Journal of a Struggling Mind #2


When I was younger, these feelings used to bring fear and pain but I would turn to the sky, look to God for help and I would feel so much better. I would pray, would talk to a benevolent force that would shirk me of my worry and bring about the focus I so desired to move past whatever was troubling me. As I got older, that faith has waned and for a while, was completely absent from my life.

That void is immeasurable—I had no way to recover from losing something as fundamental as my faith in a higher power. If I was always sick, always the weak one, always worthless, at least I knew that somehow, someway, I had a purpose. With that purpose removed, I felt like a was wandering the desert in search of knowledge or peace or, at the very least, clarity.

Do I divide and fall apart?
‘Cause my bright is too slight to hold back all my dark
And the ship went down in sight of land
And at the gates, does Thomas ask to see my hands?
I know you’re coming in the night like a thief
But I’ve had some time to hone my lying technique
I know you think that I’m someone you can trust
But I’m scared I’ll get scared and I swear I’ll try to nail you back up
So do you think that we could work out a sign
So I’ll know it’s you and that it’s over so I won’t even try
I know you’re coming for the people like me
We all got wood and nails
And we turn out hate in factories.

Some of that faith has returned but sadly, I am not sure that I will ever be able to regain what was lost there. In fact, it scares me so much that it hurts. These feelings of loss never truly go away. I have been through a lot in my life but the most devastating event was probably when, in the midst of a particularly intense and deep bout with depression, I looked skyward to pray, only to realize that it wouldn’t do any good.

(Lyrics from Brand New – Jesus Christ)

Follow me on Twitter @Mr_D_Ames


Journal of a Struggling Mind #1


It starts in the back of the throat, like a lump that can’t be subdued. You tell yourself that everything is fine but you feel it—slowly building toward something. You aren’t sure what has happened—what has made this day so much different than what came before but then, right in front of your eyes, your brain decides it wants to eat itself today and like the fucking Ouroboros you crumble.

You may maintain some semblance of control, at least on the outside, but inside you are screaming.

For relief.

For strength.

For anything.

Luckily your mind doesn’t recognize the sheer stupidity of your situation and instead tries to convince you that what you feel, that soul-crushing weight, is what belongs. You are not okay. You are not stable.

You are alone.

The top of the world
Sitting here wishing
The things I’ve become
That something is missing
Maybe I…
But what do I know?

Now to match this feeling, what do we do? We tell ourselves that our brains must be correct. It is there for the sole purpose of thinking. How could what it tells us be wrong? How could our own mind betray the absolute trust we place on it and instead Benedict Arnold us into a corner that seems impossible to escape?

This is where a majority of the past few years has led me. Over and over again, I have found myself backed into that metaphorical corner; afraid of what the very next step might bring; what the very next thought might cause; afraid of the complete and absolute fact that I am worthless.

(lyrics taken from The Used – “On My Own.”)

Follow me on Twitter @Mr_D_Ames

Just starting…thoughts? I need some feedback.

I saw a man in a flowing white robe, the kind Jesus wore. He floated across the street in front of me, using the crosswalk like any respecting citizen, brown hair and trimmed beard blowing slightly in the breeze. Come to think of it, the guy actually did look like Jesus, gliding along, arms outstretched, nodding apathetically at the people punctuating his aimless journey…

But that couldn’t be him. Jesus hasn’t been here in a long time…

“The streets are extended gutters,” I heard a man say once. That makes sense in this town. The ridiculous worship of inane people and inane things is the driving force of life and the sidewalk Jesus couldn’t do much to stop the rising tide of shit heading down the boulevards. His struggle lets me know just how truly alone I am.

Life is just a series of lines and all we do is constantly queue up for the next wait. When we look around at the people waiting alongside us, we see a parallelism that is as comforting as it is frustrating. That is what makes us human; we want to change but are too afraid to do so. It’s a sickness of my generation that we constantly want innovation and change while consistently falling in line with whatever our parents already believed, further perpetuating that cycle of stability. It is almost unavoidable that we will become our parents, whether or not we say otherwise.

That’s why I started all of this. That is why this journey is poignant to me…I need to prove to my family that I am more than just some silly fuckup. They need to see me for what I truly am and what great work I can perform. They need to know me for who I can truly become.
That is my purpose…that is the meaning of life…


She starts to breath heavily, panting, lost in the shadows of lust’s embrace. This is the best time for us; when we are at our most basic, at our most primal. The push and pull of love’s frenzied, stifled throes…that is perfection. Or, nearly perfection. That sudden release is like a breath of air after drowning…the contented smiles are the surviving remnants of a previous existence. The wonderful afterglow of two people so perfectly intertwined that only God could separate. That pleasure…that is God and her legs are the altar at which I worship.

Only one step remains…the hands. They caress, they stroke, they touch…the faintest of touches conveys so much about the person from which it comes.

The study of touches is one to which I have been forever a student. Small inclinations in one way or another alter the mood of those around them. With a slight shift in finger placement, a person can change from an erotic caress to a crushed windpipe…So much power lies in the touch.

You can see the light drain, the conscious mind slowly go to sleep, and there…there is your perfection…coming through one gasp at a time.
Mother would be pleased…


There is such an underwritten quality to the work with which I am so obsessed. No one truly appreciates it except for mother and after all, she is who this is for. I remember when I was younger, maybe five or six, and she found me in her room. I was playing on her bed, amidst all of the folded laundry she had finished earlier and one of her bras had found its way onto my back. I wasn’t wearing it per say but the material felt nice. As a six year-old, I hadn’t quite grasped the concept of gender roles. My mother was not at all amused. I remember the look on her face as clear as if it were yesterday.

That face was so ever-present in my childhood…something void of emotion…no love, not even contempt…just disconnected disappointment.

She shuffled over to me and in one motion, she broke my right femur. I deft flick of her wrist punctuated by an ear-splitting crack. I wailed and screamed but she let me know immediately that if little boys wanted to play in momma’s things, there would be consequences.

The doctors all thought that I had fallen while climbing a tree. If they had looked into the situation, they would have realized that the bra was on under my shirt…a humiliating punishment for the unknown line I should have never crossed.

Mother was like that. It was the full picturesque quality of her character to be so loving that she let me know precisely where I stood at all times, and never let me forget the consequences for my actions. For that, I am forever grateful. Even today, she is watching over me. I know for a fact…I can feel those loving eyes.

People in general are like that. Every person has the limit, a breaking point, and when pushed beyond, the end is always the same…that is why I promised myself never to disappoint mother again.