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There is never enough. Never enough time, never enough money, never enough success, never enough praise, never enough sales. Never enough. That’s part of the life I’ve chosen. We struggle to find that thing that makes us feel satisfied, that gives us joy, but, the truth is that the joy is fleeting. The feeling of being ‘full’ only lasts for a few moments before the hunger returns.
This is the life of an artist. This is the life of anyone who aspires to be greater than they are.
This is unattainable. This is the bottom line to life, from top to bottom from the most successful man on earth to the weakest child on the playground. Nothing you ever do will be enough.
Robin Williams. I got to spend an afternoon with him a few years ago because he had read Elk’s Run and Tumor and wanted to meet me. Please note, that was a surreal phone call.
We talked about what I do for a living, we talked about what he does for a living, we talked about our families, and we talked about our hopes and dreams. He was alive, sparkling, and, while still inherently himself, he was grounded. Also, we talked about Popeye for about a half hour.
We parted that day with both of us considering a way to put together a feature version of Tumor, with him in the lead, that never made it past that room. I called my parents, they were duly impressed. And I went back to my regular life.
I was at JFK coming home from New York Comic Con later that year, and I’d had a particularly tough go of it. I was particularly frustrated with a publisher who had hired me. I, Vampire had come out to critical acclaim, but, nobody was reading it, and I’d been particularly demeaned by the folks at DC that trip. My wife was in the throes of her cancer treatment, and I just wanted to be there with her and my kid. As I sat in the airport, a ball of tension and stress and nerves, a voice said, “You’re Josh, right?”
It’s surreal to hear a voice that you listened to on an old cassette tape talking about the Throbbing Python of Love, or reporting back to Orson, or, yes, dressing up like an elderly woman for little apparent reason. But there he was. Robin Williams.
"I hope I’m not bothering you-"
"No, of course not."
He introduce me to his companion by saying, “This is one of the best writers in comics.”
We caught up a bit, and then parted as he went back to talking to his companion, and I boarded my flight.
I sat on that plane smiling for the first time in what felt like a year or more.
So, now, all of this. Robin Williams committed suicide. I look at him, at the man I met, at the man who’s work I admired… I don’t see a drug addict or a manic depressive or a crazy person… I see me. I see all of the things that run through my head day in and day out. That nothing is good enough. Nobody really cares about what I do. Nothing I’ve ever done is worthwhile. No one reads my books. No one cares about what I do. Nobody loves me.
Suicide is not something I’ve ever really had to deal with in the ways most people do. I’m certainly depressive at times, I’m certainly manic at times. I have fairly crippling blue periods. But mental halth’s not what gets me there. What does it, is the migraines.
The migraines themselves are severe to say the least. I lose the use of speech, my motorskills retard to the point of uselessness. I become depressed and lethargic, and the pain could easily be described as getting a lemon juice tinged needle through one eye and out the other.
These migraines can only be treated via injection. None of the other drugs work, just a double dose of Imitrex. Self injected in between throwing up and crying. And the way it works is you take one shot, then you wait for two long hours. Two painful, aching hours of debating whether it isn’t just better to crawl to the kitchen and reach for the knife drawer. Questioning if maybe there’d be a way to throw the radio in the bathtub. Trying to figure out a way for my family to go on without me. And the two hours are up, I take the second shot, I throw up, and then I pass out.
Usually this happens monthly, but, I’ve had periods (the past three months in fact) where they were weekly and they’re overwhelming and I feel hopeless. I don’t say it often, but, I know that it’s a good thing that I can barely walk when I have one.
Almost everyone of these headaches, at their root, is because I want more. My own standards drive me to stress levels that ultimately cripple me.
Then I think about him. Beloved. Wealthy. Spectacularly talented. And it wasn’t enough.
When I heard the news yesterday, that’s the sentence that reverberated through my head. It wasn’t enough.
I couldn’t sleep last night, because those words echoed through my head. I’m standing on the precipice of working on projects that I have literally dreamed of doing for a decade or more. I stand poised to make enough money to be comfortable for a large stretch of time. And I delude myself into thinking that it’ll be enough.
But it never will. It’ll never be enough. No matter what I do, it won’t be good enough, it won’t be successful enough.
Except for one thing. My family. My wife. My kid. My big dumb dogs. My irritated as hell cat. The love they give me. The support and care and comfort. That is enough.
When I’m shaking and crying and stuck curled up in a ball, it’s the gentle kiss from my daughter and my wife’s hand on back that gives me the strength. It’s their love.
And I’m so goddamn lucky to have it.
The Life After, which if you haven’t read it, is about a guy living in the afterlife for suicides, has touched a lot of nerves with a lot of people. Not even in ways I intended, and the reaction has been overwhelming and humbling.
At its core is the idea that suicide is wrongly looked at as a sin. As the greatest crime one can commit against oneself. But that’s not true.
The greatest sin is not accepting the love around you. Not allowing yourself to be fed with it when you’re starving, and wrapped in it when you’re cold.
I’m going to spoil the ending of The Life After. Right here. Right now. Love. Love is the answer. Love is the wick which burns so brightly in the darkness of life.
The hardest thing in the world is accepting that. And letting it light your way.
If you are having trouble and need someone to talk to, call your loved ones. If you feel like you have no one, than call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline (here: http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/). And if you really can’t cope. And if you really can’t cope. If everything has come apart, then, please reach out to me right here on Tumblr.
YET ANOTHER amazing story about how awesome Robin Williams was, this time from one of my favorite comic book writers. How does one man touch so many lives? Just incredible.
If your discomfort with the whole Captain America #22 issue is simply the fact that sex had happened between two consenting adults in the presence of alcohol, this isn’t for you. You’re free and completely entitled to hate that and view it with great disdain but my attitude and problem with the fandom is not because of people finding issue with that overused plot device to get two people to finally be comfortable enough to do it but because of people making claims that Jet Black is 14 years old (when she’s not) and thus stating that despite her even saying she’s beyond those years to dare accuse Remender writing a statutory rape scene and faulting Sam Wilson as a rapist. If you had any of these thoughts, this is for you. Before you continue your crusade, please at least let me provide you with some facts.
Let me first introduce you to Jet Black as she was first introduced in the series (Captain America v.7 #1):
That girl right there with that mischievous look is not a baby as many have claimed. She is clearly in her prepubescent years enjoying the treatment her father, Armin Zola, is providing the capitalist captain.
Below is her brother as he was first introduced in the same exact page (Captain America v.7 #1 p.14 — cw: syringe/drill and torture):
Clearly the two siblings are not the same age, right? So why are there false rumors being spread around that Jet is 14? I honestly don’t know unless people believe Ian and Jet are the same person, which is silly, right? Apparently, not.
Putting the rest beneath a cut because it gets lengthy because of timeline explanation thus is image heavy.
Great explanation of why that controversial scene in Captain America shouldn’t have been controversial. #readingcomprehension
The friend zone is very real. We have all had someone we were close to that we realized we were crushing on in a big way - but we hated ourselves for it. As much as we hoped and prayed things would change for the better, many of us acknowledged that our love for the other person was going to be detrimental towards the relationship. The people in this kind of friend zone cry while watching romance movies or go out and get drunk and kiss strangers. We make sure to keep a respectful distance between the person we like and ourselves - we are distinctly afraid of fucking things up because of our shitty heart being a complete dickweed and doing the thumpy thing when it shouldn’t.
The Friend Zone is entirely false and is a complete invention made by boys who on one hand get angry if they think you’re soliciting sex by playing video games but on the other hand get angry if you are not soliciting sex just by breathing. The Friend Zone consists rarely of actual friends - instead it’s often people who stare at us in class and make us uncomfortable by constantly trying to talk to us while we’re obviously engaged in something else. These are the people who invade our personal space and aren’t afraid to talk dismissively about the things which we are passionate about - our faith in particular.
These are not kind people. Once I was in a hospital’s waiting room and a woman was quietly saying a prayer for her son. After a few minutes, several other people joined in, linking their hands and bowing their heads. The boy next to me began to talk loudly to me about how disgusting and juvenile it was and how amused he happened to be by the behavior of the “sheep.”
"I’m Catholic," I replied, looking into his eyes, "I think what they’re doing is beautiful."
He looked down my shirt. “You seemed more intelligent than that,” he snorted, “I should have known. Are you even reading that book or are you just skimming?”
I blinked. I wish I had said something like, “No, I’m just breathing in the words and hoping they stick,” but instead I just gave him a dirty look and tried to tune him out. He kept talking to me for the better part of an hour.
Eventually, he got around to asking me out for coffee. I wanted to explain I was waiting for my mother to get out of chemotherapy, that my family was poised on the edge of a terrible end, that I barely knew him and basically already hated him. Instead, I smiled sheepishly and said, “I’d rather not.”
"You bitch," he replied. I watched his face flare hot. "You sluts are all like this. You play hard-to-get faux-intelligent and you lead people on just to hurt them."
"I’m…?" I started. I was scared. He was in my face. His hands were curled into fists.
"You’re all like this," he repeated. At this point, a few of the other people in the room were staring. I was pressed against the side of my chair, trying to get as far from him as I could. He wouldn’t lower his voice. "You fucking friend zone all the nice guys and date shitty asshole men and then come crying to our shoulders when you need someone."
I am not a confrontational person. Panic bubbled in my throat. I felt tears jump into my eyes. I started stuttering again. I was really honestly positive he was going to hurt me - for no other reason than turning down coffee.
This is the difference between the friend zone and the Friend Zone: one is hating yourself for liking the other person. The other is hating the other person for not liking you.