Staying In Bed

To hell with being dutiful

Staying in bed is beautiful

A purring kitty on my chest

He agrees that it’s time to rest

Piano music calms me down

Hypnotized by the gentle sound

Cold breeze blowing outside

Under the blankets is where I hide

Back to work on another day

Couldn’t motivate myself anyway

Stare at the ceiling, think about life

Share my bed with an imaginary wife

Watch movies playing in my head

They don’t make a lick of sense

Heater blasting on a winter night

Makes resisting sleep an uphill fight

But I can’t stay here forever and ever

Despite the drop in barometric pressure

Another day waits on the other side

That way you can’t say I never tried

Still walking around like the undead

Not a whole lot going on in my head

A few more hours until it gets dark

Until rainwater floods the public park

Until the moon shines down upon us all

Until face down on the bed is where I fall

Disconnect my telephone line

Tomorrow everything will be just fine

Like it is almost every damn day

No sense in asking me if I’m okay

Self-Forgiveness

***SELF-FORGIVENESS***

One of the things you learn about yourself as a creative person is how hard you can be on yourself when you hit near-bottom. Maybe you hate your rough draft so much that it’s food for the paper shredder. Maybe you didn’t meet your deadline quickly enough and things fall to shit. Or if you’re anything like me, the biggest sin you can commit is not getting anything done for a whole day. At the end of that day, what does punishing yourself really do for your productivity? Nothing. In fact, it’s less productive than doing nothing at all. It’s counterproductive!

Learning self-forgiveness for your creative “sins” is a skill that needs to be sharpened by all artists at some point. Some days are productive and you can pump out entire novels in one day. Some days are slow and sluggish and all you want to do is nap. For the latter of those two days, even if the reasons for being exhausted are legitimate, there’s always a negative voice telling you to “suck it up” or whatever other tough love phrase comes to mind. Hell, one of the ways I try to wake myself up for the day is by slapping myself in the face. It doesn’t actually do anything; it’s just unnecessary physical pain.

If you have a mental illness like me, self-forgiveness is more important than ever. Punishing yourself can be a symptom of this illness and it’ll only make you feel more depressed than before. Just because the world can’t see your illness, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It could be the medication making you tired. It could be the illness itself. It could be a hermit lifestyle. It could be a fucked up sleep schedule. Whatever it is, something is weighing you down and it’s okay to admit it. Part of learning to forgive yourself is acknowledging that you have a problem to begin with. Pushing it down until it festers isn’t “manly” or “macho”. In fact, opening up takes a lot of strength in and of itself.

Yes, I admit that it can be hard to open up and admit your worries whenever you see authors out there professing that you must write X number of pages a day or X number of letters or words. While that can be good advice at times, it’s also important that they’re not hard-and-fast rules. There’s no one definition for what a writing goal should be because every author is different. What works for one author won’t work for another. If an author is mentally ill like I am, then writing X number of words/letters per day is damned near impossible. If you need to take it easy on yourself, then don’t feel shame for it.

Even Chris Brecheen (the admin of Writing About Writing) knows how important self-care is. Yes, he posts memes on Face Book almost every day saying some form of “You Should Be Writing”. He’s not doing it to be malicious or arrogant. He’s doing it because he wants his readership to succeed. But even Mr. Brecheen knows that certain factors can get in the way of doing so, mental illness being chief among them. He admits to not being an expert on the topic of mental illness, but his empathy speaks volumes when he’s giving his warmhearted advice to depressed writers. I fucking love this guy. I really do.

One of the things Chris tells the mentally ill people who ask him questions about word limits is that there are no set limits. It’s part of the reason why he hates NaNoWriMo, because writing 1,667 words a day is unrealistic and it can wear on an author’s psyche. Maybe the word count should only be a few sentences. Maybe it’s somewhere below five hundred. The point is, do only what you can manage. As long as you’re doing something, you’re sharpening your skills. And if you don’t do something for that day, don’t beat yourself up over it. Try again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. And the day after. Eventually you’ll have a good day and be a writing machine.

If you want to write a quirky Face Book post, do that. If you want to write a letter to someone, do that too. If you just want to write a Tumbler or Twitter post, that’ll make your writing strong too. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Writing is a long and arduous process that takes time. It shouldn’t be bogged down by unrealistic goals and limits. Who knows? Maybe fame and fortune isn’t the answer after all for some people. It doesn’t have to be. And that’s okay. We have comfort zones for a reason. While it feels nice to step outside every once and a while, overwhelming yourself is only going to lead to more guilt and more depressive pain.

If you have a creative person in your life and he or she is feeling down, don’t judge that person. Lend a helping hand. Squeeze their shoulders. Ruffle their hair. Help them with their chores. Do whatever you have to do to keep that person from spiraling downward. Self-forgiveness isn’t just some “pseudo new age BS”. It’s something we all have to do eventually. The lack of self-forgiveness in the mentally ill can actually lead to suicide in some cases. I remember when I first started having schizophrenic symptoms in 2002. My head voices affected my work rate to where I wanted to kill myself. I got the help I needed and I’m a better person for it. Granted, I still have days where all I want to do is nap and be lazy. Then again, lazy days are a part of the human experience. It’s not weakness. It’s pain.

I’m still learning how to forgive myself for my least productive days. Like I said, it’s a skill that needs to be practiced every waking day. But just like the writing process itself, moving along slowly is better than standing still. Although I will never threaten suicide again, it’s still important for me and all of the writers out there to take good care of ourselves. You can do this. You can conquer. You’ve got this! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! Man, those Three Days Grace lyrics never felt more important than they do now.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“It’s such a rainy afternoon. No point in going anywhere. The sounds just drift across my room. I wish this feeling I could share. It’s such a rainy afternoon. She sits and gazes from her window. Her mind tries to recall his face. The feeling deep inside her grows.”

-Snippet from “The Actor” by The Moody Blues-

Don't Wake the Baby

VERSE 1

Dreaming of scratches behind her ears

Sleeping on my bed for the rest of her years

Such a sweet little fuzzy lady

Shh! Don’t wake the baby!

VERSE 2

Dreaming of a buffet table of tuna fish

A quart of milk in her favorite dish

Is this reality? Well, just maybe

Shh! Don’t wake the baby!

VERSE 3

Dreaming of gentle warmth from the heater

Drooling like a fountain, her dreams get sweeter

A kitty kiss on the cheek is what she gave me

Shh! Don’t wake the baby!

FINAL VERSE

Waking up to a brand new day

Only to fall asleep again anyways

She needs every hour of beauty rest

Her forever home is truly the best

She gives me the biggest goofy grin

Every time I scratch her under the chin

She purrs like the sweetest kitty lady

Shh! Don’t wake the baby!

A Wonderful Day to Take a Nap

CHORUS

It’s a wonderful day to take a nap

With a cute little kitty on your lap

A wonderful day to take a snooze

Dream away your moodiest blues

VERSE 1

The rain is pouring, the puppy is snoring

Everything else is delightfully boring

Lullaby music is playing so softly

Sleep like you’re in the arms of your mommy

Under the blanket so cuddly and warm

Keeping you safe from the rainiest storm

Counting the sheep as you fall asleep

Snuggling with them feels so sweet

EXTENDED CHORUS

It’s a wonderful day to take a nap

With a cute little kitty on your lap

A wonderful day to take a snooze

Dream away your moodiest blues

A wonderful day to rest your bones

Turn off the TV, unplug your phone

A wonderful day to have a dream

Until the sun shines its bright beams

VERSE 2

Pour yourself a glass of warm milk

Wrap yourself in a blanket of silk

Snuggle with puppies and kitties

Whether they’re big or just itty-bitty

When you snooze, nobody will lose

Stay in your bed as long as you choose

Listen to raindrops on your window

Listen to the mighty wind blow

EXTENDED CHORUS 2

It’s a wonderful day to take a nap

The weather outside wills start to sap

A wonderful day to take a snooze

Until the sunshine brings colorful hues

A wonderful day to rest your head

In the softest and warmest of beds

A wonderful day to snore and drool

Until your pillow becomes a pool

VERSE 3

Rock-a-bye baby on the treetop

The wind and rain won’t stop

Come inside for a place to hide

Under the covers, you sweetie pie

We’re one big cuddly family

Of animals and sweet little peas

It’s a wonderful day to nod off

In the beddy-bye ever so soft

Lazy Day

VERSE 1

In this world of necromancy

Another rainy day is passing

Nothing to do but fall asleep

For wasted time I will weep

Laziness has taken over me

Blurry vision is all I can see

Novocain on my poor brain

Saturday goes down the drain

CHORUS

If hard work is everything

Show me the tools to bring

Give me the lyrics to sing

I’ll fly with my own wings

If boredom is the sickness

End it with some quickness

Lazy days drain life away

In this bed is where I lay

VERSE 2

In this world inside my head

Everything is buried and dead

Coffins make the best of beds

Ashes to ashes is what I said

Dust to dust, in fire we trust

Light the fuse, ignite the lust

Nothing wants to move today

Slightest twitch is too much pain

CHORUS

If hard work is everything

Show me the tools to bring

Give me the lyrics to sing

I’ll fly with my own wings

If boredom is the sickness

End it with some quickness

Lazy days drain life away

In this bed is where I lay

BRIDGE

Writing my life down on pages

Speaking in the tongues of sages

Rocking on the biggest stages

Lazing until the final ages

Recovery mode is not an excuse

But it’s the one I always choose

Heavy eyelids and a heavy heart

Continue to tear my art apart

VERSE 3

There’s always tomorrow to cure today’s sorrow

Because I know that time is always mine to borrow

Procrastination is a form of indoctrination

Convincing myself that this is my destination

So many of my allies depend on my actions

But all I can give them is less than a fraction

End the day by falling down on my face

Fuck necromancy and fuck this whole place!

CHORUS

If hard work is everything

Show me the tools to bring

Give me the lyrics to sing

I’ll fly with my own wings

If boredom is the sickness

End it with some quickness

Lazy days drain life away

In this bed is where I lay

Snitch

Lucas Morgan had just completed his geometry assignments for the evening and was left mentally exhausted afterwards. All the blond-haired All That Remains T-shirt-wearing teen wanted was to take a nap and forget the whole day ever happened. He kicked off his boots and plopped backwards on his comfy bed. His body was perpendicular to the bed itself, but he was so tired it didn’t matter how he slept it off.

He could have passed out right then and there if it hadn’t been for the obnoxious sound of his smart phone ringing. Technically, he could have chosen his own ring tone, but instead he had the standard buzzing that was normally associated with house phones. Lucas groaned and whined as he sat up in his bed and languidly reached over to the computer desk to answer his phone. His eyes were so fuzzy that he didn’t bother to look to see who was calling; he answered it anyways.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, sir, I’m looking for Mr. Maurice Morgan.”

“He’s not here right now.”

“I know that, but where is he? Does he have a work number I can reach him at? Maybe a cell phone number?”

Lucas’s eyebrows furrowed as he asked, “Who is this?”

“My name is Officer Ben Gilmour and I work with the Paulson City Police Department. It’s important that I get a hold of your father. And for the rest of this conversation, let me be the one who asks the questions. Now, I’ll ask you again: does Maurice Morgan have a cell phone or work number I can reach him at?”

“I don’t keep track of those things.”

Ben let out a sigh and said, “Not being very helpful today, are you, son.”

The condescending tone sent Lucas into a screaming rampage. “Why the hell should I help you with anything?! I told you I don’t know how to get a hold of him! That sort of thing is on my mom’s cell phone, but she’s not here either; she’s in the hospital!”

“Mr. Morgan, there must be something around the house that will tell you an alternative way of getting a hold of your father. You’re obviously not looking very hard, so let me make this clear to you. Either you cooperate with us or…”

Lucas’s screams were demonic at this point, “Or what?! You’re going to arrest me?! I’m not going to testify against my own dad! That would make me a snitch and a traitor to my family! Don’t ever call this number again, you piece of shit!”

Nobody would be calling that number again, because Lucas threw his cell phone against his computer desk out of frustration and shattered the screen. He breathed heavily in anger and sat back down on his bed to try and calm down. But try as he might, his intense breathing was accompanied by monstrous groans and growls.

And then the house phone rang and Lucas was pissed off once more. He growled like an ogre and stomped his way out to the kitchen to answer his house phone. The Morgan family had caller ID, but Lucas was too far into his rage to look at the screen. He answered anyways and yelled, “What?!”

It was Officer Ben Gilmour yet again. “I’m going to forgive that little outburst just a few minutes ago, but from this point on, if you screw with me again, I will come to your house and place you under arrest.”

Lucas’s angry speech was accompanied by high pitched bursts when he said, “I’m not doing anything wrong, damn it! There’s nothing illegal about not giving you information!”

“Actually, yes, there is something illegal about it. It’s called Obstruction of Justice and it holds a penalty of up to two years in prison. Two years doesn’t sound like a lot of time, but in prison, everything slows down and nobody is going to give you rest. Trust me, Mr. Morgan, you wouldn’t last five minutes in a place like that. Just do the right thing and tell me how I can get a hold of your father.”

“My dad didn’t do anything wrong either! He’s an innocent man and I’m not going to let you take him away from me!”

“That’s where I call bullshit, Mr. Morgan. We have snapshot evidence of your father murdering another police officer in cold blood. The photos suggest he took the officer’s own gun and shot him in the face. Your father is facing life imprisonment, maybe even the death penalty if there is a God in heaven.”

Lucas took a while to digest this new information with wide eyes and nervous breathing. His heart raced as he thought of his father being a cop slayer. Was it possible? Did he really know his own father? Was this all just bullshit? The teenager’s frightened energy caused his voice to soften as he said, “You’re full of shit!”

“I assure you, son, we’re not. I’d love to show you the pictures myself. In fact, I’ll show them to you when I come down to your house and arrest you for Obstruction of Justice. How does that sound?”

“Lucas! Give me the goddamn phone!” said Maurice Morgan, who was standing in the kitchen wearing a trench coat and a pissed off facial expression. The teenaged son was so emotional that he failed to hear his own father come in through the front door. His arm shivered as he handed the phone cradle to his dad. The kid was so sweaty that the phone almost fell out of his hand.

As the child became teary-eyed, Maurice wrapped an arm around him and patted him on the back for comfort. For Officer Ben Gilmour, however, there would be no comfort; only scorn. The father spoke vengefully into the phone when he said, “Listen, you sick bastard, I don’t care how much power that police badge gives you. You never talk to a teenage boy like that, especially not my son. He’s not the criminal of this household.”

A silence fell over the conversation and then Maurice said, “I am, Officer. I have nothing to hide anymore. Your snapshots proved I killed that cop. What your cute little photographs don’t say, however, is that I shot that cop because he was beating up my wife for jaywalking. So she runs a red light and gets put in the hospital by this sociopath? Where’s the justice in that?!”

Ben said, “Listen, Maurice, if you have a problem with one of our officers, then you need to go through the proper channels to make sure that officer gets his punishment. You don’t shoot a cop right in the fucking face like that!”

Maurice explosively said, “Then who will, damn it?! Who’s going to bring justice to a man whose worst punishment is a paid vacation and desk duty?! I know how your system works! Cops can get away with anything these days! Anything! Well, let me tell you something, copper! You can slap the cuffs on me all you want! Hell, I’ll wait right here for you in the comfort of my own home! But if you arrest me, then once I get a chance in court, I’m going to drag your entire department to the gates of hell with me! Not just the officer who beat my wife, but the entire goddamn department! I won’t get an ounce of sleep until each and every one of you are burning in hell!”

After a shocked silence, Ben said, “You let me know how that whole ‘gates of hell’ thing works out for you, Maurice. I hope you have the best lawyer money can buy. Good luck, buddy. You’re going to need it.” Officer Gilmour hung up and the heated conversation was over.

Maurice and Lucas were still embracing each other with the father breathing demonically and the son choking back tears of sorrow and fear. They both said, “I love you!” to each other for what would be the last time in their lives before the police came knocking on the Morgan family’s door.