I’m used to being at least somewhat ill.  Asthma, allergies, insomnia, epilepsy, clinical depression, random immune system issues no one understands, these are all things I’ve been dealing with since birth.  Most of the time it no longer phases me.  Unless I’m having a particularly bad day I don’t even notice.

Except now I’m starting to get a bit freaked out.  Epilepsy acting up, fine.  Annoying, but it’s easy enough to handle.  Sudden bouts of memory loss are a bit more disturbing and mean I can’t leave the apartment on my own which is driving me slightly insane, but it’s not exactly life threatening.  Not being able to breathe is a bit of a different story.  Having to make a concentrated effort to take a full breath is something I haven’t had to deal with since I was six.  Being winded and having asthma attacks during allergy season are normal enough, pain while breathing if I’m cold is an issue I’ve dealt with forever (though it was less of an issue in California).  This is in a controlled environment while resting.  That’s not usually a good sign.

I have to see a million and one doctors anyway so obviously I’ll bring it up, I just really hate that I have to.  I hate bringing up anything new to doctors, it always ends up with someone telling me I’m dying.  I’m getting a little sick of being told I’m dying.  Particularly since one of these days they’re going to be right.

I just think it’s important to mention that.  In this day where bloggers are given the same — if not more — credibility as actual journalists I believe it is important to remind everyone that I have no press credentials.  The closest to a journalistic background I have is two years on my high school cable news show and a year on the newspaper staff.  I did some interesting pieces during that time, but it doesn’t make me a reporter.  Hell, I don’t even have my own fact checker, I have to rely on Google.

So please don’t quote me for your school paper.  Don’t act like I’m the New York Times.  I’m a guy with a laptop and internet access.  I could be the drunk bum down the street for all you know.  Use a little common sense and find REAL sources.  That way I don’t have to worry about getting angry e-mails from your teachers complaining about how I’m “leading naive teenagers on.”  I’m not.  You’re just stupid.  You’re stupid, your students are stupid, and this is why I no longer have any faith in the public school system.

Suicide is a horribly cruel thing to do to someone who loves you.  – Person on the Nano Boards

Kiss my ass.  Has it ever occurred to you to shut the fuck up about things you obviously don’t understand?  Suicide isn’t about you.  It’s not about anyone other than the person who’s attempting it.  No one tries to kill themselves because they think it’s nice.  It’s not nice, it’s horrible and often gory.  At a certain point you no longer care.

I love Parker more than anyone I have ever met.  That doesn’t mean my brain chemistry has suddenly changed.  It doesn’t stop me from being suicidal 3-6 months out of every year.  It means I work harder to keep myself stable, but that doesn’t mean I’m always successful.  In many ways I’m more suicidal with Parker than I am without.  Having someone love you is a scary thing.  It comes with so many responsibilities and extra worries that most people never think about.

When it’s just me I can be depressed.  I don’t have to worry about how my mental health impacts anyone else.  Even my closest friends can rarely tell when I’m in a down swing, after nearly 20 years I’ve become rather good at hiding it.  I can’t keep that up all the time though, it’s exhausting.  Existing is exhausting.  So Parker finds out.  And he worries.  A lot.  Because the boy could worry for America.

I wish I could say that know he worries means I try to worry him less, but it doesn’t work like that.  The only thing it does is make me feel worse about not being normal.  Of course, if he didn’t worry I’d then feel like I don’t matter and therefore I should just off myself and be done with it.  When I hit bottom it doesn’t matter what anyone does, I’m still going to be depressed.  That’s just how my brain works.

So yes, someone could well kill themselves knowing full well that it will hurt the people they love.  I’ve tried several times.  It’s not about them.  Not the way anyone would think.  As much as I would hate for Parker to have to deal with the aftermath of my death, there are still times that I think he’d be better off without me.  Living with a severely depressed person isn’t easy.  It’s particularly difficult when that person has a myriad of other health issues that keep them from working.  Add in that I cut down the number of jobs he can apply for because we need something that will give me health insurance and there are definitely times I think his life would be easier if I was gone.

I have several friends who don’t believe in gay marriage.  They feel that it goes against their religious beliefs and therefore they don’t support it.  However, these friends feel the same way about gay marriage that I do about abortion: we don’t agree with it, but we’re sure as hell not going to try to stop other people from living their lives.  It’s a very different belief than the idea that they have a right to tell me who I am and am not allowed to marry.

These are the friends that would be appalled if their church ever started performing gay wedding ceremonies.  They can’t fathom ever being interested in a person of the same gender, it just doesn’t occur to them.  Most would probably be vastly uncomfortable if I took them to Pride.  At the same time, they accept Parker as my partner.  They treat him the same way they would any female partner I had, which is exactly as it should be.  They decline to vote on things like Prop 8 because they recognise their religious views aren’t universal,  but at the same time can’t bring themselves to vote in favour of something they disapprove of.  It’s not a great compromise and I’d obviously prefer that they support my marriage, but it’s better than actively trying to divorce me.

Yet somehow I’m close minded.  I’m close minded because I refuse to associate with someone who would take the time to tell me I’m invited to their wedding, but I can’t bring Parker because they don’t want a same sex couple ruining their day.  I’m close minded because I would not pick someone to godparent my child after they told me they don’t believe I should be allowed to parent at all.  I’m close minded because I refuse to continue a friendship with someone who told me they can’t go to my wedding because they don’t believe in gay marriage.

What’s funny is that this isn’t coming from one of my straight friends, but from the gay community itself.  The same segment of the gay community that shuns The Sisters and believes Pride is simply making us look like immature club kids.  This is the HRC loving, fag bashing, “straight acting” part of the gay community that just sat by and watched as an entire generation of gay men were wiped out by AIDS.  After all, they deserved it for being such whores instead of partnering up like good little homos.  God forbid anyone actually enjoy themselves after centuries of having to hide in the closet.

I hate this segment of the community.  I hate them more than I do the bigots who want to bash my face in.  At least I know where I stand with bigots, they make their opinion very clear.  These gay men pretend their our friends, then they toss us under the bus when it suits them.  These apologist, anti-sexual, heteronormative faggots don’t realise that there’s a very large difference between disagreeing with someone and actively treating them like they’re less than human simply because of their orientation.  They’re the ones that are hurting the gay community most, but no one’s willing to step up and do anything about it.

I hate this feeling.  I know it will go away eventually, but at the moment I hate it.  It’s pervasive and frustrating and makes me want to throw things.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression when I was five (something everyone ignored until I tried to kill myself at 11, thanks a lot mom and dad), this is not exactly something new for me.  It’s still irritating, though.  This intense feeling that nothing is right and nothing ever will be right.  The constant nagging about how much of a fuck up I am and how I’ll never be able to amount to anything.  Logically I know it’s wrong.  I know it’s just a biochemical reaction in my brain setting off feelings of hopelessness and despair.  I’ve had a decade’s worth of therapy designed to help me develop coping skills for these exact cycles.  I know it’s just a phase.

That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.  Sure, after 10+ years I’ve learned to recognise when I’m entering another depressive phase.  I’ve learned when to haul out the happy movies and lock away all medications and sharp objects.  I’ve learned that most of Boyzone cheers me up, but I have to be careful with Westlife (nothing like My Love to make you homesick to the point of suicidal).  I know that exercising releases endorphins that help stabalise my mood, but I can only get up the energy to actually do it if I’m having a better day.  I know that sometimes if I throw myself into writing or music I can outrun a  depressive phase.  None of that helps once it all hits.