Some call it Pollen.
I had originally wanted to sit down every Sunday and to write, even if not a full post. Not as a rule (I try to avoid those) but to develop the pattern and to build up a few blogs in case I ever wanted to really publish these. If you have found this sight and have read any of the entries as of this publishing date, you likely stumbled across it by accident. I want the accountability that comes with publishing it online and the help from the actual writing of it, without having to worry about how people in my life see me offline.
One of the unfortunate realities that I have experienced is that sharing when I’m struggling, and asking the people in my life for help, has a price, it changes the way they fundamentally saw me.
At least that has been the case each of the three times I felt that helpless enough, legitimately afraid at times, and asked for help.
Perhaps it was because I didn’t build up the case history of me not doing well in their eyes, maybe they had no idea that I project health until I absolutely can’t. Maybe I never shared that my father and his father before him were both member of the 22. I am sure they didn’t know that before turning to them
That I would disappear for a while, deep withdraw trying to handle it internally, trying to find God’s peace in solitude. It doesn’t always work and sometimes makes it worse. each of the three times I remember still feeling the darkness in a way that really scared me so I reached out.
If I were to grade the outcomes of the 3 different times I reached, I would give them all an “D”.
I am still here so not a complete failure,
One was an active cry for help to a doctor while still on the Army. In her defense her job is prescribing medications, so it was no wonder the only option she presented was medications.
The second time was a few years later, after retiring when the pressure had built again. I reached out to my best friend at the time, another vet who struggles at times. It somehow led to puffed up chests and started the series of events leading to us not speaking anymore.
The third and final time was the hardest yet. I travel a lot, partly because I want to see everywhere, and mostly because I have been looking for home. I found a place that seemed downright perfect, the people welcomed me into their lives, they were warm, and freely shared their love. I even found myself working close to and talking to the patriarch of the family quite often. I don’t know how other people experience depression, but I can feel mine building, I can feel the practices that usually help failing, and I can feel a weight somehow both originating in my chest and bearing down on my shoulders. I felt it happening and over the course of a couple days I asked him help, which mostly just consisted of me working my way back through the darkness, acknowledging the feelings, acknowledge the real but not the dread.
It did not go well. The result was that he was no longer able to see me as anything but broken and ended with him diagnosing my problem as “I was just too sensitive”. It changed how they all talked to me, treated me. It changed how they saw me. It changed how they welcomed me.
My faith in God is strong, the faith that something better will happen before Heaven, not so much. That is why it irritated me so much to hear this man of God further dismiss my problems as a lack of faith and focus on God.
The crux was Then hearing him preach from the pulpit that depression is caused by too much focus on yourself. He “knows because he felt sad before, and got over it”
I write this blog to give me The freedom of feeling however I am
actually Feeling, without having to feel the judgement in others mind.
If you found and read more than one of these before May 2026, You likely stumbled through an unfinished page, well done. I hope it will be as worth it for you as I do for me.
I have noticed a few problems. One, a specific story will come to mind while writing more than once, if you are in for the long haul like I am, you may read a few stories over and over.
Two, this is not how those words are spelled. While re-reading some of my own stories I noticed how easy it is to ignore the spelling and grammar functions on here.
Three, when I really need to write the most is when I am feeling the feelings fullest Like I am right now. It’s also the hardest time to write for me. Especially at times like these when I have been feeling unnecessarily down.
I say unnecessarily not because there are not sad things going on in my life, just no more than usual. I get stuck in a loop where I know the answers, I am using them to counteract the depression constantly. Reaffirming the positive, talking with God and keeping a track record of the things I am truly Thankful for. The problem.
It has been exhausting.
The results have been mixed.
I have been feeling increasingly more lonely over the last couple of years, but I am closer to accepting it.
The loneliness is not just for love either but for any real connection. To finish up an interaction with someone and feel like I have been heard and seen.
This is why I don’t want to write about this kind of stuff, there seems to be no point. Acknowledging my loneliness does not help solve the loneliness any more than ignoring it does.
What would? I don’t know but I would damn near kill for a real hug right now.
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