Originally posted 3/22/15
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| Nope, none of these 5,070 words are about #gamergate. Nope, just talking about my favorite game. |
Prologue: From Day One, I knew what I was going to write about for this week’s post. Ever since I saw that this week’s first class was going to be on the subject of #Gamergate, I knew I was going to do a evisceration on that group of people. I knew that I was going to go neck deep into that cesspool of cruelty and cowardice. I even posted several articles on the subject of that group prior to writing this post, as a reminder to what this has all been about. But I also knew that this would require an anger towards that group. An anger that would be able to combat the horror that is the culture that spawned it. But then I looked at the culture of that hashtag; that culture spawned from 4chan and an angry man slut shaming his ex girlfriend and I looked at this week’s course load, and I decided to do something else with my time, something that did not involve combating something terrible (or at least, not at this point in my life). Wisdom is the acceptance of what your limitations are. As such, I decided to instead focus on talking about something more personal to me: My favorite game.
“Through early morning fog I see
Visions of the things to be
The pains that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see...”
Chapter 1: It began, as most things do nowadays, on the Internet. More specifically, it began sometime in April of 2014, but for the sake of memory, lets say it began on April 21st, 2014. For that was the day I first heard of my favorite video game. It was on an internet analysis show called “Errant Signal”, a series I had found at a time when I believed Spec Ops: The Line to be my favorite game. The video itself was a comparison between that and another game, Actual Sunlight, which dealt with similar themes. After playing the game online, I found the game to be an interesting experience (but still not as good as my favorite game, The Walking Dead) and thought nothing more of it.
A few months later (lets say September 4th, 2014), I had returned from school after having to go home due to a minor nervous breakdown most likely caused by a mix of my roommate (who is rarely in the room) expressing a desire to not be in the room (for reasons that would be far too ramblely and require usage of my faulty memory), anxiety over the class schedule and other school related things, and the crushing realization that no one will give any work to a person who majored in English and has a focus in Creative Writing. As such, I broke down into tears and had to be taken home over Labor Day. At the time, I had since met with a therapist and was doing much better. I had talked to my roommate about the situation and everything seemed to work out in the end (I even able to get my overall GPA up to about a 3.4 in the end so yay). Anyways, on that day, another show I watch online, Folding Ideas, did a video on my favorite game, and I was reminded of the game’s existence. As such, I played Depression Quest again and fell in love with it.
“You're too old to lose it, too young to choose it
And the clocks waits so patiently on your song
You walk past a cafe but you don't eat when you've lived too long
Oh, no, no, no, you're a rock 'n' roll suicide”
Chapter 2: When I was in eighth grade, I wanted to kill myself. I never got to the point where I was slitting my wrists or any other self damage of that type (although I did hit my head on the padded walls of the gym), but every now and then, I would look at a tie and think to myself that it would be a good idea to just tie it around my neck and attach it to the banister at my house. I don’t like that period of my life. I don’t remember many details about that time (And thank god for small miracles) but I do remember a few things. I remember my bullies trying to get me to break after a week off of school for vacation where I just stopped caring (or at least showing that I cared). I remember numerous people pronouncing my name as “Seen” which got on my nerves. I remember telling a teacher about my situation, only for her (or was it “him”?) telling me off because I wasn’t in their class. I remember during my freshmen year of High School where another student from behind asked if he could play the “finger game” in a deep voice and feeling uncomfortable. I remember, in what I now realize was group therapy, having other students be horrified by the sexual implications of that statement. I remember learning that it wasn’t a sexual reference, but another term for the game “Chopsticks”. But perhaps more pertinent to this article (which I suppose is on some level about #Gamergate) was back during middle school. Before eighth grade, way back in sixth, I was at the local library on the computer. I decided to go on the Cartoon Network website and played some of the games. In this incident, I was playing a fixed shooter with the aesthetics of the Powerpuff Girls, when some people I (somewhat) knew saw me play it. Naturally, this being middle school, they mocked me for playing the girly game despite the fact that it was clearly a fixed shooter. And they kept mocking me for years (right up until I never saw them again in eighth grade). All because I played a game with female characters and an aesthetic of a show generally seen as being for girls. Because boys can’t like things girls like, otherwise they could be friends. And no one should be friends with their prize (Sarcasm mode ended). I don’t suppose the wounds ever healed. I don’t suppose that they became better people (one of my more merciless bullies became a relatively decent person). But I do suppose that I still have issues getting to know people. I do suppose that the Powerpuff Girls game I played was fun. And I do suppose that #Gamergate would not be on my side. Because their actions speak louder than my words.
“Then come the lessons. There is no reasoning to be done with the people who want you to suffer. That in the end, they want you to suffer because they can make you suffer, and because they can get away with it, so that means it's OK. Whether because the laws that govern it are soft enough to make it de facto legal - as bullying under restitution basically was - or because they have the ability to lie effectively. When raw wealth owns the entire media then it is far too easy to say that you didn't know who's Doctor Who book it was, or that people might think a cliffhanger lasts an entire week diegetically, or that the proposed health care bill contains death panels.”
Chapter 3:The game is a text adventure in which you play as a person with depression. The goal of the game is to simply live your life. Depending on how one plays, be it in the way they think they would react or in a how the character would react (which may or may not be the same thing depending on who you ask), the depression either gets better or worse. And yet, there’s a sense of hope within the game. A sense that you can get through the depression, all you have to do is ask for help (although sometimes that’s not an option, as shown in gam via some of the options being shown, but being impossible to take). But it’s not easy and you need help. But sometimes you go to people and they’re not able to help you. Sometimes they misunderstand what you’re going through and tell you just to get over it. Other times you don’t tell them because you’re afraid that they wont be able to be there for you. And sometimes someone else notices what’s going on and tries to help you out. We all have ways of coping with the world. Not all of them are good or work out in the long run. Depression Quest is about trying to find one that works for the player. And, depending on who you are, it just might.
“Part time dreamer
Would be player
You thought fame could outrun fear
Something clearly terrified you
Did you choose to disappear?”
Chapter 4: So how did I do it? How did I get out of the cesspool that is middle school? How did I get better? In the end, I don’t think I have. I have the scars from that long and terrible period in my life, even if they never appeared on my body. I have a hard time talking to people I don’t know and don’t go out into the world unless I have to (although I believe I am getting better at it, what with Gamer’s Guild and the radio (hi Marlon [AN: Marlon was a fellow student in the course. He was a good guy])). I don’t always go out of my room at night when people hang out in front of it. And I’m nervous about who I talk to about the things I love… just in case. But how did I prevent myself from getting so bad as to self-harm in more permanent ways? Well… I’d like to believe that it was because I found an internet series called the Angry Video Game Nerd and, much like Duck Soup did for a terrible person [AN: in the original post, there was a link to a clip from Hannah and Her Sisters where Woody Allen talks about watching said movie. I have not seen either movie, but fuck Woody Allen], I found something that made me laugh on a regular basis. And I watched the series, and many others, and over time I got less and less miserable. I got out of that toxic environment and got into the surprisingly less toxic environment of High School (I have long since come to the conclusion that High School movies are talking more about middle school than high school (at least in terms of this generation)). I introduced and reintroduced myself to the stories I love even today. I regained my love of comics and video games. I found joy. And I realized something near the end of high school and the beginning of college: it’s ok to be silly. It’s ok to like girly things like games with female protagonists or stories about ponies [AN: since then, I've grown less... forgiving of liking stories about ponies]. We live in a mad, absurd, cruel, uncaring, and amazing world. Why not have fun? You only live once (from my knowledge).
“We do not remember days, we remember moments.”
 |
| Portrait of a man in front of a forgedPortrait of the Mona Lisa |
Chapter 5: When I started writing this entry, I wanted to wait to do this bit while I was in Paris for Spring Break. However, sensible people pointed out that it would be very likely for someone to steal my computer from my hotel room while I was gone. As such here is a personal walkthrough of “Depression Quest” written the day after I returned from Paris.
The game opens with a quote by David Forest Wallace and a trigger warning. I, as always, ignore it.
(There’s a cold piano in my head. It feels like a fog or static. It’s just the same notes every time. It feels like there should be a point to it. Like a tome poem or a game. But there isn’t. There’s no point to any of it. no point)
It’s Monday morning. I just spent the previous night contemplating my lot in life. It’s not that I have a bad life or anything, Alex, my girlfriend is there, my parents are there as well (though they, like me, would like it if I did more with my life <how>) and I have a job that pays the bills. It’s a good life. But… I feel like I don’t need any more than that. But I should, shouldn’t I? I should probably stop thinking about it, all it’s done is given me a lack of sleep, but…
It’s Wednesday evening. I went through the motions as I usually do. (God I hate my job) It rained recently. (God I hate the rain) Alex is at class for a few hours, so I could use those hours to get some of that project done. But what if it’s not all that great. I can’t just hunker down and do it. I feel tired. Maybe I should go to bed.
But then, I’ll just feel shitty about myself for not working on my writing. So might as well just do it. But my ideas left me. (Why did I even tell people I hate my job <fuck>) I spent the rest of the night arguing on twitter about the ethics in games journalism before going to bed. (God I hate my bed)
It’s Friday afternoon. Alex called me from class to tell me that there’s going to be a birthday party for her roommate. (God I hate her roommate) I haven’t seen Alex in a while… but… I should go but… I don’t like peopleknow any of Alex’s friends. I tell her I’m sick (God I hate myself) but even on the phone I have never been a good liar. Alex really wants me to go… (Fuck)
As I expected, it’s just a bunch of assholes drinking. (God I hate Alex)I see her nearby, talking to her roommate. (God I hateAlex) When she sees me, she brightens up and comes over to me. (God I hate Alex) We begin to talk in a way we haven’t in a while. (God I hate Alex) But then one of the assholes comes along. (God I hate Alexthis asshole) Alex has to leave with the asshole to do stuff for the party. So I’m stuck here. Drowning. I can’t just go into Alex’s room; she’ll know I left. And she wanted me here. So I’m stuck in this party. Alone. (God I hate Alex)
It’s a shitty Saturday. Mom came over today. I don’t want to talk with her about work. But she wants to know. She always wants to know, like it’s her life I’m living. Like I know what I’m doing. I don’t want to make her feel worse than I am, so I change the subject. (God I hate Mom)
It’s Sunday. Sam from work called. She said that her cat just had kittens and thought that I would like one. (We’re friends <huh>) I think about it for a moment. On the one hand I’ve always have had a fondness for cats. (God I hate dogs they always bark at me for no reason) The best writers have cats (Neil Gaiman for one). I should have a cat. But…
Nope, I’m ok. (I’m ok <i’m ok [i’m ok {i’m ok}]>) Getting a cat. Her name is Fluffykins: Destroyer of Worlds!
It’s Friday quitting time. Alex called, some of herour friends are going out for drinks and she want me to come with. I tell her I’ve had a long day at work, but she should go anyways. She doesn’t. We watched some shitty movie on Netflix about sharks and tornados or something. I really wasn’t paying attention. I was more focused on Alex. Beautiful Alex. Gorgeous Alex. Out of my league Alex. Wasting her life with me Alex. Miserable Alex. Why should she even be here with me instead of drinking with her friends Alex. And then she looks at me. I see pity in her eyes.
I ask her if she’s happy with our relationship. She asks what I mean and I… I… I… I… I… I… I say forget about it. And she does.
It’s the afternoon. Amanda, from way back from school, is over and we talk. Amanda iswas the only girl I could talk to before I met Alex. We talk for a bit about life and whatnot. And then she asks what’s wrong. I notice my hands are shaking. We leave where we were, and I’m crying.
Oh god I’m crying.
(God hates a sissy boy)
Why can’t I stop crying?
I don’t even know
what I’m saying
to her.
I’m crying.
Amanda suggests that I go see a
therapist about
it.
(I don’t want to go <alone>)
It’s Monday. I have an appointment with the dentist today. My brother, Malcolm, is going to pick me up. (God I hate Malcolm <how>) The dentist tells me that I have been grinding my teeth in my sleep. He says it’s probably stress related, so he gives me a night guard. My brother, whose been waiting for me for over a half hour, asks why it took so long. He’s too smart to buy that it was a normal check up, so I tell him about the night grinding (not the stress). When I got home, I threw out the night guard. (I am not a sissy boy)
It’s Someday. Fluffykins was sleeping in my computer chair and was so adorable. But daddy has to check his emails, so I shoo her off. She simply waits for me to sit down and moves onto my lap. I looked at my emails, and saw one from Amanda. She has the number for the therapist, and she sent it to me. She even covered the excuse I could give by saying that I can’t afford it because it’s a pay what you want service. I don’t want to go. (I am not a sissy boy) Amanda got the info from her mother, so she’ll know if I don’t… (God I hate Amanda <fuck>)
I slept on it.
-God hates a sissy boy
˙uᴉɥʇᴉʍ ɯoɹɟ pǝʌᴉǝɔǝɹ puɐ pǝᴉlddɐ ɥʇoq sᴉ ʇuǝɹɹnɔ ǝɥʇ :ʇᴉnɔɹᴉɔ pǝsolɔ ɐ s,ʇᴉ :ssǝuᴉlǝuol ǝɥʇ snɥʇ
I don’t want to go
Malcolm
Mom
>how<
.noitulos on si ereht dna ,melborp eht fo trap si gnihtyreve
Alex
>why<
sᴉʇʇᴉuƃ oɹ sʇɐupᴉuƃ' poᴉuƃ oɹ ɹǝsʇᴉuƃ' sdǝɐʞᴉuƃ oɹ ʞǝǝdᴉuƃ sᴉlǝuʇ' lᴉʌᴉuƃ oɹ pʎᴉuƃ
Help!
I need somebody
That dead-eyed anhedonia is but a remora on the ventral flank of the true predator, the Great White Shark of pain.
Help!
Not just anybody-
HELP! I shout in the middle of the night. I don’t go back to sleep.
HELP! I shout in the middle of the night. I don’t go back to sleep.
The email is still in my inbox. The number is still in the email. The kitten is on my lap. The phone is in my hand. (i am a sissy boy God hates me) I am in my car. I am in my car. (I don’t want to go) I was in my car. I am in my car. I am talking to the therapist in a place that is no longer my car. We talk and I pray I’m not whining. (How could this happen to me I made my mistakes) Her name is Dr. Susan Melville. She’s nice. I made another appointment to see her. I feel like I’m going to like her. As I drove back to my home, I realized that I would have to tell the people close to me about this. I cry myself to the calmest sleep I’ve had in months.
It’s Wednesday. Once again I wake up before my alarm does. The window in my room has a shitty view, so I can’t even have the decency of looking at the sunrise. (God I hate the west wing of my apartment complex) I don’t want to go to work. My alarm blares the word Whatbefore I hit the snooze button. I look at my shitty celling for another bit before I hear Ever. I hit the snooze button. I look at the celling. Gets. I hit the snooze button. I look at the celling. You. I hit the snooze button. I look at the celling. Through. I hit the snooze button. I look at the celling. The Night! It’s all right! It’s all right!Finally, I decide to just go to work so I won’t have to deal with that song anymore. (God I hate Los Lonely Boys) But I notice that by the time I got to work, I would be late. And they would hate me for it. They always find ways to hate you for things. I go to work anyways. (God I hate my job)
No one cares that I was about five minutes late. (God I hate no one caring)
It’s 2 AM on Sunday, and I can’t sleep. As such, I did what I normally do when I can’t sleep: I went onto the computer. As I looked at all the news stories (#GamerGate is a Bunch of Wankers Part 2: What is Ethical Journalism?), an Internet friend of mine contacted me. He’s noticed that I’ve been thinking when I should be sleeping, and asks what’s wrong. Somehow, even more than Alex, I’m able to talk to this stranger, whose name I don’t even know (he goes by attic). We talk for a bit about my feelings and then he plays Wikipedia DoctorTMand tells me that I might have depression. I tell him about Susan and how well our sessions have been going. His words made it easier for me to relax and go back to sleep. Sometimes all you need is a good bedtime story.
It's Thursday night, and I’ve just gotten out of work. It was a long day. Like, dear god, nothing happened. But it just. Wouldn’t. End. (God I hate my job) I’m just so tired from all the people in the streets bumping into me. But I don’t want to go to sleep. Susan said that the feeling I have could cause me to spiral unless I tell someone about it. She’s been a good deal of help, so despite my reservations on putting my woes onto others, I call Alex. We meet at a small diner a few blocks from my apartment and we talk. Or rather, I talk. I talk about how much I hate my job, how shitty I’ve been feeling, how shitty my writing is, just talking. And when I finished, I looked at Alex, and I thought that maybe my fears of Alex being bored of me were unfounded. Maybe she wanted to be around me. And then I began to cry. Not like with Amanda. I was happy. In that moment, I was happy.
It was a typical Wednesday when Susan brought up the topic of drugs. Some time ago, back in College, I had a girlfriend named Jane. Now Jane was a nice girl, lots of fun to be around. There was a time when we were at the Drive in and she giggled like a catholic schoolgirl while I gave her the third act surprise. Anyways, it was a few months into our relationship when she was diagnosed with depression and her doctor gave her a boatload of drugs. She was never the same after that. Her beautiful blue eyes looked dead inside, she moved as if she was one of the undead, and it looked like they were making her worse. Like it was just another way of pushing her feelings down the hole and out of public eye. Regardless, it wasn’t enough. I told Dr. Melville that I’d stick to therapy.
It’s Wednesday evening. I went to my parent’s house for a family get-together. I’m not in my hometown as often as I would like to be. Malcolm is there with his wife (lovely Karen) and mom brings up the old J-O-B question. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I really don’t need another one of her “get a job” rants. Malcolm’s more understanding. (I wish he would tell me how he did it)
I didn’t want to go out tonight. It’s raining outside, but Alex wanted me to come over for some reason. Maybe she’s pregnant. (I hope she isn’t) When I got up to her room, she was dressed in a robe. Only a robe. Turns out her roommate’s out of town and she has that smile on her face, the one she has when she wants to make the night magical. Well, I’ve always been one to believe in magic, so after we share some wine…
It’s an early winter evening and I have at long last said one of the major thoughts that had crossed my mind for a while. I HATE MY FUCKING JOB!!!!!!! To deal with my hatred for my job, I decided to look for another job, hoping to find one that would be a better fit for me. Fortunately, I found a section on Craigslist about writing positions within the area (publishing houses and whatnot). So I applied for the position. Somehow, despite my reservations about the possibility of actually getting a job from those places, I felt content.
It's a little past 8pm on a Tuesday night. I have a work project that I have to do. Naturally, I hate it. It’s as banal as it is asinine. As I was nearing completing one of the many steps of the piece, I got a message from attic. He needed someone to talk to. And, after all the times I poured my soul out to him, I answered. Turns out his boyfriend cheated on him. Said that he wasn’t a real man. That attic was just a girl pretending to be a man. Before this, I hadn’t known attic was trans. But now wasn’t the time to ask him about his experiences. Now was the time to be there for attic, the nicest guy in the world. After we talked, I went back to working on my shitty project. Being there for my friend when he needed me most seemed to make the project seem easier.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I was with Alex, and I was thinking about things. She was fast asleep unlike I was. I just couldn’t. What if I told her? Would she be there for me in my depressive state or would she flake out like… But I was turning in bed so much that I woke her up. She asked me what was wrong.
I figured that a relationship like ours wouldn’t work if half the dancers didn’t know all the things the other dancers knew, so I told her. I told her everything. I told her about the hatred I felt for her at the party. I told her about my break down with Amanda. I told her about Susan. I even told her about Jane (whose name I hadn’t said since she…). And when I finished, the first thing she asked if there was anything she could do to help. I told her I had no idea what to do. Then she said that she’d just have to live it with me. We didn’t go back to bed for a long time that night.
On Friday night, I was stressed out. Some of my coworkers came and asked if I wanted to go out to the bar. Being someone who is really terrible in social outings, I politely declined their offer. This made me feel miserable. Fortunately Fluffykins: Destroyer of Worlds leaped to the rescue. She landed on my back n order to get my attention. She wanted to play. Perhaps cats, especially black cats like mine, have the innate ability to figure out when humans are miserable and even the desire to make it less so. This is probably hogwash and I should just accept that cats just want to have what they want. We played for a half hour (the god old laser pointer game) before she tired herself out. It felt good playing.
On a cold Saturday afternoon, Alex asked me to sit down. Before the thoughts of “OH SHIT, WE’RE BREAKING UP” even crossed my mind, she promised that it was nothing bad. Alex wants to move in with me… I’m still nervous about my depression, and I tell her again. She tells me that she knows all of this and will be there for me. We hold each other for a long time.
It’s Christmas and I decided to bring Alex with me to my parents. We have been living together for the past few weeks and everything is great (though she is still getting used to the idea of our cat being named Fluffykins: Destroyer of Worlds). Susan has said that I’m doing better (though some days it feels like its been getting worse). I told my family about my issues shortly after moving in with Alex, and they have mostly understood. I heard back from one of the writing jobs and I have an interview set up with them in the New Year. Fluffykins is in the halls of my old childhood home playing with my old teddy bear (Sir Bear Bearington). As we eat our turkey and drink our wine and laugh at each other’s terrible jokes, my mom asks me “So how are you doing these days?”
I looked back at my life up until that question. That shitty party, my terrible job, breaking down with Amanda, playing with Fluffykins, moving in with Alex, meeting attic, and I looked out the night sky window of our house, where the full moon glinted perfectly onto the snow covered backyard and I told her.
“I’m good, mom.”
She smiles the way only a parent could smile.
She smiles the way only a parent could smile.
(There’s a piano in my head. I cannot grasp the full meaning in its melody, though I know that it is a melancholic one. But I also hear something else.
I hear its beauty.)
“And in the end,
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make”
 |
| Goodbyeee |
“Your
Doctor
Really did
Get held up,
Regan.
It’s
Never as
Bad as it
Seems.
You’re much
Stronger
Than you think
You are.
Trust
Me.”
(This post… this post was brought to you by me. Because I am here. I’m still talking. I’m still alive. I’m still playing. And in that, I won.)
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