I don’t think that there’s anything worse than being ordinary

I think the term mental illness has a huge stigma attached to it. A lot of people suffer in silence for fear of being labeled, criticized or treated differently. Back in the good ole’ days people with issues were covered under the blanket category of crazy. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve been called crazy and/or weird I could live comfortably in Iqaluit for the rest of my life. When I was young, crazy was a term I didn’t concern myself too much with. I knew I wasn’t short bus & helmet crazy, but I was certainly different from my chums. Nothing I did or said was typical. I savored being different. It made me feel unique in the sense that no one else acted as I did. Heck, crazy is what got me through high school relatively unscathed. Even bullies wanted no piece of “the crazy guy”. It’s amazing the aura of protection you get when no one wants to be the one to set you off. I have friends to this day that remember me not for being a super awesome fantabulous buddy but a certified nutcase. Mind you, although I’d never done anything outrageously insane all it took was some embellishment by my peers to turn molehills into mountains. Clinical terms such as Attention Deficit Disorder, Autism, Depression, etc started to become more popular as I grew old and were frequently used to label individuals who were different. While I’ve never been diagnosed with having any condition I know there’s stuff going on inside my dome that isn’t considered normal by a lot of people’s standards.

That’s the part that irks me the most. The whole effort to be “normal”.

What is normal?

There’s so much energy invested in trying to achieve this idealistic vision of normalcy put before us that it’s easy to see how when someone is mentally ill they can succumb to their inner demons. People tend to treat those with mental illness as though they’re lepers, meeting them with looks of pity or disdain. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone in the world today that doesn’t have some sort of issue. It’s the shame implied and reinforced by those who don’t understand it that makes dealing with it so hard. Very few out there are cognizant enough to know how to deal with the situation when confronted with it. Those who are sick don’t need pity. They need help. An illness, be it physical or mental, is still an illness. Some are more serious than others. Some can be remedied completely while others can only be treated partially. It sickens me that people keep problems buried in the dark corners of their minds because they fear being looked at differently. They fear showing weakness. I get it. It’s human nature to always want to appear strong or infallible. A defensive mechanism of sorts. One shouldn’t feel weak by sharing their problems. The amount of effort put into hiding it is what causes the true weakness. It’s hard to keep that “normal face” up if you’re constantly in flux with yourself internally.

Writing is a great outlet. I write on two blogs but this particular one is as close to therapy as I can get. Sometimes just saying what’s on your mind is incredibly cleansing, especially when you don’t have the weight of disgrace hovering over you. I have very little shame. I shed the brunt of that a long time ago. I find it easy to talk about matters that years ago I would have just avoided. Maybe its age that changed things. Maybe it’s repetition. It’s often said that insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. All I know is that burying my problems only served to bolster them.

Of the half dozen disorders I believe I may have, the one I’m certain of is depression. It’s been the Lex Luthor of my life for quite a long time now. It’s arguable to many that anger management issues might be my ultimate nemesis but I counter that with the fact that I have never raised a fist or my voice to anyone in anger in 20 years. They think heated emails or grumbles of frustration constitute me being an angry person. Trust me when I say this, if I had anger management issues I would either be dead or in jail; not writing for blogs and sharing my experiences. Yes. Depression is the true beast. I have no shame in saying topics like suicide are a daily occurrence in my head. Everyone automatically thinks that because I’m the funnyman it’s always cartoons and pop culture in my world. Quite the contrary. There are mornings when I open my eyes and wish I hadn’t. Times where I cycle through the many ways one could take their own life. Pills, gun, blade, hanging… you name it I’ve probably thought about it. Depression is a very real thing. I’m not talking feeling blue or having a bad day. I’m talking real depression. Having a bad month, year or even decade.

Some would question what would put me in such a state of mind considering I have a loving wife, two great parents and a bevy of friends I’d shed blood for. It’s twisted but sometimes it’s almost impossible to recognize those that have unwavering love for you. The brain is wired awkwardly like that. Problems seem insurmountable and you easily lose sight of all the bright lights in your life. My family and friends are what keep me trudging along. That and the ability to speak about it freely about anything. My life is no more or less difficult than the next person but we each deal with the hand we’ve been dealt differently. I don’t look for sympathy for having the thoughts I have sometimes. I embrace it, acknowledge it and look for help when I can. If I kept it bottled in me then it would be all consuming. I can see why so many get engulfed by their own feelings.

Having lived in the north for a couple of years now the subject of suicide has been in my face more than ever. So many young people up here take their lives because they feel worthless, neglected or just flat out helpless. They’re embarrassed or ashamed to share what’s on their minds and it’s truly heartbreaking. I’ve not only been in that boat but I captain it every day. Depression is scary. It takes you to places you never thought you could go. If you’ve never been through it before it can seem like a no-win situation. That’s what often leads to the actual act of suicide. Just because you’re experiencing depression doesn’t mean you have no options. Write what’s on your mind. Keep a journal. Share it with others or just use it as a release for your thoughts. Talk with someone. Anyone. Doesn’t necessarily have to be someone you know. People are often so wrapped up in what others think about them that speaking to family or friends ends up being the hardest thing to do. Talking to a stranger is easier than a lot of people think. If you can’t do it face-to-face then text somebody or chat with them online. The point is get what’s clawing at the back of your mind out in the open so that you can confront it. Smash that boulder of insecurity resting on your back and know that there are others – many others – out there who struggle with this every day. As sappy as it sounds, feeling like you’re alone is incredibly crippling. Depression is a festering lesion that will spread if not treated.

I don’t know who reads this blog. Well… I know some but the multitude I have no clue about. They come from all over the world to my amazement. Some are just killing time. Some stumble upon it. Many never come back. I’m not a trained medical professional or a psychologist. I don’t write to entertain or get hits. If people find amusement or enlightenment in what I have to say it’s a bonus. My words are only useful to whoever finds value in it. I can have a conversation in an empty room so I’m quite content talking to myself. I’m just a dude who’s been down that road too and still continues to walk down it. Whatever your situation may be, wherever you may reside, whoever you are if what I said here makes you think twice about what you may consider a helpless situation then I’ve done what I can with my words.

Hell, if you have no one to speak to my ears are always open. I don’t have to know you to relate to what you’re going through.

There’s no manual for life. You’re expected to do on-the-job training with it. There’s no shame in asking for help sometimes.

Stay strong peeps!

Words to live by

The Secret Lives of Cats – Criminal Minds

Been watching a lot of Criminal Minds as of late. I know. Huge shock there. Ian watching a show about serial killers is SO out of the ordinary. AJ Cook is hot. I don’t even like blondes that much but man I’d eat my own arm for a chance to sniff her belly button. She can get it, keep it and do whatever she wants with it. Ok… TMI. My apologies. Anyway for those who have never seen the show it’s about a FBI task force named the BAU (Behavioral Analysis Unit). Their job is to capture serial killers, serial rapists, pedophiles, mass murderers, arsonists, etc in an attempt to profile their behavior for use against other sickos. It’s nowhere near as hokey as the CSI family of cop dramas though. It often tells tales of some pretty grizzly acts of human depravity not much different than what you find in the news any given day.

How does this tie into our cats?

Last week I had a case that needed solving. I had come in from running some errands to find multiple crime scenes. There was a poop in the bedroom, a pee in the bathroom and a gross heinous explosive puke in the bedroom closet. Immediately I cordoned off the areas to prevent the crime scene from being contaminated. I’ve logged plenty of years as a CD (Cat Detective) so I knew my keen detection skills would be needed on this one. An initial survey of the scene provided immediate results. I ascertained that it was not a tandem act but in fact a single criminal I was hunting. The two Cats of Interest have long and extensive criminal histories dating back to their earlier childhood. The fact that they’re brother and sister lead many to believe that they orchestrate crimes together but in fact they are competitive. Very rarely do they ever work together yet they both admire one another’s work. To my shock and dismay I ended up seeing an episode of Criminal Minds that called “The Last Word” where two serial killers were essentially competing against one another. This led me to believe I was dealing with a creature far more complex than I anticipated.

The Diva

Both siblings withstood grueling minutes of interrogation without cracking. I didn’t have enough evidence to pin it on either one specifically and feared I would not be able to solve the case before Suzanne’s return from Ottawa. After the clean up crews came in and cleaned up all the evidence I sat in my office trying to figure out who did it. Precious hours were ticking away. Everyone knows a case becomes incredibly harder to solve after the first 48 hours so I was hard pressed to find something to pin on one of them.

24 hours gave way to 48. Suzanne had returned home and I still couldn’t figure which one of the culprits committed the triple caticide. The last thing I needed was a serial shitter with a puking fetish in the office. Desperate, I tried to free my thoughts up by watching Criminal Minds yet again. I can’t recall the specific episode but as I sat there with the crime scene photos scattered across my desk, sipping my coffee, Agent Hotchner outlined a profile to the group of detectives and beat cops he was addressing. He said the perpetrator was narcissistic, had medium to low level education and obsessed with the act he had committed. The thing that stood out the most is when he said that the killer wants control over the situation and will often insert himself into the investigation. He’ll be at the crime scene, posing as a bystander, observing what the cops are doing. Sometimes he may even call in crimestopper tips to the cops leading them to the crime scene.

It was at that moment it all came back to me. I recalled when I first happened upon the first crime scene in the bedroom. As I surveyed the carnage I remember looking back towards the doorway. There he stood. Partially obscured by the doorframe but staring at me with his piercing orange eyes. My coffee slipped from my hands and shattered on the ground like US Customs Agent Dave Kujan’s did as I realized who had done it.

I raced into the bedroom once again and opened the door to the closet. There he stood; going over the crime scene I had cleaned up only a couple days earlier. He looked up at me with those cold orange eyes and smiled.

The Blob

If you have been never read The Oatmeal’s “How To Tell If Your Cat Is Plotting To Kill You”  you’ll get a kick out of it. It gives some amazing and amusing insight into the mindset of cats. Cat owners deal with a variety of quirks with regards to their furry little companions. It’s never a dull day.

All we are is dust in the wind, dude

Two posts in the same month. Watch out now.

Had a pretty rough time this past weekend… mentally. I not only hit the vaunted “Iqaluit Wall” but I was also contending with some issues on a social level with some people I had considered good friends at one point in time. Bad combination to deal with let me tell you. In the midst of my loathing and frustration I realized that I had forsaken a philosophy I developed a long time ago.


It’s high time I dropped the knowledge about WFI. I’ve spread the word to a select few already (with resounding success) but have never really revealed it to the general public. It’s a radical self-help treatment that is geared towards preservation of one’s own sanity. Whatever, Fuck it. That’s what it stands for. WFI isn’t just a philosophy; it’s a way of life. It turns everything you’ve been taught for years on its head.

I’m the kind of person that enjoys making other people happy. That’s why I’m the consummate jokester. Making people laugh, breaking tension, bringing someone’s mood up makes me feel good inside. No matter how awesome I happen to be, I am still human (supposedly) and prone to those crippling emotions such as doubt, regret, anger or frustration. What happens when the clown is sad? I’ve referred to it being the Pagliacci Syndrome on more than one occasion. It’s hard to be “on” all the time when you’re surrounded by the same challenges everyone else is. You’re given crooked looks when you happen to be in a bad mood. You’re criticized about your attitude when you’re not trying to make someone else’s day better. It’s almost expected that you worry more about someone else than you do yourself.

That’s where WFI comes into play.

WFI is all about being selfish. Yes. I said it. I promote selfishness. I’m not talking about absolute selfishness to the point of being a raging asshole. No, but every person needs a certain semblance of selfishness in their lives otherwise how can you stay happy and make others happy which in turns makes you happier?

Get what I’m saying?

You have to pick and choose your battles with WFI. You can’t just WFI everything because like I said earlier, you’ll be exhibiting high levels of douchiness. WFI does two primary things. Firstly it defines what you consider important and secondly establishes clear boundaries with people with regards to being taken advantage of. Yes. Many people don’t even realize when they’re being taken advantage of. The line between kindness and exploitation is often blurred when dealing with friends and loved ones. Ever notice how sometimes when you do something you feel is out of the “kindness of your heart” later makes you feel agitated? That’s because you just got exploited. It’s a natural response to doing something you really didn’t want to do. Everyone believes in fair shakes, give & take, equality, compromise and all that jazz but how often does it truly happen? It’s not the other person’s fault. In fact it’s rarely an intentional act by them. If you’ve set up a systematic pattern of concessions it’s easy to confuse what is being kind and what is a concession because of your intent to please.


How many times have you been frustrated about something and harped on it in the back of your mind to the point of madness? Take control of what you can and WFI. If it’s an issue beyond your control save your brain and dictate what affects it. It’s really that simple. You owe it to yourself to at least maintain your own sanity.

Whatever, Fuck it.

You can’t just say WFI; you have to believe in it. You have to truly cast whatever is bugging the hell out of you out of your mind. Don’t let it slither its way back in either. If it doesn’t affect your health, mental or physical, then decide whether it’s really worth racking your brains over and WFI. You’ll be amazed at how insignificant many perceived problems are when you just simplify matters. You can’t be there for your loved ones if you’re damaged goods. Help yourself help others by helping yourself.

Got something irking you?

Whatever, Fuck it… and move on to more important business.

WFI - The Philosophy of Whatever, Fuck It.

Hold still. I’ve never done this before, and there will be blood.

It’s funny how some blog posts are born. This one was originally conceived after a night of sampling 3 different types of whiskey, killing galactic invaders with my bros and then watching some piss-your-pants funny stand up comedy. So as I came stumbling through the door in the wee hours of the morning of course I thought it was a brilliant idea to jot down what was in my head at the time. I know what you’re thinking. It would make SO much sense to write about alcohol, LAN games or funny ass comedians right? Certainly not! Ian’s brain doesn’t work like that. My mind is like an episode of Family Guy wrapped in Seinfeld with an Adventure Time sugary coating on top and a nuggety center of South Park. I never know where my writing will take me. Sometimes it stays on track. Sometimes I drive it right off the fucking cliff. Anyway as I sat there doing my best Nick Nolte impression and scarfing down homemade pizza bombs I began to write. About what you ask?


Yes ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I said tattoos.

Saw that one coming a mile away, eh?

In all honesty I’ve been wanting to write something about tattoos for a very long time. Just never got around to fleshing it out. That all changed when my spastic flatulent brain decided to explode a bunch of words on my computer. After sipping some Breakfast Blend Starbucks coffee and rocking out to (ironically) Shame in You by Alice in Chains I managed to sort through the dyslexia and salvage an actual post.

A big topic of discussion in our household tends to circle around ink. A lot of people automatically assume that because I have such an eccentric personality and have the ability to draw some freaky shit that I have tattoos or at the very least have entertained the possibility of getting some. No. I do not have any tattoos. I have scars. That’s pretty much all the body art I’m rocking. I’ve thought about designing something wicked to slap on my skin but it’s never really gone much further than that. I’m more interested in the design rather than having that design on me. Regardless if I ever do end up getting something I’m the “go big or go home” type of person. It’ll be one of those awe-inspiring pieces of artwork that people will be like “woah” when they see it. Until the vision hits me though, it’ll remain just a fleeting thought in the back of my head.

I’ve done a lot of pieces for people over the years. Like I said, I’m a freaky fantasy graphic artist so naturally people come to me with tattoo ideas. I dig drawing tattoos. They always want something unique and that’s my trademark. Course my services come with the disclaimer that my dictionary doesn’t contain the word simple. You ask me to draw something to put on your body you’d damn well better be ready to feel some pain. Prime example, a little something I did for my buddy Nik.

Angel vs Demon

Several months ago my wife got a lip ring. Stop it you dirty freaks, not that kind of lip ring. Her mouth. She’s no stranger to piercings. Her ears look like they were shot up with a micro Tommy Gun. She has more earrings than I can count. She also has a nose piercing as well so when I heard she got a lip ring it really wasn’t that much of a shock. I asked her what was her motivation was and she said something along the lines of “I just wanted to do it”.

Now she wants to get a tattoo.

For the record, I really don’t care what another person does with their body. Anyone who tries to contest a person’s right to do whatever they want to their body is simply a douche. I can’t stand people who criticize or judge someone based on their body art. It’s what they want, it’s their body so piss off and mind your own business. Despite all the material possessions one may claim to have in life, the truth is your body is the only thing that is absolutely your own. You have the right to do whatever the hell you want to it.

So what’s my beef with tattoos?

I think my perceived dislike is a gross misconception. I don’t hate tattoos. I just dislike them on women. That’s just my personal preference. I don’t think any less of ladies with body art. I just find chicks more attractive without them. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. I am in awe of the female body. It’s a work of art. It’s something that’s as close to perfection as you can get. It doesn’t matter if you’re short or tall, plump or skinny, shredded or curvy – the female form is simply remarkable. It always slays me when ladies bitch and moan about their bodies. You have no idea how good ya’ll got it going on. You were built to look good. Dudes? We’re just the Jeeps of the human race. Pure functionality and no form. I see tattoos on women as defiling a work of art. I wouldn’t go up to The Burial of St. Lucy draw a butterfly on it.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not criticizing anyone who gets tattoos. I think tattoo art is probably the most captivating form of artwork out there. The amount of skill and detail tattoo artists employ is mindboggling. I envy their talent. I also absolutely understand that getting inked (for most people) isn’t a spontaneous thing. There is thought, planning and sentimental value to each piece. If you feel so deeply about something that you’ll put it on your body that’s deep. How can a person not respect that on so many levels?

What can I say?

I like women.

I like women’s bodies.

I don’t think there’s anything a lady can do to her body to improve upon it. Sure you can work out, put makeup, get all dolled up and what not but in my mind’s eye I dig chicks for the hands they were dealt. Like it or not. An opinion is just that.

An opinion.