While this blog has been used to rant, to promote, and to otherwise ramble, today I would like to write about being thankful.
I've been up since 3:00 AM. Unable to sleep, I watched TV. I played on the computer. I bought a new coffee pot. I wrote. I worked at submitting a short story to a number of magazines. And I contemplated ...
You will oftentimes hear people say, "Life is funny."
They don't mean funny, ha-ha. Generally, they mean, ironic. Sad. Mean. Evil. Yet, they express this by calling it, "funny."
Having failed out of college back in 1989, trying my luck then at community college and getting close to no where, I was able to land a job at Kodak. That job allowed me the comfort of getting married and raising a family.
Then life got funny.
After 19 years with the same woman, 15 married, I suddenly found myself divorced. Not living home with my three amazing kids. This was in 2007.
But the funny doesn't stop there. It gets down-right hysterical.
After 19 years with Kodak, I was let go. Down-sized. Unemployed. I had to give up the studio apartment I lived in, and move back home with my parents.
Yeah. Had to give up a studio. Doesn't that just have you in stitches?
Hard to feel thankful. Harder still not to just feel constantly depressed. Like giving up. Giving in.
In 1995, I had my first short story published. From there, I've gone on to sell nearly 100 short-stories and articles. I penned 9 novels. Two of them won small-time awards.
I did newspaper, magazine, radio and television interviews. I held book signings at over 100 bookstores throughout New York, Pennsylvania, Florida and Indiana. I've been flown first class, had limo drivers, and been treated like a celebrity.
For nearly three years I've been working for the city as a Fire/EMS dispatcher at 911. It's a good, steady job. We're growing. Not shrinking. There is stability with the position. And I am thankful.
My newest novel, PULSE OF EVIL, was just released. It is my ninth. And I am thankful.
But a job, a writing career -- thankful as I am -- are nothing compared to my kids. My family.
Three kids. Teens. All of them.
I am thankful for them. For their health. That they are in my life -- that they want me in theirs. That we are close. That we hug and kiss hello, and goodbye. That we laugh, and talk, and share. That we text and call and see each other often.
I am thankful for my entire family. For parents that are supportive and always there when needed. For brothers and a sister who would do anything for me, and for whom I would do the same. I am thankful.
Life is far from funny. It is unfair and dark at times. It is stormy and violent. Depressing and despairing.
It is important ... no, no ... vital -- it is vital to see the good, to find the worthwhile, to value the relationships that we have.
They can end at any moment.
Be taken from you. Stolen. Stripped and shredded.
It is vital to love. To move forward. To forgive, and forget.
To let go...
It is vital to remember why you are important to someone else -- just as "they" need to know how they are important to you.
There is a purpose behind this blog. A driving cause. It's crippling for me to think about it. And at this time, it is not necessary for me to explain the background. The words above are true. Harsh. Bitter-sounding, but true.
I may hate where I am. Forty-two, divorced, living in an apartment a few miles from my children (yes, I was able to move out of my parents' house after a while and get back up on my own feet -- for which I am thankful).
I don't sugarcoat things. I smile. I always try to smile. I don't say stupid shit like, "There is always a silver lining." That's bullshit. Not true.
But there is always hope.
Hope, and reasons to be thankful ... thankful for something.
Search your own hearts. Find the things you are thankful for -- and make sure your feelings are known. Make sure. Don't let regrets fill the space inside your heart.
. . . thank you for letting me get this out.
Sincerely,
Phillip Tomasso
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Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Friday, September 23, 2011
1408
A while back I rented Stephen King's 1408.
At the time, I lived alone. Studio apartment. It was late at night when I started the movie. The beginning was creepy. Made my skin crawl. I had to shut the movie--figured I'd never get to sleep, not with the lights off, anyway.
The next day, when it was still light out, I finished the movie. And although it continued to creep me out ... something else happened.
The secondary story became more apparent. That's what a good movie, a good book contains. A secondary story. 1408 had one I did not expect.
See, the movie is about this writer. He visits haunted hotels, and sleeps in haunted rooms, and writes books about the experience.
When he is more or less dared to stay in a New York hotel, specifically in room 1408, it is the first time he ever encounters anything truly paranormal. Usually his writings uncover fakes and frauds. But this time, in room 1408, all of that changes ...
What the "ghost" does, however, is show the writer flashes from his own past. Which, who has a past that isn’t scary as hell, especially when confronted by it in a strange and isolated hotel room?
And it was this writer's past that just wrecked me emotionally.
See, the writer was married. They had a young daughter--this pretty little girl of maybe ten. Without much detail, we learn that the young girl is sick, dying, and eventually, died.
This guilt of not being able to do more to save his daughter ruins the writer's life: he leaves his wife and buries himself in his work. His writing. But the haunted room brings clips of his daughter to the forefront.
And at one point in the movie--she is there, in the hotel room with him. She tells him she loves him, that she wants to be with him and with mommy.
I kept expecting her to change into some horrid creature. Like the child monster that crawled out of the television set in The Ring.
That never happened.
Instead, he hugs his daughter, tells her everything will be all right. He assures her that this time, this time, they can stay together.
And then without warning, she dies in his arms. She just goes limp. Lifeless...Her head dropping, eyes closed. And she is dead. Again.
He lost his daughter a second time.
The point of this blog is personal. I'm divorced. Didn't want to be. But there was nothing I could do. There was no saving the marriage.
I have three kids. They are my life. My world. My everything.
And though I live only a handful of miles away from them, and though I get them every other weekend, and one day during the week, and see them at school and sports events ... I can't help but feel, sometimes, like they have died. Or that I have.
The loss I feel is that great. The pain is that powerful.
And what is worse, at the end of each visit with them, when I take them back to their mother, I feel like they are dying on me a second time, or that I am. Every time.
It never gets easier.
Can't imagine it ever will.
I was that writer. John Cusack's character. Helpless, as I watched my kids slip out of my life. Lifeless am I each time I take them back to their mother ...
So, Cusack writhe’s in agony over the loss and second loss of his daughter -- I was overcome with such emotion. I cried. I sobbed. It was uncontrollable. It lasted for what felt like forever.
It was a horror movie. Supposed to be scary.
And instead, to me, it was the saddest movie I'd ever seen. The realest movie. The rawest.
There is no real point to this blog.
Just that, to overcome the gloom and depression I feel, that constantly sinks in, I thought I needed to write out my feelings. I know other people who have gone and are going through this. And while we all work to deal with such “loss” in our own ways, dealing with it is exactly what we struggle to do—whether people who have been through it can comprehend the constant pain, the overwhelming emptiness—or whether they can’t. It is so real.
There is not a day, not a single day that I don’t think, “Holy shit, I hate my fucking life! I fucking hate it.” I go to work. I smile. I get home, and I almost can’t stomach the thought of an hour alone. Without my family. I do it though. Day in. Day out. For the last five years—and I do my best not to dwell on missing so much from their lives that I am more a stranger than a father. That when I go to bed at night, I am not comforted, because they are not in the bedrooms next to mine. Or when I wake up, I do not get to see their faces. Or when I get home, they are not there to greet me.
At the time, I lived alone. Studio apartment. It was late at night when I started the movie. The beginning was creepy. Made my skin crawl. I had to shut the movie--figured I'd never get to sleep, not with the lights off, anyway.
The next day, when it was still light out, I finished the movie. And although it continued to creep me out ... something else happened.
The secondary story became more apparent. That's what a good movie, a good book contains. A secondary story. 1408 had one I did not expect.
See, the movie is about this writer. He visits haunted hotels, and sleeps in haunted rooms, and writes books about the experience.
When he is more or less dared to stay in a New York hotel, specifically in room 1408, it is the first time he ever encounters anything truly paranormal. Usually his writings uncover fakes and frauds. But this time, in room 1408, all of that changes ...
What the "ghost" does, however, is show the writer flashes from his own past. Which, who has a past that isn’t scary as hell, especially when confronted by it in a strange and isolated hotel room?
And it was this writer's past that just wrecked me emotionally.
See, the writer was married. They had a young daughter--this pretty little girl of maybe ten. Without much detail, we learn that the young girl is sick, dying, and eventually, died.
This guilt of not being able to do more to save his daughter ruins the writer's life: he leaves his wife and buries himself in his work. His writing. But the haunted room brings clips of his daughter to the forefront.
And at one point in the movie--she is there, in the hotel room with him. She tells him she loves him, that she wants to be with him and with mommy.
I kept expecting her to change into some horrid creature. Like the child monster that crawled out of the television set in The Ring.
That never happened.
Instead, he hugs his daughter, tells her everything will be all right. He assures her that this time, this time, they can stay together.
And then without warning, she dies in his arms. She just goes limp. Lifeless...Her head dropping, eyes closed. And she is dead. Again.
He lost his daughter a second time.
The point of this blog is personal. I'm divorced. Didn't want to be. But there was nothing I could do. There was no saving the marriage.
I have three kids. They are my life. My world. My everything.
And though I live only a handful of miles away from them, and though I get them every other weekend, and one day during the week, and see them at school and sports events ... I can't help but feel, sometimes, like they have died. Or that I have.
The loss I feel is that great. The pain is that powerful.
And what is worse, at the end of each visit with them, when I take them back to their mother, I feel like they are dying on me a second time, or that I am. Every time.
It never gets easier.
Can't imagine it ever will.
I was that writer. John Cusack's character. Helpless, as I watched my kids slip out of my life. Lifeless am I each time I take them back to their mother ...
So, Cusack writhe’s in agony over the loss and second loss of his daughter -- I was overcome with such emotion. I cried. I sobbed. It was uncontrollable. It lasted for what felt like forever.
It was a horror movie. Supposed to be scary.
And instead, to me, it was the saddest movie I'd ever seen. The realest movie. The rawest.
There is no real point to this blog.
Just that, to overcome the gloom and depression I feel, that constantly sinks in, I thought I needed to write out my feelings. I know other people who have gone and are going through this. And while we all work to deal with such “loss” in our own ways, dealing with it is exactly what we struggle to do—whether people who have been through it can comprehend the constant pain, the overwhelming emptiness—or whether they can’t. It is so real.
There is not a day, not a single day that I don’t think, “Holy shit, I hate my fucking life! I fucking hate it.” I go to work. I smile. I get home, and I almost can’t stomach the thought of an hour alone. Without my family. I do it though. Day in. Day out. For the last five years—and I do my best not to dwell on missing so much from their lives that I am more a stranger than a father. That when I go to bed at night, I am not comforted, because they are not in the bedrooms next to mine. Or when I wake up, I do not get to see their faces. Or when I get home, they are not there to greet me.
The pain is real. The emptiness crushing. You get this, or you don’t. I guess that’s all there is.
I am more messed up than ever imagined, than anyone should ever be.
Enjoy your Friday.
--Chase N. Nichols
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