☀️ Happy Sunday! I’ll quote the end of this excerpt here because it encapsulates my intention very loudly:

If one can dream even further, then maybe one day a communal collection of pieces will provide a sort of literary cure to depression and mental illness.

👨‍💻 This journal entry was the first time I was able to turn my suffering into something creative. This is how my own struggle feels like. Next week our hero will find the tools to deal with it!

Enjoy,

Omar

Subscribe here to get our weekly posts!

Me and my Self - Part 1/2

From Maskat’s Mémoires - Undated

The darkness does not lie outside of us. It seems necessary for an eventual agenda of happiness. It is freakishly familiar. I thought I had built an arsenal of protection against it, but it seems like I am doomed to live it over and over again. Life isn’t sad, the externalities are inviting, but the somber sadness comes from within. It is deep and almost just another characteristic of my body just like my black eyes or pronounced clavicle lines.

I used to want to fix it so bad, and it is not like I have not tried. From taking care of myself, to going on the most outrageous adventures. I looked for God in nature and in plants, I left home, I started new careers, I made new friends and found new lovers. I am searching far and wide, but I don’t know what I am searching for.

Everything only satisfies temporarily, until the deeper melancholy takes over. The effect feels chemically induced and my brain feels depleted of its happy juice. It creeps in so subtly as internal suggestions of self-doubt and guilt that snowball into shame. It becomes completely debilitating.

Suggestions of how I am not good enough start the cycle into what I call retrograde thinking. I fall into a moving quicksand of my own devise and it doesn’t seem like people recognize how to help me. I am not sure how to help me either. I judge those who reach out to me for not understanding, and those who become distant for not caring. I need both space and attention from other people simultaneously. It doesn’t make any sense. 

The physical effects are immense too, summed up as an achy back and a sloth-like existence. My body just wants to curve into a ball and lie in fetal position. My mind feels like the light has been sucked out of it, and a full system shutdown occurs as frequently as possible. Deep narcolepsy ensues with lethargy and a low appetite. I am never sure if it is an exhaustion from all the thinking or an escape from figuring things out. Probably a mix of both. 

This all leads to the grand finale. The fight of the century. The kick boxing session that I have with myself once or twice a year. Hurry hurry come right up, introducing the stars of the show: Me and myself. Maskat’s Tyler Durden is here, and he is not impressed with me. The clobbering usually happens in the middle of the night, and he frequently wakes me upon his arrival. 

The last time he paid me a visit was the worst. There was no small talk. He walked in very determinately and loudly. I got up from bed to at least have a positional advantage. I tightened my fist in anticipation as I saw his shadow in the hallway come closer. He walked in with his top hat and the classic black suit which he only wore on special occasions. A crimson rose held on for dear life from his suit’s front chest pocket.

He stopped, smirked, and took a long look at me above his dark sunglasses. Our eyes locked in for a second. He hurled his briefcase towards my chest. I raised my hands to protect myself, but the steel briefcase was heavier than I had expected. The pain on the outside of my arms from his bag’s impact was already excruciating.

Bleeding and bruised by that first move, I decided to advance towards him. They say the best form of defense is offense. They don’t tell you however, that this only works if you know what you are capable of. If you understand your fears. If you have connected with both yourself and your opponent. It didn’t work out for me that night. In one fell swoop, he landed an uppercut to my jaw, a kick to my belly, and another punch straight to my lower ribs. I collapsed on the ground in agony. 

“You’ll never learn, will you?” he said as he ran his hands through his well-combed hair and adjusted his tie. “You think I want to be here spending my time with a person like you? Fuck you and fuck your pathetic life.” He sat down and lit a cigarette as I recollected my thoughts, and reached within myself for whatever strength I could muster. 

“You fucking bastard!” I screamed as I scrimmaged, reached out to his face and landed an elbow to his nose. He held his bleeding nose, and seemed surprised by my audacity. He took another puff from his cigarette. I quickly grounded both my feet behind one other, turned around and dragged my foot with all my might towards his face. My foot hit his face the way a butcher’s knife would fall onto a chicken. He bled from the impact, but his eyes and resolve merely flinched. He took another puff, and his smirk got bigger. The more I fought back, the stronger he got. I felt terrified as I watched him rise again.

Now with all the world’s apathy, he spit his blood on me as he laughed. “You will never be enough.” he said as he slammed my head onto the floor. He threw a knee kick straight into my ribs and another punch to my face. I felt dizzied as he dragged me on the floor next to the bed. He sat me up so that my shoulders were between his knees, as he sat on the edge of the bed.

He grabbed both sides of the silky drapes of my 4-poster bed, wrapped them viscously around my neck, and choked me into a deep coma. I stared into the mirror in front of us, and his bloody maniacal smile was the last thing I saw as I quickly fainted. 

In these moments I am very grateful for sleep because it is the only thing that can numb out the pain. Perhaps the only other cure is to write about it. And perhaps, someone will read this one day, relate to it and know that they are not alone.

If one can dream even further, then maybe one day a communal collection of pieces will provide a sort of literary cure to depression and mental illness.

COMING UP NEXT SUNDAY, SAME TIME TO YOUR INBOX:

In Part II of this journal entry, Maskat uses some tools to defeat the shame gremlins in his brain and finds a way to connect with the man in the dark suit. Stay tuned for Me and my Self Part II next week!

❤️ Click on the love button if you enjoy this to let me know, and 📝 please leave a comment if this resonates. Or event better, share this post with someone you care about.

Share

The types of posts you can expect every Sunday:

• 📖 Excerpts from the novel in progress and updates on how it is shaping (I will declare a publishing date in the next few months.)

• 🔍 Commentaries, essays and resources from the creators on our own healing journeys and what we have tried. (see themes above)

• 🧵 Threads for discussion after every post.

• ✍️ Short Stories of gumption that inspire you for your busy week.

• 🦸‍♂️ New authors and commentators on the topics we discuss.

• 🎙️ More audio (The Gumpcast) and 🎥 video (Lamu Diaries) content coming your way when we have enough gumption to give them the attention they deserve.

How to support, join, and collaborate with us:

• ❤️‍🔥. If you enjoy a post, click on the love button to let us know we did a good job.

• 📝 If a post resonates with you, leave a comment and use the Wednesday threads to let us get to know you more.

• ✉️ If you know someone who can benefit please share this project with them.

• ✋ If you want to share your story on the podcast, in an anonymous short story, or in a blog post. Send us your story at thegumpcast@gmail.com

• 🤝🏿 If you want to collaborate, cross promote us, or host us to speak at your events. Also email us, we want to collaborate. thegumpcast@gmail.com