An Open Letter to Donald Trump

Dear Donald -

I can call you Donald, can't I?

I've thought long and hard about your campaign for presidency, and I've come to a few conclusions.  I'd like to know if I'm right or wrong, just between you and me. See, I know what really happened. I know how this started. I just need to give this voice because I'm pretty sure I'm right here.

So, to begin with, this whole "I'm-running-for-president" thing was a publicity stunt, wasn't it?  I mean, let's face facts, you haven't been relevant in years, so you figured that a far-fetched presidential campaign would put your fifteen minutes of fame on life support for a little while, didn't you?  Don't deny it. You know that's how it started out, don't you? See, Donald, I don't blame you. Jump up in front of people, make a few outrageous statements, lose miserably, and you'll be back in the limelight in no time, right?

I'm right, aren't I?

Only you didn't count on racists, sexists, and idiots who would actually agree with those asinine statements, did you? So you tried to up your game with even more insane claims, statements designed to infuriate, hate speech and attack-formatted speeches. But it didn't work, did it? You resorted to name-calling, open mocking, and fear-mongering, and it still didn't work.  People still voted for you. No matter how hard you tried, you still couldn't get people to realize what a major shit-storm would occur for our nation (and the world) if you became president of our country.

And it scared you, didn't it Donald?  It did.  I know it did.  I'm right, aren't I?

So then you did the only thing a man like you could think to do:  You got worse. People couldn't possibly vote for you if you made yourself out to be a modern-day Hitler, could they? Of course not. No one would be that stupid, would they? But then, you underestimated them, didn't you? The anti-intellectuals. The fellow fear-mongers. The people who hate everything different than themselves. The self-righteous, the entitled... You underestimated them, didn't you? The louder you squawked and the more outrageous and terrible you became the more they ate it up.

And then another curious thing happened. You forgot. You forgot why you said those things to begin with. The potential power became intoxicating, didn't it Donald? You began to believe your own hype and forgot that everything you said was farce, didn't you? And now, with your own party members calling you out, you think it's too late, don't you?

It's not too late, Donald.  It's not. I mean, let's be honest, you've always been a walking parody.  From your augmented wives to your lies about being a self-made millionaire to your ridiculous branding schemes (Trump Steaks?  Really, Donald?), you've always been more of cartoon than a real person, Donald. But you can recover a shred of self-respect. It's really easy, and people will respect you for it. Here's how:

Admit it.

Get up in front of the world and just own up to your own bullshit. Get up there and tell the world that I'm right. It was a grab for a few more minutes of fame that got out of hand. You can totally paint yourself as a saint, Donald. Just raise your hands and tell us how you were trying to cast the harsh light of ridicule on the ignorant who chose to vote for you. Tell us how you really don't believe in being a racist chauvinistic douchebag, and how you want to bow out of the race, but couldn't figure out how to gracefully do so. Then exit the race before you do more damage. Exit the race before you damn this country to the horrors of your presidency. You're already the butt of thousands of jokes that span over twenty years.  Don't make the USA the butt of an even more tragic joke just because you're afraid to admit it was all a publicity stunt.

Unless I'm wrong.  Unless it wasn't a publicity stunt. Unless you actually are the ignorant racist, sexist elitist that you seem to be.

And if you are, I hope the educated and empathetic outnumber your legions of hate-mongers.

Sincerely,

Scott A. Johnson
Author, Father, American

Ghostbusters (2016): A Review

It's been a long time since I did a film review, and I can think of no place better than right here. And no better movie than this one. I went to see the new Ghostbusters this past Saturday, and, because of all the controversy surrounding it, I felt (of course) that I needed to put in my $.02. So here we go. Buckle up, strap on your proton pack, and prepare for my unvarnished opinion on this rebooting of the franchise.

First off, let's just get this out of the way. This isn't the same Ghostbusters that hit theaters in 1984.

It's theses people...

Not these people.

The premise of the movie isn't that different from its cold-war-era counterpart. Three "scientists" set out to prove the existence of ghosts and, along the way, pick up a normal person who helps out. In the meantime, they find time to run afoul someone who wants to bring about the end of the world, so they use their cobbled-together gizmos and not a small amount of chutzpa to take on the paranormal and kick all kinds of ass. Everyone good on that point? 

So, while the original movie starred Bill Murray, Dan Akroyd, Harold Ramis, and Ernie Hudson as the titular quartet, the new one stars Kristin Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, Kate McKinnon, and Leslie Jones. I can hear all the man-babies whine now... "BAWWWWWWW!!! THEY'RE SHITTING ON MY CHILDHOOD!"  If a reboot and recasting with women is all it takes to "shit on your childhood," your childhood must've sucked ass to begin with. Sit down, shut up, and try learning how to breathe with your mouth closed. 

You tell 'em, Mr. T!

The plot is about as thin as it was in the original, so that's nothing new. Don't get all pissy over it... The original was a classic, yes, but you have to admit that there were huge plot holes, so let's not cry over it and move on. The real stars of the show, and rightfully so, are the actors and the special effects.

Kristin Wiig, for example is very good as the bumbling Erin Gilbert, who is ashamed of her past as a believer of paranormal phenomena. When Melissa McCarthy drags her kicking and screaming back into the world of the unseen, it is with great reluctance.  But after being introduced to Jilian Holdzman (played perfectly by Kate McKinnon) and encountering an actual ghost, she falls back in love with the subject. In fact, it is McKinnon and Leslie Jones (playing Patty Tolan) who would completely steal the show, were it not for such competent performances by the rest of the cast. Sure, the characters are recognizable as the female versions of their male counterparts, but they are so very different.

Here...Happy now?

But see, there is so much more to the performances. The modern Ghostbusters hold their own against the originals, with Holtzmann becoming easily an audience favorite for her manic and demented performance of a scientist gone mad. And while her character chews her way through the whole movie, it was Leslie Jones' Patty Tolan that had me laughing so hard I almost needed oxygen in the theater. No spoilers, but this is easily one of the funniest movies I've seen since Deadpool, and for totally different reasons.

Chris Hemsworth also deserves a mention here because his portrayal of the brain-damaged Kevin is funny as hell, and don't give me any crap about how vapid he is. How often have women played characters whose only real purpose was eye candy? How many times have women been played as stupid  when compared to their male costars?  Plenty. And Chris Hemsworth does an amazing job of playing the absolute idiot, and he commits to the role with gusto. It amazes me how willing he is to be the biggest fool in the film, and even goes into a brilliant dance number during the credits. 

Funny funny man...

The special effects are also impressive, though I do tend to favor the more practical effects to computer-generated creatures. 

One thing that no one has mentioned in the previews, which made it a nice surprise in the movie was...

... the cameo appearances in the movie. Every one was a love-letter to the original fandom and a squee-worthy moment in the film. Who did cameos?  EVERYONE from the original. Seriously. Bill Murray shows up, as does Dan Akroyd.  Harold Ramis died before filming, but he shows up as a bust in a college hallway.  The old Hook and Ladder Company makes an appearance.  Ernie Hudson shows up. Even Sigorney Weaver and Annie Potts makes an appearance.  The only person who doesn't appear is Rick Moranis. Even Slimer appears.

So how do I feel about the movie?  I loved it. I enjoyed every popcorn-crunching moment of it, and I'll see it again.  And again.  And when the inevitable sequel comes out, I'll see it too.  If you're not seeing this movie because there are women in place of the originals, you're robbing yourself of a great flick. If you're not seeing it because it's a needless remake, fair point, but it's still really good. I applaud McCarthy, Wiig, Jones, and McKinnon on their performances, and for making the roles their own.

Now go see the movie and fall in love with the paranormal all over again.

Until next time...

SAJ

In a Good Place

I know that, from the last blog, it seems like I'm about a pug's whisker away from ending it all. But I'm not. Really, and from the bottom of my heart, I'm in a good place. For the first time since 2011, I'm in a good place. So that's the reason for this entry. A long time ago, I had to remind myself of how fortunate I was, and I've been doing it every day to make it through the working hours. And it isn't always easy. I mean, really, sometimes I have to take a step back and remind myself why I don't just wrap my car around a telephone pole. But a long time ago, I had an epiphany, and my life was forever changed.

Five years ago, I wasn't in a good place. I'll spare you the horrible details of what was going on at the time. Chances are, if you're reading this, you already know. Suffice to say, I'm still dealing with all the bullshit. But here's a list of all the things that have already gone right for me this year, and things that continue to go right for me. We'll start from the general to the more specific (and important), and I'll attempt to explain why each one is a good thing, in case it isn't obvious.

• I'm alive. That's (arguably) better than the alternative.
• I still have a job. I see so many people out there who don't, who can't make ends meet, who can't even get a foot in the door. I've got twenty years with the same university.  I realize that's around half of my life working for the same entity, but that same entity has allowed me to put a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food on my table.  I have health insurance because of that university, and I can provide for my family because of it. 
• Actually, I have multiple jobs. I work for two universities (one as staff, the other as faculty).  I also am a martial arts instructor (5th dan black belt), and I'm a writer. 
• My daughters love me. Self explanatory.
• I have thirteen books published. Thirteen. How many people out there never get one published?  Lots. Let alone thirteen. 
• My fur-babies. Yeah, I know, but still.  I have a pug and three cats. I can't even express to you how much better they make me feel. 
• My friends. I used to only need the fingers of one hand to count the number of real friends I had, and I was fine with that. Now I need a few more hands, and I consider myself really fortunate that so many people out there love me. 
• My family. Not just my little nuclear family, but my extended family. There are people that I consider to be more than friends, people who became part of my family through marriage, etc. I count myself lucky to have all of them. 

There's one other thing that I have to list, but I didn't want to relegate it to a bullet point. I am the luckiest man alive on many points, but none so much as this: Katie. Two years ago, I walked into karate class and there was this girl there.  She wore a pink uniform (a thing unheard of for anyone but Judo Gene LaBell), had pink hair, pink sneakers, a pink gym bag, and a pink water bottle. I started calling her Pinkie Pie because I do irritating things like that. Then a curious thing happened. I fell for her.  Hard. I thought there was no way a girl her age (she's 18 years younger than me) would be interested in a guy my age, but she was such a wonderful person that I knew I still wanted her in my life. So I was content to be friends with her. 

Then another curious thing happened.

She told me she didn't want to be just friends. A year after our first date, I asked her to marry me, and she said yes. 

At our fairy-tale wedding.

So you see, my life isn't so bad. My life has gotten better, in fact. Depression be damned.  I fight it every day, and sometimes, all I have to do is look over and see her standing next to me to know that my life can and will get better.  Yeah, I know, I'm a sap, but I don't care. 

The bottom line is this:  For everything that's happened, for all the pain and misery, for all the sad times, I'm in a good place.  Family, friends, pets, motorcycles, and writing have helped me to climb out of the hole I've been in for years, and I'm starting to feel happy again. 

To anyone out there suffering from depression:  It can get better. It really can. Get help if you can, but hold on because you must. It gets better. Life gets better. The world gets better. And mine is a little less dim now. 

Until next time...

SAJ

Orlando...

I've been in shock for a couple of days now. A man walked into a nightclub in Orlando Florida and opened fire, killing fifty people. Like every other blogger out there, I feel compelled to give my two cents worth on the tragedy in Orlando. There is a sickness in the world (particularly in the United States), and lots of us are talking about it. So here it is, my opinion. Take it or leave it.

News stations are calling it an act of terrorism, claiming that the shooter had ties to ISIS, claiming that terrorist sects claim responsibility... It's all bullshit. Here's what happened:  It was a hate crime, plain and simple. A man walked into a nightclub, the patronage of which were members of the LGBTQ community, and opened fire. This raises two questions:  The first one, of course, being "Why?" The second one being "Why are the media treating this as anything other than the hate crime it is?"  I don't have an answer to the second one. But the first one? Yeah.  I know why.

Let's first look at the shooter, whose name I'll not put in print because I don't want to give him any notoriety. This guy was, on the surface, a happily married-with-children Christian Muslim father. According to reports, the week previous to the shooting, he became offended when his wife and kids saw two men kissing in Orlando. This, his father said, was the catalyst that caused his explosion of hatred and pain into that nightclub. Two men. Showing love for each other. Did either of them harm him? No. Did their lives matter to him? No. Did he even know they existed prior to that moment? No. But their very existence so vexed him that he had to commit an act of domestic terrorism to wipe out the gay menace.

But wait.

Then something interesting came out. The gay club he shot up? HE FREQUENTED IT. Not visited, not cased the place. He'd been in the club as a patron more than twenty times. He used gay dating apps and, according to some, propositioned men for sex, all the while continuing to keep up his stance that homosexuality is against the word of God, and is therefore wrong.

See where I'm going with this?

Take a child. Any child. That child feels love toward one thing or another. Then you, the parent, tell the child that such love is wrong and shameful. You tell the child that you won't love him anymore if he continues that kind of behavior. What you've done is created the perfect recipe for a psychopath. It's wrong thinks the child. But I feel this way, so I must be bad. I have to hide what I am. But if I'm that thing, I'm bad. I don't want to be bad. I have to get rid of what's bad so I won't feel tempted toward it anymore.  Though years of conditioning, shaming, blaming, and persecution, you create an unstable individual that hates everything that he is because he can't be it. And so he goes out and buys a gun, but not just any gun. He goes out and buys the kind of gun for which there can be no other use. Fast shots, high power. His only purpose was to kill a lot of people in a short period of time. Why? Because he hated them for being gay. Just like he was. Because someone, somewhere, told him that if he was gay, he was a mistake. God wouldn't love him. Parents wouldn't love him. If he was gay, he was bad.

Now let me drop a little common sense and truth on you people: If your religion, no matter what it is, teaches hatred and bigotry in any form, it is wrong. Wrong. It's not a religion anymore. It's a hate group. It. Is. Wrong. Period. I've not been a member of the Christian faith for a while now. I was raised Baptist, and my whole formative opinion of the religion was one in which hatred was the norm, the true path to heaven was money, and shitty people did shitty things except on Sundays when they got together and lied about how shitty they were. I've since learned that most members of the Christian religion aren't like that, but I can't go back. I still remember the taunts of faggot and queer, and they weren't even directed at me. They were directed at sweet kids in my Sunday-School class. In a church. Where the teachings should be centered on "love thy neighbor."

But, as I've said in the past, it's always the crazy ones who ruin it for the rest of us.

And while we're on the subject, there is only one reason a gun like that one exists. You can scream second amendment or hunting or home defense all you want to, but that gun exists for one reason, and one only. Lots of bullets, short period of time. Kill lots of people.

To the LGBTQ community, my heart aches for you. Everyone deserves to be loved. Everyone deserves to enjoy their lives, and to pursue that happiness with whomever you want. Love is never bad. Love is something to which we can all aspire. I'm so very saddened by this act of hatred, and I know it will take time to heal, but heal you shall. So many great strides are being made toward equality that I hope none of you give up. I hope you all stand tall and proud of who you are. And I will stand with you. I have so many friends who are gay, lesbian, trans... Only they're not gay, lesbian, trans, or any other label to me.  They're just my friends. I love them. And if anything like this happened to any of them, I'd be screaming at the top of my lungs for justice.

The shooter took the coward's way out. There will be no justice for this senseless crime. And that's the hardest part. The perpetrators of this tragedy all point at him and say "we don't know why," but they damned sure do. They made him. They made the hatred. They fostered it, nurtured it, and perpetuated it. And it needs to stop.

If you're the church-going type, I encourage you to go to your church and take a good look around. If your church preaches hatred or intolerance (which is like "hatred-lite"), leave. Believe in whatever God you want, but don't put that faith blindly into the hands of men who hate. Don't give yourself to that kind of cancerous nature. The LGBTQ community only wants to live, to have basic rights and dignity. They want the same things you do. They are you.

In closing... I said I won't give the shooter's name a mention because I don't want to give him that kind of power or press. I hope his name is forgotten, though not his actions. But there are people who must never be forgotten. There are people who did not deserve to die that night, who went out with loved ones to enjoy their lives, and whose lives were cut short. These are their names. Lest we forget.

• Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34
• Stanley Almodovar III, 23
• Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20
• Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22
• Kimberly Morris, 37
• Luis S. Vielma, 22
• Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30
• Amanda Alvear, 25
• Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25
• Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35
• Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32
• Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24
• Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40
• Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37
• Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25 
• Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22
• Darryl Roman Burt II, 29
• Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32
• Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21
• Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25
• Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25
• Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50
• Martin Benitez Torres, 33
• Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26
• Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35
• Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25
• Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31
• Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, 26
• Miguel Angel Honorato, 30
• Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32
• Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19
• Cory James Connell, 21
• Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37
• Luis Daniel Conde, 39
• Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33
• Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25
• Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36
• Jerald Arthur Wright, 31
• Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25 
• Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, 27
• Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33 
• Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49
• Yilmary Rodriguez Sulivan, 24
• Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32 
• Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28 
• Frank Hernandez, 27 
• Paul Terrell Henry, 41
• Antonio Davon Brown, 29
• Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24
• Akyra Murray, 18

Scott's Guide to Parenting

I do a lot of things.  Writer, martial artist, maniac... But there are very few things that actually define me. Those are things that are so ingrained on my system that to deny them would be to deny myself. Perhaps chief among those things is that I am, and always shall be, a father. It doesn't matter how important the meeting, how near the deadline, or how tight the budget, my kids come first. Period. Deal with it, or get out of my life. 

When I was younger, I didn't want kids.  Frankly, I was terrified of them. What could I possibly have to offer a child? I'm certainly not anyone's idea of a role model, and  as a grumpy selfish bastard, I figured children would have better things to do than hang out with a pile of misery like me. At least, that's what I told everyone. The truth wasn't far off the mark, but there was more to it. See, my biggest fear was that I would let them down. That they would hurt me in some way. That I would screw them up and make little monsters that were just like me. Also, children are noisy, smelly, and expensive. Don't roll your eyes at me. If you're a parent, you know it's true. If you say it's not, you're lying and you know it. 

I now have two kids, Anna and Zoe.

I wasn't ready to be a father when I met Anna. She was a year and a half old when her mother (Tabatha) and I started dating. But I fell so very much in love with her. That little smile, her bright eyes, her blonde hair... She melted my cold heart and I embraced being a father. And I made mistakes. Lots of 'em. And one of the biggest ones was being over-protective. Turns out, there's a fine line between protecting your kid and suffocating them, and it's amazing how easy it is to tap-dance across that line. 

Protecting vs. Smothering

See, we all are guilty of making the same asinine promise to our children. You know which one it is.  Sing it along with me. "I'll never let anything happen to you." You've said it, haven't you? You know you have. And the sentiment is a beautiful one. What we mean is "I will protect you. I'd take a bullet for you. I will save you from heartache and physical pain. I will shield you from all that is wrong with the world." Cue music, hand me my cape. And, for a while, you can keep that promise. For a while, we put ourselves between our children and their poor decisions, or things out of our control. We are a human car-seat, a loving cushion of flesh and bone to fend off the monsters of the world. 

We all wear tights.  Picture it. 

But what few of us realize is that, by fulfilling that promise, we do our children a disservice. Before you recoil in horror, hear me out. If you were anything like I was as a kid, I learned a lot of hard lessons. Oh, sure, my parents told me "don't do that dangerous thing" or "you should be doing this other thing that's better for you," but when I was a kid, I needed to do those things. After all, my parents were old, right? And times were different when they were kids, right? And besides, how badly could it hurt to put my finger into the empty lightbulb socket with electricity running through it?  

Hint... Don't do this...

Often times, as parents, we have to let our kids fall so they'll learn. We don't want to. We would rather take every fall for them. But what will they do when we're not around anymore? See, sometimes, all we can do is give the advice. It's up to them whether they take it or not. And it's hard. You see your kid making a mistake, and you want to grab them and say "what the hell is wrong with you?" But that doesn't help. It doesn't teach them anything. All it does is make them resentful, or more careful about doing things where you can see them.  See, if you eliminate the consequences of bad choices, those choices aren't bad anymore. There's nothing to teach them to not do it again. And then the fall becomes harder, and far more painful, when the kid is out from under your watchful eye. 

I'll give you an example. My youngest was (this past term) a sophomore in high school. Every day, I asked her the same questions:  Do you have homework? Any tests coming up? How was your day? How are your grades? The answers that came back were usually "nope, nope, fine, fine." It drove my wife insane. But I had a plan. See, colleges typically look at the last two years of high school (junior and senior years) and SAT/ACT scores. So the sophomore year is, essentially, the last year where a student can screw around and still not mess their life up. So the plan was this: Let her deal with it. Let her figure out how to study so it best helps her, and give her a bit of leash. It worked out about as well as you think it did. 

Pictured: Grades

Oh, she passed. Barely. But it opened her eyes to the fact that her approach wasn't working. And that break-through was what she needed to get her head straight and start looking at her grades more seriously.  Which brings me to the next point. 

Yes, we let them fall. But when they fall, we are always on hand to pick them back up. When they call, we dust off the cape and help them back to their feet. As Bruce Wayne's father said: Why do we fall? So we can learn to pick ourselves back up. 

I love my kids. I love them more than my own life, and I'd give anything for them. Some of the most rewarding moments of my life came from them, as well as some of the happiest, and tearful, moments. No one can bring me up or down like my daughters. And I'm not saying a completely hands-off approach is in order here. I'll still prevent them from doing anything life-threatening or catastrophic. I'd take a bullet for them, jump in front of a train, or even, yes, keep my mouth closed. Does that make me a good or bad father?  I don't know. Neither one of my kids came with a users' manual. But like every other parent, I'm just trying to muddle through. 

Until next time...

SAJ

Depression

So, like I said in the first post, I suffer from depression. Whether it's a chemical imbalance or not is open to debate.  The fact is, I've had it for as long as I can remember. But for a while, I hid the problem. Why? Because mental illness (and trust me, depression is one) is stigmatized. People hear it and either back slowly away while making sure to avoid eye contact, or they immediately wonder why you can't just choose to be happy.  "Get over it," they say, or "you think you've got it bad?  Let me tell you about my day..." But see that's just it. Everyone feels sad, right? But for people like me, it's not just a single day. It's every day. It's not just something that we can "get over," it's not a case of the blues, and it's not just being in a funk.

Pictured:  Blues and Funk

Severe depression is a constant feeling of hopelessness and despair. It's a feeling of utter worthlessness and the knowledge (not suspicion, because you truly believe with all your heart and soul) that your "friends" merely put up with you because they feel sorry for you. It is a condition that makes it difficult to work or study, maintain healthy eating or sleeping habits, and affects every relationship you have. People pull away from you because you are depressed, and you are depressed because people pull away from you. And of course they do. People with clinical depression know they deserve to be left alone. 

"But you have so much to be happy about!" people say, and they mean well. But it's not something that someone can turn off at will. It's not something that can be easily fought. Sure drugs help, but most of them kill all emotions or make a person feel like a zombie. We are talking about a chemical process here, and it defies rational thought. You can't just will it away by reminding a person how fortunate they are. Because we know we don't deserve it. We don't just feel it, we know it. We believe it. 

Here are a few of the most common symptoms of severe depression:

• Fatigue or loss of energy almost every day
• Feelings of worthlessness or guilt almost every day
• Impaired concentration, indecisiveness
• Insomnia or hypersomnia (excessive sleeping) almost every day
• Markedly diminished interest or pleasure in almost all activities nearly every day (called anhedonia, this symptom can be indicated by reports from significant others)
• Restlessness or feeling slowed down
• Recurring thoughts of death or suicide
• Significant weight loss or gain (a change of more than 5% of body weight in a month)

Any of that sound familiar? If it does, seek help. Seriously. Depression isn't a joke. It's not some kind of contagious bullshit diagnosis. It's real. It hurts everyone. It kills. 

I was diagnosed with clinical depression almost twenty years ago. Run though the list of symptoms above, and I could put a check by every one of them. Do you have any idea what it is like to feel like, without a doubt, that you are damned?  Not figuratively, literally. I took Prozac until my insurance, feeling that mental health wasn't a real thing, stopped covering it. You have no idea how close to ending it all I was. I was actually sitting in my home office one day trying to figure out how to die and make it look like an accident so my insurance would pay out when my oldest, then only around ten years old, came in. "What's the matter, Daddy?" I explained Daddy didn't feel well. She climbed up in my lap and kissed me and told me she loved me. 

I cried for an hour.

She saved my life that day. I realized that if she still loved me, no matter how piss-poor of a father I felt like I was, I could fight through anything. I had a house, a wife, a kid... I could put food on the table... I didn't just magically become better, but every day, I woke up and reminded myself of the things that I had and of how many people cared about me. I still do it. Every day. I have to. Depression doesn't go away, but with great practice and determination, one can fight it. 

Why am I bringing this up? Simple. Mental health needs to be destigmatized. We've lost too many people to depression. We've come so close to losing others because they're ashamed of this disease. And they shouldn't be. But we all get it. We all hear taunts of "suck it up" and "man up" and "sissy" and "titty baby" and "cry baby." We get told "real men don't cry" and are ridiculed if we show even the slightest hint that we might be human. Women get labeled as "crazy bitches" and "psycho" and other derogatory phrases that hurt and drive us into hiding instead of getting help. And when that happens, people die. People lose hope. People fall through the cracks. And they're usually never the people you suspect. 

I have a very carefully crafted persona that puts forth a happy, smiling, loony guy for the world to see. Sometimes it's real. Sometimes it's fake. Unless you know me really well, you'll never know which is when. We lost Robin Williams to depression, one of the funniest men in history. We almost lost Wayne Brady, another amazing performer. One of my good friends, an author named Michael Knost (and I'm only sharing this because he did so on Facebook) recently took the amazingly brave step and opened up about the depression that almost killed him. 

And you know what?  I love him for it. 

Look... If you have any of the symptoms above, or if you know someone who does, get help. Seek it out. Do not be afraid to ask for help. It's an illness. And it only gets better with treatment. 

Me?  I'm lucky. I trained myself to fight it, and I do every day. Will I see a therapist again?  Probably, if I can find one I can trust (that's a whole other blog). But in the meantime, I will continue to fight and push back against the disease that sometimes cripples me. 

I have to add here: There are so many people in my life that have helped me out from under this black cloud. My daughters (both of them). My brother. My wife. I remarried this year (2016) to an amazing woman who is nothing but supportive. I surround myself with positive people. I am going to beat this. It can be defeated. 

Until next time. 

SAJ

About Me and This Blog

Great.  Another blog by some guy who thinks he has something to say that anyone wants to hear. This is probably just another hipster neckbeard who wants to pontificate to an audience, and who thinks his bullshit political ideas will inspire some sort of social revolution.  Right?

Not really.

My name is Scott A. Johnson. I'm a writer, a computer technician, a musician, a Kajukenbo instructor, a teacher, a father, a widow, and a husband. I also suffer from what used to be called "clinical depression" of the chemical variety and a smidgeon of PTSD. I have several blogs. One of them, Tabatha L. Johnson, was started a long time ago as a kind of experiment. I blogged about anything and everything I wanted to, until the day my wife was diagnosed with cancer. Then the blog became about giving updates. I leave it alone since the last entry as kind of a standing tribute to her.

The second blog, Strange Words, is where I dispense sage-like advice about writing.  I am, after all, a published writer who thinks he knows what he's talking about (even though I've got a great deal to learn). If you're looking for writing advice, you're a little far down the rabbit hole.

This blog I've called Personal Horrors, for lack of a better name. This blog will be about what's going on in my personal life, my mind, my emotional state, and other such trivialities in which no one should really be interested. Plus pictures of my dog. Deal with it.

So about me... Like I said, I do lots of things, and I am many different things to different people. Since this blog is about me, I figure I should come clean about a few things. First, I was diagnosed with clinical depression about twenty years ago. I'll be writing an entry about depression eventually, but that's for another time. Now a-days, they call it "Major Depressive Disorder," and it's a real bitch.

I also suffer from a form of PTSD. Why?  No, I wasn't a soldier or anything like that. In 2011, my wife was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  She fought until it killed her in 2013, and I stood by her the whole time, held her hand, took her to chemotherapy, and watched her wither and die. That alone would do it for some folks. But in 2013, I lost my wife's father (dementia), my uncle (heart attack), my wife of twenty years (cancer), and my mother (undiagnosed cancer), all three months apart. Then, for good measure, 2014 started out with the death of a friend I'd known for twenty years. I had to be strong for so long, that when it all broke down, I was a broken man. I had uncontrollable crying fits, rages that I couldn't explain, anxiety... I still don't sleep well.

I'm better now.  It's 2016, and I can do things again.  I have a dog (Sir Maximus Pugnacious, the wonder pug) and a new wife. I'm starting to put my world back together.

So why yet another blog?

This one is for me. I needed a separate place to put my personal thoughts.  The writing blog will continue, as will Tabby's memorial blog. But this one is for my own mental well-being.  Think of it as therapy, if you will. It'll be depressing at times. Humorous (I hope) and poignant (boy, do I hope) at others. But it will be one thing for sure:  Me. This is as real as I get. This is where I get political. This is where I get maudlin. This is where I try to exorcise the demons of my own soul.

If you're still with me, thanks. Read on, if you wish.

If not, no hard feelings. First entry, coming up.