Mr. Ian M. Belcurry

My name is Brian McElmurry. I like literature and skateboarding. My novella Rocket Man was recently published as an Ebook by Thought Catalog

It literally feels like there are holes in my brain when I’m depressed, like whole sections just decide to stop working

I like to pretend I’m not depressed. I’ll make a joke about it. “To live is to suffer.” I’ll smile. “Don’t mind me, I’m fine.” But I don’t feel fine. But I don’t feel that actually saying I’m depressed or I’m in pain or not mentally well, will actually help. Actually verbally expressing the mental pain of depression, I feel, seems more painful than being depressed. And talking actually seems hard, if it’s about myself. Others? Sure, I’ll listen. I’ll lose myself in it for a moment. Smile and forget. In fact, I almost like it when people are so upset about something, which honestly doesn’t seem like a big deal to me, because they are almost blind to the depression that I don’t want to talk about, but is currently making it through the next hour of life, incredibly painful.

If my wife is frustrated about something when she comes home from work, this is the perfect cover for my depression. She was angry about something the other day, and as I sat listening to her, I thought, “When a person is angry, they lose all powers of empathy. She won’t notice I’m depressed.” And listening to her actually made me forget about my depressive cognition, and the anxiety regarding her reaction to my depression. And it took a while for her to get used to me being depressed. I guess I’m moody. One day I’m talking and making jokes and the other I’m hardly saying anything and have negative energy. About the 100th time I told her it had nothing to do with her, she seemed to get it. The other day, my depression was on my face and energy, and when I said I was fine and stopped talking, she looked at me and said, “Okay, if that’s how you want it.” And went in the bedroom. I went to the market and came back and made dinner, and had cleaned up after the dogs, earlier—and while in the bedroom, tidying things, she looked at me like she had no idea how to deal with me, I said, “Don’t be afraid. It’s fine.”

She was confused by this statement, but when we ate dinner 20 minutes later we talked normal and watched some TV. It can be difficult to be the spouse of a person with depression, but I am, mostly, highly functioning—and it’s one thing I hate, is the lack of function: in myself and others. When I feel so depressed I can barely function, like an hour ago, I want some sort of reset button. Like maybe electrical shock, or smashing my head against something (though I punched myself in the head twice before and it hurt, so I haven’t done that again). If I’m not working, I can have a drink or smoke some pot, which is not probably the healthy solution, but it works. Recently, I’ve been finalizing a novel to submit and have nursed a beer while doing it, more so because of crippling doubt and self-hatred, but I honestly think the novel is really good. This cold Mexican lager is not getting me buzzed, and I forget about it as I look over sentence structure and if this “then” is really needed, but just that one sip prior is enough to be like, fuck doubt, fuck life, just do this right now and fuck the rest. I don’t know if this makes sense. It’s not even about feeling a buzz because I drink it too slow, just that… It’s like a mechanism, to not feel so shitty, even while only drinking 4 ounces of beer.

My general depression strategy is to get through it because I know it won’t last and it’s just a mood. My wife, parents, and therapist have tried to get me to take antidepressants—and I tried them when I was younger and I don’t like them. I know many people who they have helped greatly. But I don’t want it. Currently, I’m on my lunch break writing this essay and my brain feels like it isn’t working right. I was trying to work and finding it impossible, so went to lunch, either to go somewhere to be alone and breathe, take a nap, or write this. I’m mostly caught up with my office work; I assist secretaries and paralegals and occasionally lawyers with document leg-work, which is easy and not overly challenging or compelling. But I like my job and my coworkers. I like having a place to live. I like being consumed by a project, or a thought, or I become consumed by something darker. Perhaps I am obsessive, and when this obsessive cognition is bad, it hurts. But being depressed at work, feels like being sick. And I guess it is a sickness. Does typing help? Does intense physical activity help? Yes, it does. It’s like I can feel it in my whole body. My brain feels like sections aren’t working. I have horrible thoughts.

It literally feels like there are holes in my brain when I’m depressed, like whole sections just decide to stop working.

According to this law [the law of Dharma], you have a unique talent and a unique way of expressing it. There is something that you can do better than anyone else in the whole world—and for every unique talent and unique expression of that talent, there are also unique needs. When these needs are matched with the creative expression of your talent, that is the spark that creates affluence. Expressing your talents to fulfill needs creates unlimited wealth and abundance.

—Deepak Chopra (via purplebuddhaproject)

(via purplebuddhaproject)

James Franco, will you adapt my novella into a play while I skate to the cave

I saw ppl dressed up in cos play on the Internet and thought reality is horrible.

The metaphorical cave in the forest is not looking at the Internet.

James Franco will you please make a play of my noir/druggy novella?

I saw a picture of James Franco and Lana Del Rey at Cooney Island on the James Franco’s Facebook and I thought they looked really cool.

My whole Facebook feed is skateboarding now because I want to skate to the cave.

Mountain meadows seem nice, also.

But my novella-play adaption, James, I think it could be sort of A Long Days Journey Into Night, but with weed and heroin and codependence.

The play when I originally read it ten plus years ago didn’t resonate, but visiting my family I feel the echo.

My book takes place in an apartment in a Victorian mansion too, like…

I’m already bored of that thought.

Though its good, James: are you a fan of Somerset Maugham and James Cain, both dialogue and adaptive friendly influences.

Most of life seems more acts done in the cause of maintaining life.

I like Buddhism because it sees we all suffer and need some empathy and compassion.

This is a horrible poem.

I think the cos players are cool, just to clarify.

Evening walk with dogs. Barked at by chihuahua at first shot, who had escaped yard and I took a left at street to draw dog back in front of house instead of pushing away from house. Neighborhood of Jefferson Park in Denver between Spear and Federal and Colfax, a corner no one would go unless you live there, but near downtown, across the freeway and river. Tiny weird houses being torn down and 5 town homes being put up on the lots. No backyards. I live in a quadplex, 1-bedroom with my wife. We have an area for the dogs, we put on a cord because no full fence. It is a rapidly changing neighborhood.


Fat Bill kills it as always, so much radness in this edit.

Tyshawn and Sage footage is incred!

Candy bars cost more than a dollar

I hadn’t enough money for a coffee or a candy bar
Dollar something in cash and on my card
The dog chewed my new book and the Tuperwear container of weed (weed still intact)
There’s not enough hours in the day or money
Pay day tomorrow and drunkenness to follow
My memory forgets pain but when you are ‘damaged goods’—
All are I guess