT’S THE ENTIRE PROBLEM with depression.

Do you know how long I’ve been trying to write this? This is day two of actually writing it. And I’ve been trying to get myself to start writing it for weeks now. These thoughts are with me constantly. There’s a constant voice that whispers failure and other bad things. There’s a constant voice that tells me this doesn’t matter. That no one cares and it doesn’t mean anything. That it’s not worth me trying to make friends or spend time on social media or trying to do any of this because as soon as I stop, even for a second, it all falls apart and no one cares.

No one cares. I can vanish and it doesn’t matter. And I don’t mean this in the sense of suicide. I mean if I stopped sharing anything online or stopped talking to people, it wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t miss me. If I don’t put forth the effort to maintain relationships, they go away. And you have no idea how angrily I fight this thought. And how honest it is. And how much I have buried it. Or tried to. And it doesn’t matter. I’m used to being the invisible child. The glass child. The one that people ignore because everything’s fine. The one that everyone just talks over because I don’t have anything important to say, right? Because I have nothing to contribute.

I cannot tell you how much my daily life is my fight against that darkness. How exhausting it is. Because it’s so much easier to just stop trying or caring. To just exist and float through life. Basically, just being a zombie. I can’t tell you how good that sounds. To just give up. To stop having to care about loving people or wanting to have friends or wanting to do things. How easy it would be to just wake up and work and then be done and be a zombie on the couch until dinner and bed. And for that to be forever until it’s done.

This is what depression is. Are there days that I’m sad? Sure. But mostly it’s just this fucking nothing of an existence with that constant and comforting voice in my head whispering how it’d be so much easier if I could just stop caring or trying. And it’s not like I want to die. I don’t. I just want to stop living. I’m tired of pouring so much energy that I don’t have into things that don’t give any of that energy back. I am so numb and tired.

There’s a song that I listen to from time to time. Because it has a line that perfectly explains what I’m feeling. It’s the song “Numb Little Bug” by Em Beihold. The chorus is: “Do you ever get a little bit tired of life? Like you’re not really happy, but you don’t wanna die. Like you’re hanging by a thread, but you gotta survive.” And that’s it. That’s exactly it.

What’s the fix for that? I’ve spent so much of my life afraid. Afraid of having the wrong answers or being the wrong thing or saying the wrong thing. It’s exhausting. I’m afraid in therapy because when my therapist asks me how I’m doing I don’t know. I’m afraid to say I don’t know. That I’m the same. That I’m pretending everything is okay otherwise I’m so depressed no one would want anything to do with me. That I’m tired of the pendulum swings where I can feel like things maybe are doing alright but then the voice is there telling me that I stop, nothing will change. If I stop writing no one will care. If I stop posting no one will care. That I could rot on the couch and no one will care. And honestly (it feels like) that’s largely true.

And there’s nothing really wrong with that. We all have our own lives to live and our own problems to deal with. And this current fucking whatever is going on in the US and the world right now. I forget about other people all the time. I’m just as guilty. I do it, too. All the time. And I’ll say that I want people to check on me. I want friends that truly care. But then when they ask how I’m doing and I only always have the same answer, what’s the point? I’m sure they just get tired of hearing how nothing is changing and I’m just a depressed downer that’s not trying to make my life better or feel better. That I’m just perfectly content to wallow in self pity and despair and guilt and not change a fucking thing.

I may have more anger than I know I’m holding. I guess at least there’s anger as well, beyond just the numbness. And there’s love. Unfortunately it’s not an all powerful force that fixes everything. But my wife and my dogs keep me going. They bring the moments of joy I have. Depression still darkens that at times as well, too, though. And it hurts when I can’t be the support my wife needs. Or the friend or husband she needs. It hurts when my dogs are begging to play and I can’t. When they want to go on a walk and I can’t.

I’ve been trying to think where all of this comes from. My therapist has also been exploring this, obviously. So did my previous therapist back in Idaho. My childhood was okay. But it was an emotionally neglected one. A mother that was scared of the world and detached and a father that was emotionally distant and married to work. I was essentially alone. My brother (8 years older than I am), left the house as soon as he could shortly after my parents divorced. He fell in with drugs and bad friends and never really got out of that. So, he was the problem. He and my dad fought. Loudly. Holes in walls. Those outburst of anger caused me to channel my emotions inward. I saw what anger could do, so I kept it inside.

My mom was so upset and hurt by my dad and so caught up in being the victim that she pulled inward. She wouldn’t (and still doesn’t) talk to my dad and essentially hides from him, even when her own children might need help and intervention from both parents. Okay, I’m talking about my brother again here. I’ve never registered enough on their scale to need help from either of them.

So I raised myself. In junior high and high school, I woke myself up. Took myself to school. Made sure my own homework was done. My dad often wasn’t back home until maybe dinner time. And I would make dinner sometimes or he would (stuff like frozen meals, mac and cheese with hotdogs and some veggies, stir fry, etc.—nothing wrong with that mind you). And that would be the only time I’d see him. It was very common that I was alone in the house. The only difference there was that he wasn’t home. I was essentially alone at the house when I lived with my mom as well because she was always napping or reading or something and not being engaged with me. I entertained myself. Of course, my memories of my childhood aren’t really complete. I don’t have a lot of specific details or things. It’s all kinda just fuzzy and general with a few specific and random details. Anyway.

I’ve kind of gone off the rails here. Or maybe not. I don’t know.

This started out as a blog post or something to talk about how it’s okay to a have a simple reason to do something you like doing, even if that reason is that you like doing it. Like I said, I’ve struggled with feeling like I know what I’m doing or like an “expert” even if I have the credentials to say that yeah, I am an expert when it comes to writing and poetry and what I do. And the reason I struggle with this is that I make the sin of comparison. There are other poets and people I look up to and admire and they have substantially more knowledge than I do and they are published, etc. So I feel like I don’t reach that same level that they do.

But then I have to remind myself. Slow down. The whole reason that I love writing and sharing and talking to people about it is to share my excitement and love. To show that you don’t have to know how to write a sonnet to write a poem. That a poem can be whatever you want it to be. That the world is huge and we need all kinds of art and creation in it. That at the end of the day, the important thing is that we create. That we do things that bring us joy and happiness simply because they make us happy.

That’s important. To me, that’s more important than art for the sake of art.

But, if I’m being honest, I know I will continue to struggle with this. I will continue to go back and forth on feeling okay and good about this and feeling like a total and complete fraud of a person that isn’t worth shit and doesn’t know what he’s doing. And I’m not going to pretend like that won’t happen. Because you need to know it will.

You need to know what depression does. You need to know that those thoughts are always there. And I might be good one day. Or maybe an hour. And the rest of the week I’ll be shit. And that’s what it is. I don’t have any other way to say that. It’s just what it is. There’s not shit I can do about it. Currently. I’m trying. I’m in therapy. I’m working with my doctor to find medications that can hopefully help. And as bad and as dark as I get, that’s the key thing, really. Keep trying. I’m not going to give up.

But sometimes, I’m just going to say “I don’t know.” And know that I mean it.

Words of god pressed into pages where children pray with flowers and clover and fragile blessed petals fall like hymnals at an auction when religion is shouted from a pulpit by people that have never read and never lived and have always judged the color of your skin to be sinful and a burden.

Broken and boned by lashes and cat tails until they are flayed and red like the body of christ pressed into tongues with the fingerprint of forgiveness that is only as real as the drugstore wine blessed by the priest that is the blood of christ.

Because forgiveness is white. White like the cloth and robes of the priest and altar and the acolyte boys that carry the flame to light the white candles. But faith isn't whitewashed. No, it is red and pressed and packed in with gold and green as holy men beg from the poor to make themselves richer.

They may not sell forgiveness as a rite anymore but they sell the color of their skin and fuel the smoldering embers of hatred that should be so easily extinguished. The smoking choke of autocracy and theocracy and rules for them and not for us frame them as the christ of their own kind.

They would burn the bible if they read it.

Jacob Kolasch

To give in to the thoughts and feelings that it doesn't matter. That people would walk away as soon as you were actually real. Because I see it all the time. Because we have to be the assholes, right? Because we don't say everything is fine and okay and our day is good. Because they get tired of always hearing how things are bad.

So quit asking. Just quit— fucking— asking.

They don't want to know. And then they use it as an excuse, as ammunition, as a way to just be acquaintances and never bridge the divide to friend. Or just coffee.

It's not like I want a real relationship. I want something that resembles one, sure. But it can be that we have only bonded over the fact that we like eating tacos together. And that's all we do. Our existence together can never be more than that and we would be happy.

But instead they cancel plans (or never actually plan them to begin with and only ever say, "yeah, we should totally do lunch sometime") and we are left to wonder if we are the problem. Because it's obviously us, right?

They can't see past our depression and anxiety and awkward and desire, no need, no compulsion to not be alone because we always feel so fucking alone even cuddling on the couch and buried in dogs and our spouse. Because it's selfish to want more? To have someone to talk to, to share a stupid story or video or a favorite hot sauce or why I love this photograph but not this one.

Because they need to breathe when I can't. When I'm gulping and gasping and tripping over my words like obstacles because my words can't get out of the way of my tongue and teeth fast enough and then I'm aware and embarrassed and shame grips me in it's pink shade and men don't wear pink and I'm aware of how I can't make eye contact anymore because I never could because how could anyone want to listen to

me.

And I can't look at them. So I can only imagine the look of disinterest of glass eyes reflecting how they could have been with an actual friend and drinking a beer that I won't with them instead of pretending to eat a taco that neither of us really like. How they ache to check their watch, their phone, their wallet, their keys to see how quickly they can escape. Because why would they want to be around us? To spend time with me?

Because I don't want to spend time with me.

But I have to wear my mask because otherwise I'm the problem and I carry my guilt like that one scene in Labyrinth where she clings to all her possessions and things because they're supposed to make her feel good and pretty and valued. I have to wear my mask because I might make them uncomfortable when I don't lie and say I'm doing fine and had a great weekend.

I can hear it when I tell them that I'm not really doing great but they say "oh you sound so much better than before" as if how I sound determines how I actually am. As if the depression isn't behind my eyes burning into them but they avert their gaze and say maybe another time.

Maybe another place. Maybe a different someone entirely. Someone that doesn't bring their depression everywhere. As if I could so easily remove it with a shower and deodorant because we all knew that one kid with body odor that didn't know and then someone finally tells them, even though it's embarrassing for everyone, and the next day the kid has showered and is clean and smells normal and is friends.

It doesn't work like that. I can't wash away my feelings. My depression or anxiety.

And that's why I say it's easier to fall away from the world. Because it's exhausting to try existing in a world that isn't made for us for people that don't understand us and for people that are more concerned with how we make them feel uncomfortable because we— are— fucking— depressed.

And you know what's even more fucked about this? My first reaction, my instinct, my desire is to fucking apologize to them.

Because my existence is a burden.

Do I understand why people don't want to be around or friends with that kind of negativity? Yes.

And I wish I had the same fucking choice.

Jacob Kolasch

I always feel like I have an anchor that’s pulling on me. Stopping me. Drowning me.

As it coils and whines around me it tells me things—things that it says are true but are really lies. But they are so gentle they are almost indiscernible and that makes them dangerous and comfortable.

Because it’s easy to believe—

easy to want to stop trying and fighting and to just rest (even though the rest is unrestful and is really just avoidance) because I’m not good enough.

Because I’ll never be good enough and isn’t that enough when all I want is to be enough?

To write and take photos because I enjoy it—but for depression it’s never enough—it will always take and eat and claw hand over fist and tooth and binge and devour until I watch myself as a shell of myself hollow and empty and—

alone.

Depression takes it all. Greedy and gluttonous and insatiable. No matter the cost.

And there’s always a cost. But depression doesn’t pay it—I do. Over and over and over again. Again and again. Because the secret that isn’t a secret is that depression is always there—

always ready to whisper and to swat the sun away—an annoying fly—to ease into exhaustion and tired and I don’t have the strength to do this anymore and I cry and I try and I rot on this couch until I somehow find the strength to rise.

Somehow because I never know how. It’s not a shift of mind or a switch or a light—it’s just the cycle dips and depression slips and I hope it’s for longer this time—

please let it be longer this time—

and these thoughts and doubts come around all the time from the smallest things and it’s a constant—constant—constant—battle to not let the depression win and turn me into rot and grey and nothing and static.

Today—I saw a bee and thought about framing a photograph which made me think about the camera I have and the camera I had and photographs I’m proud of and how I stumble into them

(because art is stumbling and being aware of stumbling being art)

and my early photographs were shot in automatic mode because shutter speed and aperture and exposure felt so foreign and beyond me but I still wanted to pick up a camera and to freeze the world—

so I did.

And now I know a little more (and a little less because that’s how knowledge and art work together).

But the brief thought—that brief second of doubt of maybe shame of I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing is all it takes and depression has fingered into the cracks and slammed open the door and forced itself down my throat to violate and suffocate me.

I don’t know what depression gets from me. What it wants or what it dreams or what it desires. I’ve never asked it.

And I’m not going to start now.

Jacob Kolasch

Because when you say it I feel small. Like I'm only the sum of cleaning the counters and folding laundry and putting dishes away and feeding the dogs.

Like these are things that need to be done so my doing them is expected. The normal. Not going beyond.

Sweeping isn't a grand gesture of love—it's making sure that dog hair and dead skin and dust don't build up and overwhelm us.

But I want you to appreciate me and acknowledge when I do these chores.

Because my love language is acts of service? Or affirmations? But it still makes me feel small.

Like I'm distilled. Like I'm being weighed by my ability to perform instead of just being.

And it doesn't make sense. And it drives you as crazy as it makes me and do you think that I don't appreciate you when you make dinner and mop the floor and plan our meals and order groceries?

Because your love language is acts of service or affirmations or gifts and I just don't know if that's actually anything or not or just another way for us to feel guilty about loving each other the wrong way.

I am from praying that I'm not seen and don't you dare notice because I'm not good enough and I will hide behind my anxiety of being in the spotlight so please turn off the spotlight and let me just be in the shadows where things get done and it doesn't matter who did them (even if it was me who did them).

I am never smaller when compared to my actions and my words because I am not worth it. Everything is greater than I am and I don't deserve to be seen or heard.

I will embrace my silence—the comfort blanket I never had because that was my brother's. So I would seek comfort in pretend. In surrounding myself with toys and things and hugging airplanes instead of kangaroos because they represented escape.

I am from an unknowable future. A present where each day is please-god-let-it-be-enough and a past that doesn't matter no matter how much it shaped who I am right now.

So don't say you appreciate me. Say you need me. Say you want to hear me and what I don't have to say, because truthfully it's often very little. But I will share my world with you in photographs and snippets and my favorite songs and books.

And that is how you will love me.

Jacob Kolasch

You keep pushing and
pulling. It's shaking in slow
motion and it's giving
shaken baby syndrome.

You say it's not abuse—
your red handprint across my lips
doesn't agree.

I want to cry but
you have stolen all my tears
and scattered them in sand—
a drop in a desert hardly matters.

You want my voice
but only so it speaks what
you want.

And my throat is raw and red
because I won't.

I will choke myself on blood
before I speak for you.
I will never stop fighting for
you. For what you were.

For what we had before
him.

Jacob Kolasch

You know.

You are often erased in the news.
Presented as troubled as if an affliction
gives them permission to murder
and disassemble you into

parts.

As if the ink can’t print your color
because for you to be missing and to matter
you have to be devoid.

White.

I didn’t learn you were missing
until I learned you were dead.

A month.

The news was silent for a month.
The news is silent still.

Justice for Emily Pike.
Justice for those still missing.
Justice for those that will never be found.

Jacob Kolasch

Then they stood with badge as shield—
bulletproof vests with Police splashed on them
to remove a woman asking for truth.

Others spoke out.
They were asked to leave.
They volunteered their freedom.

She spoke out.
Held her representative accountable
to the truth.

She was removed.

We are told we have freedom.
Told while being led or asked or dragged to leave.
Told while we sit in jail cells

for exercising freedom
we no longer
have.

Jacob Kolasch

This is a natural and accepted truth.

So accept that there is a space
where you can no longer breathe—
a space—an invisible line—
that defines the limits that contain you.

Do not cross them.

And this isn’t a challenge—
no line in the sand drawn by the scrawny
six-year-old bully using the stick he stole
from you.

The stick he switched you with because
he wanted it and he wanted you to play
toy soldier—again—

he’ll settle for knights and dragons
but you just wanted to stand at the alter of god
and conduct the symphony of wind and wood
and brook and bird.

To let the sun whisper against your eyes
and tell you the world is right and you
are young.

Be firm and unyielding—be the pine—
that marches up the mountain until no more
and grows as strong and as tall as she can
and no more.

Jacob Kolasch

Their hoods are red to hide their eyes.
Eyes that burn with righteous hope.
Eyes that scream they told him no
until they placed him in the ground alone.

Their hands are red to hide their nails.
Nails that press from palm to bone.
Nails that will flay themselves open
and bleed their red with red.

Their robes are red to hide the blood.
Blood that they have shed.
Blood that they have yet to shed.

Jacob Kolasch

Not even as they curl away from heaven, taloned fingers closing into a fist to strike the face of the earth. And the ground shatters. An eruption of smeared red and death and bodies and children crying. The wrath of another god from another land.

The earth sighs—and they rise above the horizon.

Jacob Kolasch

And it is. Alone. And that’s what they, the MAGA cultists and complicit republicans, want us to think. That we are alone. Because alone we don’t have a voice. Alone, we can be bullied and assaulted for speaking out and dragged out of a public town hall in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho for simply speaking in dissent. Alone, we can be silenced and overwhelmed. Alone, we stand no chance against the giant red wave of dictatorship and authoritarian oligarchy that has swept over our nation.

But we aren’t alone. We are greater than them. In number. In standing up for the rights of those less privileged and those unable to stand up or to speak for themselves. In demanding that we hold ourselves to a higher standard—a standard that declares, boldly, that we are all human. That we all deserve certain rights that no one should be able to take away from us.

77 million people voted for Trump. 75 million voted for Harris.

That’s pretty damn close to half and half. It was a close election. And it’s incredibly disheartening to think that half the country voted for this. That half the country wanted this. But half the country didn’t vote for this. 90 million people didn’t vote at all. That means there were a total of 242 million eligible voters. 77 million out of 242 million is right around 32 percent. Still not great. But it’s not half.

And just look at reactions to what DOGE and Musk are doing. None of us voted for that. We’re all getting hurt. And that’s what is so incredibly frustrating. The republicans in control of congress, along with Musk, are making decisions that virtually NONE of the citizens of the United States support. Phone lines have been bogged down. Republicans and democrats alike have complained about receiving so many phone calls and emails (which, I’m sorry, this is your job as our elected official, you don’t get to complain about that). The entire country is speaking out against the cuts and the budget plan the republicans just pushed through the house.

Which begs the question: why did they vote for something virtually none of their constituents want? I think we all know that answer. It’s because they don’t care about the “normal folk.” They only care about the wealthy. The billionaire class. The oligarchy. The very thing that Bernie Sanders has been warning us about for what feels like decades at this point. The budget that provides 4.5 TRILLION in tax cuts for the wealthy by absolutely gutting Medicaid and Social Security should make that incredibly clear.

Our representatives need to remember who they work for. Which is us. They’re supposed to represent US. And they haven’t. Not for a long time. And honestly, not even democrats have. Not really. At least when they don’t care about us we still get things like marriage equality and trans equality and bodily autonomy.

Side bar: I’m sick as FUCK of our rights being at the whim of the current administration. Who in the fuck thought that was a good idea?

To bring this back—do I have answers? No. I’m just a depressed bisexual white guy who writes poetry and spends more time fighting against depression than I do fighting for democracy. And that’s a struggle. I want to save my country. I want to be an ally. I want to help.

But I do have words. I do have social media. I can spread awareness. I can write a poem for Teresa Borrenpohl and share it with her. Share it with you. Share it make people aware that this happened. It will continue to happen. And that people, a tired and battered country, is ready to stand behind you.

We help however we can. Can you make phone calls? Check out 5calls.org. Email your representatives. You can protest. You’ll find most states have individual chapters and organizations, with a lot of them currently organizing under the r/50501 subreddit. There are Discord servers, Signal groups, and more. And if you can’t protest (which is fine, not everyone can), there are plenty of other things you can do. You can write. Create art. Volunteer time and services. Donate money. Run for local offices.

The point is this. We haven’t lost. We won’t lose. But we have to fight. We have to fight hard. More events like the one in Idaho will happen. And on that, I’ve seen a lot of commentary about making the same level of noise when it happens to a woman of color. And that’s very true. Our media is incredibly whitewashed. I’m not sure how fix that, but I am asking and open for ways that I can do better. We have got to make a lot of noise. For everyone. For democracy.

Jacob Kolasch

Jacob Kolasch

They did not call for help.
No. They cheered when he called
you little girl. When your shirt was ripped almost away
because you resisted.

Because you would not be moved
and they would not be seen. They hid
behind nameless—not faceless—tyranny
and pulled and pulled even as you bit and kicked.

They said it would be easier if you complied.
You said that's what rapists say.
Because they do. And they did. And they raped
and tore and stole your agency—your humanity.

They did not speak out for you.
They bound you with zip ties and gagged and dragged you.
Sought to erase you for the crime of dissenting.
For the crime of not being them.

But they did not silence you.
You screamed so we would listen.

Jacob Kolasch

I don’t want to be remembered as depressed. But depression doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t do what you want it to, when you want it to, or anything remotely related to being considerate. Simply put: depression blows.

When I say I don’t want to be remembered as depressed, I mean that I feel like I’m a broken record. I come back to that image a lot. I come back to the poem I wrote about that a lot (“This Is Not the Vinyl I Had in Mind”). Because depression is episodic. It is cyclical. Most mental illnesses are. We (may) have moments of remission where we aren’t dealing with an episode. Or we may have an episode that lasts weeks, months, or even years. Lately, I feel like I’m always depressed, with occasional blips or spikes where I’m maybe not as low as I was. Or not as low as I could be. The truth? I am always depressed.

Because depression doesn’t care. It doesn’t care that I’m starting a new job that will be better for me. Better pay, better schedule, and fully remote. I can work from home and be with our dogs. We can move and I don’t have to figure out what I’m going to do for work. Those are all good things. Depression cured, right? Wrong. Depression doesn’t work that way. It never has and never will. Because the fact is that depression exists in spite of external stimuli and sources.

I recently watched a YouTube video of a psychiatrist that explained it like this: it's like diabetes or high blood pressure. Sure, there are external factors that can have some effect on whether you end up with diabetes or having high blood pressure. Diet and exercise can play a role. Most definitely. But to the millions of people that have diabetes or high blood pressure anyway? They just have it. It doesn’t matter what they do to try and manage it or prevent. It’s not something that they can escape. It’s just something that they have in spite of diet and exercise or any other medications, etc. they could be taking to try and manage the disease.

Depression is the same way. Sure, you can have a bad day, miss getting a promotion, or have your favorite team lose a game. You can feel depressed because of things like that. But having depression is different than just feeling depressed. I’m not here to gatekeep or to even try. That’s not the point, so I hope it doesn’t come across that way. No, instead I’m trying to explain what living with depression is like. Sometimes it’s sadness. Sometimes it’s anger. Sometimes it’s not being able to sleep and sometimes it’s sleeping too much. There’s a lot that is depression. I have depression in spite of anything else that’s happening in my life.

Good things happen? Cool. Still depressed. Bad things happen? You guessed it! Still depressed. Trying to justify why I feel depressed only makes me more depressed because often I have no valid reason for feeling depressed. It fucking sucks, okay? I could say I was struggling at my last job. Because I was. I could say that I’m worried about our eldest dog (he’s 15 and never fully recovered from a spinal injury) and cried myself to sleep last night worried about him, his not eating, and his skin infection. Because I did. But those things are happening anyway. I just happen to also be depressed.

Am I making sense? I hope so. I’m trying. It boils down to this: depression doesn’t care what is happening in my life, good or bad. It can make the good bad and the bad worse. Or it can just say “fuck it,” ignore all of that, and just make me feel worthless and hopeless for no reason. No reason other than I have depression. And like, right now, my depression is telling me it’s more important to write this, eat lunch, and take a nap than do anything else I should be doing. Like showering. Or doing the dishes. Or cleaning up the house and getting the rest of my home office set up. No reason. Just depression.

And I don’t know if I can even fully articulate or explain or show just how frustrating that is. To be a certain way, to feel a certain way, just because. Just because I’m depressed. Why am I depressed? Oh, because I have depression. It’s recursive bullshit that feeds into itself. But that’s what it is. I can’t fix that anymore than someone with diabetes could simply stop having diabetes by “toughening up” and “getting their shit together.” You have no idea how much I wish I could just exercise depression away. But I can’t. Partly because depression takes away the motivation I have to do virtually anything.

I haven’t really been active on social media for several weeks now. I’ve not been writing near as much as I used to be. I haven’t recorded a podcast in weeks. I haven’t written an issue of Subtext in a couple months, at least. I’m not able to do the things that help with my depression. BECAUSE MY DEPRESSION PREVENTS ME FROM DOING THEM. And I can’t adequately describe the guilt that comes with that. Or the frustration. To know there are things I enjoy doing, things that can help with my depression, and to not be able to do them? And it’s not something that I can just “power through.” I literally can’t.

I’ve heard people talk about “high functioning depression.” And while that’s not really a thing (Not diagnosable, at least, from what I understand. I’m not a medical or mental health professional. I’m just a guy with treatment resistant depression.), I understand where it comes from. I can still go to work. I still take care of our dogs. But those are things I need to do. Like, work is important, you know? Food, roof, etc. And taking care of our dogs is important. Another life, that kind of thing. But I struggle doing the dishes. Taking a shower. Not taking a nap. I understand that some people do have it worse off in that regard. That they may not be able to make themselves go to work. Or get out of bed. At the same time, to be considered “high functioning” seems to be a bit of a misnomer. I feel it’s much less that I’m high functioning and more that it’s necessary to be so. I have obligations I can’t just ignore. But that certainly doesn’t mean that I’m coping okay.

Coping? Sure. But I feel like I’m barely hanging on. I can’t see the end. It’s like one continuous night with no hope of dawn breaking. I watched another video where someone used the example of editing photos and using filters. When you edit a photo, you tend to use layers, so that the base image is left untouched and it’s easy to make adjustments, corrections, etc. However, depression is a filter, or layer, that can’t be adjusted. It’s locked. And it’s over all the other layers and filters. Maybe that means life is less saturated. Maybe it's too bright. Maybe there’s no color at all. But the truth of the matter is that depression alters how I view life. It alters how life appears. Depression fundamentally changes the relationship I have with the everyday, sometimes in debilitating ways. Often in debilitating ways. That just might manifest as not having the capacity to shower. Or letting dishes build up for a week. Or not clearing soda cans off the coffee table. Or sleeping a lot. Or not being able to sleep but not being able to do anything else either.

It can be watching TV and feeling like I should be doing something else but having no idea what that else is that I should be doing. It can be anxious depression. It can be angry depression. It can be sad depression. I have moments where I’m so overcome with grief that I just cry. Just because. I have moments where I get irrationally angry. Just because. I am doing my best. And sometimes my best is simply the fact that I woke up and then took a nap later. Maybe I threw away a soda can. Victories can be tiny. But they do exist sometimes. I have to find wins where I can, otherwise my day is nothing but loss.

And again, remember, it doesn’t matter what’s happening in my life. I could win the lottery and still be depressed. My old dog could die and I would still be depressed. And fucking overcome with grief. But still depressed. Because depression doesn’t care about anything. I don’t know if I can explain it or describe it or talk about that enough. Depression blows.

I don’t want to be remembered as depressed. I am so much more than my depression, regardless of what it tries (and often succeeds) to tell me. Depression tells me I’m worthless. That it’s hopeless. That there is no point in even trying. That my world will just be a grey fog forever and I will just drift through life feeling like absolute shit. And the truth is, depression isn’t entirely wrong. Untreated, that’s exactly what will happen. And which is why I’m fighting so hard and I’m so frustrated and angry that treatments aren’t working. Yet. I haven’t found something that has helped my depression go into remission yet. But I know it exists. And I’m not giving up on finding what that is.

But right now? I’m fucking depressed and it blows.