For those who watch my work, you may have had a question or two on your mind over the past few months. To paraphrase it, it might be along the lines of, "What the Fuck happened to Mietere and his artwork?" If you did have these thoughts, I would first like to say thank you for caring enough about me or my content to have the question slip into your mind. Secondly, I will be answering that question in several parts.

This will not be a joyful read. It will be the truth. It will hurt me. It will scar me. But it will also bring me hope.

For those who may not know, or for those who do (it's not super hard to see it), I have severe clinical depression, PTSD, and mild schizophrenia. As you could imagine, this cocktail of bad vibes affects me daily, and I am already on some strong medication to help me handle and properly process the weight on my mind almost every moment of every day. This is obviously not aided by the daily information of politics, war, suffering, and stupidity humanity displays to one another, but I do my part to stay informed and try not to involve myself personally unless I can help. I was doing alright on my prescription at the time, but come July I could not help but feel the effects becoming weaker and harder to maintain. With my doctor's consultation, I returned to a drug that I had not tried since early high school: Zoloft (or Sertraline). This is a common anti-depressant that some of you may be familiar with. Given the worsening symptoms, I agreed to try a stronger dosage of the Zoloft and see how the affects were after a few weeks. Well, weeks passed, and I felt no better and perhaps worse some days. My motivation was growing weaker, it was harder to get out of bed everyday, any kind of sexual drive was depleted (which directly affected my work content and output frequency), the nightmares were becoming more frequent (around 5/7 nights a week), and to those around me I was becoming a husk void of emotion outside of the ones I displayed with my mask. Unfortunately, I am rather isolated besides my roommate, who is usually very busy with his work outside the apartment, so not even he was able to notice the changes very much. Fortunately, a few members of my Twitch/Discord community began to speak concerns at my seemingly worsening health. After a few days of research and study into my own behaviors/thoughts/actions, I realized that the Zoloft was driving me closer and closer to disaster, where the suicidal thoughts were becoming louder and the thinly-veiled jokes about it were becoming less funny. Through reconciliation, I determined that the Zoloft was helping deal with the daily mental issues not as a stimulant, but rather a depressant. That is to say, it helped me not feel the sadness because it removed my ability to feel at all. It became a vicious cycle of Zoloft, to apathy, to lack of content, to feeling guilt for not making content, to depression, and back to more Zoloft. Rinse and repeat into a downward spiral. Needless to say, I cut the Zoloft cold turkey and spent a week dealing with the withdrawals to force myself away from that cliff edge.

Unfortunately, while the drugs were the ones pushing me toward the cliff, several other life issues seized my ankles with ruthless steel anchors that were towing me off the edge at a higher velocity. Shortly after the switch to Zoloft, one of my former tooth fillings (that I had gotten only about a year prior) broke off and exposed my nerve, which, for those who may not know, is a very painful experience. As it turns out, the clinic that had done my filling the year prior did a shitty job at it, where instead of it protecting my tooth, actually trapped more bacteria under it and made the cavity increase in size and rot all the way to the root. Needless to say, you can't really think straight or do proper work or anything with that kind of issues pulsating with screams directly into your skull. Living on a diet of water and ibuprofen, I went to the dental clinic as soon as I was able to alleviate the issue. However, after doing x-rays, the (new) dentist determined that I would require a root canal and gave me a list of specialists...all of which were quite busy and could not accept new patients for several weeks. On top of that. it turns out State Insurance does not cover root canals on molars, yet will on every other tooth. So overall, I was going to need to pay for the entire procedure out of pocket, and wait several weeks, for the pain to be resolved and a bill being sent my way for around $4000 total. As you could expect, I said "FUCK that," and made my way to a different clinic who RIPPED that bitch out of my head. While the term may be "extraction" and is covered under my insurance, the more literal term is "bone cracking in your ear as we stab drugs into your face and tug that bitch out with pliers from your grandpa's toolbox"...not literally, of course, but I can assure the pain of it and sound of my own bones cracking in my ears continue to make me shiver. I bled for 5 days, having to keep placing more gauze into my mouth and making any kind of food intake painful and tedious, even when it was nothing but smoothies and apple sauce. At this time, the hole remains but the pain has dissipated (it's still there when I try to chew sometimes), and the next step will be to drill a replacement in...which is also not covered by insurance and will need to be paid out of pocket...for about the same price of a root canal. It may be hard to imagine, but this multi-week experience of physical pain, migraines, unable to eat food properly, financial anxiety, future financial issues and pain, and more did not aid in my mental recovery that the Zoloft was supposed to be aiding. This again led to the cycle stated above, but add ibuprofen and stomach pain from the painkillers to it. The stomach pain was bad, but it was better than the pain in my mouth and that which plagued my mind.

Shortly after my cold-turkey cut off, I was once again struck with a emotional issue in regards to my uncle's unexpected death. Now at this point of my life, I have seen far more death of ones I am close to than anyone should be comfortable with, which is where those mental symptoms found some of their original footing. Canceling work and plans, I attended the funeral on a cool Monday evening, chauffeuring several family members - who had come into the state on short notice flights - to the the church, all dressed in standard black attire for the occasion. Keeping my thoughts buried and my current issues set aside, I tried to instead just force myself through the experience with as little emotional reception as possible; it is not uncommon for folks to sometimes act that way as a state of shock when dealing with the dilemma of death. I was doing quite well, keeping my head metaphorically low in the pew as the Catholic event unfolded slowly, stretching longer and wearing away at my blockades like water running over rocks as it lingered on. But then the eulogies started. Most eulogies I have witnessed have ranged from melancholy to uplifting to sorrowful with a hint of redemption in the end, all words and memories consolidated to commemorate and reflect on the life of the individual to not bring sorrow for their death, but rather to celebrate their life. But as the 12-year-old daughter passed by her father's casket to the podium, her heart thumping hard in her throat and the emotions crying to be let out instead of concealed, the fear rushing through her as the world dropped its weight upon her shoulders without reconciliation. The words from the tear stained notebook paper she kept in a tightening grip were not the words of a widowed mother, or a high school friend, or a co-worker. It was the exhibit of moments that she would never get to experience with her father. Sporting events, prom, marriage and grandkids, all lost thanks to the sudden and unpredictable toll of life upon our bodies. There would be no celebration for her. There would be no more positive or negative memories experienced with him. The pages had been torn out before they were written and cast into the fires of unfair circumstances that only take and take to fuel their endless hunger to see us all suffer. Each line smashed against me like crested waves, breaking through my defenses and seized at my throat with blood-letting claws, the other piercing my gut and twisting the organs without constraint as the weight of all I had been hiding fell upon me, those anchors at my ankles proving too heavy, that medication kicking me over with a malicious intent, the pain physically and mentally of years and years and years of suffering that I could not hold down any longer...

I fell.
Down.
Down past the cliffs edge.
Down past the outcroppings of last-moment handholds.
Down through the white-foamed waves crashing against rocks.
Down into the cold, black water.
Down
and down
and down...
and there I remain, even as your eyes trail over these words. Swallowed in that cold darkness, the light above unable to breach the depths where I lay, the chills settling past my skin and tearing away at my soul and heart with brutish snarled teeth.
To leave this dark place...it would not take much. Just a simple slip of a knife, a handful of pills, a precarious ledge of a tall bridge. It could be quick. It could be done. It could be over.

...

And yet, here I remain.
The surface of the black sea encroaches closer every day. Some days it seems further, but it continues to draw nearer.
The climb back will not be an easy one. It will not be a flip switch. It will not have a ladder waiting for me. The handholds will be slick and painful.
And yet, I continue to climb.
I will not let the darkness take me.

(To be continued)