In Memory Of Eileen Tuuri Friend and Co-Blogger. Thank You Eileen...For Everything.
Jonathan I hope you do not take this wrong but I am not sure how to respond to your poetry. Your writing is quite good in all styles but I am not sure if it is appropriate to say "Nice job it's really good" because it's obvious your creativity is being fueled by something in your life that is causing you pain and I am not going to insult you by pretending your pain isn't real. By the way there is NOTHING better for creativity than Depression.So do I ask what is wrong? Tell you to hang in there that every thing will be alright? I also don't want to belittle or bullshit you. I will tell you I am a bi-polar manic depressive and have been for years. That's partly why I always say I wouldn't trade places with you and be 18 again. I won't lie to you and tell you life gets better either. BUT you're ability to deal with it does. I believe that. I have not been suicidal since I was 19 and part of the reason for that is when things happen to me now that once would trigger those thoughts I just figure shit I've been through it before and I survived and I will again. I could tell you some stories about my life when I was 16-19. Some shit I am ashamed of, some shit I now laugh at and some shit I still can't explain and some shit I can't account for. One thing I always would say when I look back on my life is it began September 10th 1995 when I turned 21. Everything before that does not count :) As I got older I changed the date to May 28th 2005. (I better not forget that date) And it wouldn't surprise me if for better or worse that date keeps changing. One last thing. You have so much potential it's not funny. Don't let anybody fuck you out of any of it. If you let anybody fuck you out of being the best you can be you will be fucking yourself out of being the best you can be. In the end it's all on you. Don't let it happen. If you do you will wind up 33 and wondering what if and why can't I? Not saying it's a completely bad thing. I came out of it OK. But greatness deserves better than OK.
Don't worry, i'm not offended.Subconscious Prison is mostly about the inner war that keeps raging inside of me...namely loneliness and a desire to feel comfortable in one's skin without giving a flying fuck what everyone else thinks and what everyone wants me to be.
Jonathan, you're spot-on in channeling your emotions into your poetry. It's a good outlet and it's extremely well done.I do share some of the Count's misgivings in that I hope you will continue to use your poetry as something of a "safety valve"...for now.In a few years I think you will likely find some of the equilibrium and balance you feel yourself striving for right now, and the poetry will become less of an outlet and more of a calling.I guess what I'm saying is that it's OK for it to be a blow-off-emotional-overload mechanism right now, without subjecting the output to a microscope - neither yours nor anyone else's. Let time and the new experiences ahead of you provide some distance and perspective, before you overanalyze what's in front of you right now.The Count is spot-on in saying that the real turning point is ahead of you. Cope until then, and you will have it MADE, my friend.You are a very talented writer and I foresee good things from you in both the short and long term.
You reminded me why I don't miss being a teenager.Fortunately, I think the opposite of what the Count said is also true - there is nothing better for depression than creativity. I've found writing to be a terrific coping mechanism over time. As long as you're writing, you're doing OK. Getting our your own feelings is great, but I've always found comfort in writing about things outside of myself - they take my mind off my own concerns. (God bless RALPH - he's gotten my mind out of a rut countless times).And hey - your own skin is great. You are a terrific person regardless of what anyone else expects of you. When you're struggling with depression, encouraging words may sound hollow - but I mean them and I hope you accept them.
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