Okay so let me paint you a picture of utter despair … actually go read this comic by Hyperbole and a Half which illustrates the feelings of depression so much better than any typed text of mine ever could.
I live a couple of towns away from my family, and I find that given what my family is like (self-involved) that is as effective as choosing to live on the other side of the country (although probably not as effective as skipping out to London which is what my youngest brother has done.) The thing about my family is sometime you forget that ‘the crazy’ doesn’t just exist in the home town, that they can in fact ‘bring the crazy to you’. Actually I should say my sister gets offended when I say “my family” because what I really mean is “the parental units” … my sister is relatively sane.
What do I mean by ‘crazy’ hummm… wheeell brother it’s a bit like this: My father while not abusive is a narcissist; in practice this just means that you can’t hold a conversation with him because he spends most his time talking AT you and none of your opinions are relevant… the reason they are not as good as his own will be listed in great detail. The worst part is if you should express an interest or value in anything (from career to possession) my father will feel compelled to run a critical eye over it and then spew forth negative shit. Usually I am smart enough ‘to mitigate all the things’ and I never take anything important home or if I do I go prepared to fend off the negativity/tune out the bullshit… misdirect to the tank(sister) that sort of thing. My father is also a drug addict with all the personality problems that implies, a racist and to some extent a sexist and he doesn’t like ‘gays’ – being firmly from rural Australian backwater bigotry. He is kind to animals… that’s important I think.
Anyway he came down to visit and I was in the equivalent of my role-play gear set, untalented, gemmed or glyphed and totally unprepared for battle and I let him check out a house I was considering buying (dad can identify asbestos and other nasties quite well.) Unfortunately he had a narcissistic run in with a pig-realtor and by the end of it my hopeful little fixer-upper house went from ‘lot of work needed’ to ‘place with a sad vibe’ to ‘dangerous’ to ‘evil with a back-yard full of widow makers fit only for demolishing’. Widow makers are Australian slang for gum trees, gums tend to drop a branch when the drought hits because the tree sees fit to sacrifice a limb to preserve water, nature is fascinating … and my hero. All this negativity and emotional overlay transposed on my intended investment because some guy turned his back on my father and walked away in the middle of the conversation. Head/desk. Of course dad went home with his war stories of how he stuck it to the realtor and saved me from bad investment and then he wound my mother up about how dangerous the house is and now the whole family are sticking their noses in. I won’t go into detail about the outright racism displayed in another real-estate office, the run in with the office admin desk girl “who was up herself and judging his shoes”, the run in with an older homosexual fellow and dads subsequent limp-wrist impersonation, or the fact he kept trying to give me items from the garbage he hordes in his car because stuff is how he shows affection (and that makes me want to weep the way zoo’s, even modern ones, make me want to weep) and all the other trials and tribulations of the day. But needless to say somehow by the end of the day I found that all the happiness had somehow just seeped out of me.
My sister bemoans the family’s lack of interest in her life and their neglect when she herself was purchasing property… I say count your blessing dear sister for they are many.
By the end of the day survival apathy had kicked in and I was wondering why I had ever thought property purchase was a good idea in the first place. I mean houses are just big expensive debt creating boxes. Pointless. Wanting things leads to emotional suffering. Actually breathing seemed pretty pointless.
I drank a litre of spirits in the hope I could get in touch with that deadened part of myself that probably needed to cry. It didn’t work, so I logged into wow quietly, for a session of drunk gaming – woo reality avoiding multiplied by … I dunno pi … pi is cool. I made 7 waves into endless healer grounds pfft before I was having too much trouble seeing straight then I healed some guildies on isle of thunder before I had too much trouble finding the group. I vomited all over myself like a cat (nothing in my stomach of value or worth keeping I thought to myself – meh)… I cleaned it up and I went to work as per usual and the flatmates didn’t even notice as I did it all that morosely and thus quietly. Honestly someday this is how my world will end … with a whimper not a bang. At work I was too disinterested to put in a job application I had been preparing all the previous week which will hopefully win me my seconded position as a permanent job.
Life was like that for quite a few days.
Then a guild mate linked the cookie clicker game on our guild facebook group:
[ http://orteil.dashnet.org/cookieclicker/ ].
I went to this site and I poked the virtual cookie… for my efforts I received a virtual cookie currency.
So I did it again.
I could buy a grandma.
The grandma made me cookies.
Hey I could buy slave cursors to poke the cookie for me.
The grannies were making funny statements in the little “news feed”
Seriously once I realized the purpose of the game was to create a legion of slaves to poke my cookie for me resulting in more and more cookies per a second … which I could then use to buy more slaves I was mildly interested.
I started to feel good.
By the end of the day I had three different instances running as I tried to establish if upgrading grannies would get me more CpS faster than buying cookie farms ^_^
My brain was happily producing serotonin.
And I realized cookie-poker is pointless, totally virtual and certainly my one instance of it (with its three kitten worker upgrades) well it has little invested meaning for any other person on the planet save myself.
But does that even matter? I mean look at me having fun poking the cookie and trying to break the system.
I am having fun.
I am happy breathing.
Real life is somewhat similar you know… who has the right to judge what the things you achieve and enjoy are worth or not worth. Only you.
So I put my job app in today. While I am not ready to start house hunting again just yet (belly-ache at the idea but at least I no longer feel like spewing into a bucket about it) I am willing to concede I’ll probably be back at it in a week or so. And you know what the guild just got the towers down in 10mN 5/14 – yeah 🙂 we are entitled to feel good about that team work, I’m looking forward to beating up the iron juggernaut next. Maybe I’ll teach the dog how to spin in a circle ‘right’ on the box this weekend, seeing as how she has mastered left. I look forward to hitting the gym again this week, I mean an 11kgs weight loss is pretty good even if I am still overweight, so I shouldn’t give up on yoga it was sort of fun. I want to make more salad bento lunches.
I suppose if cookie-poker was all I could find happiness in that could be a problem, but cookie-poker is just a nifty metaphor for life now and it was a kick in the *whatever-jelly-brain-thing-that-produces-the-happy-drug* when I needed it… a little bit like Hyperbols shriveled lonely corn kernel alone under the fridge.
All hail the virtual cookie god