A few years back (more like half a decade, but time is meaningless in this sort of Cat & Squid game), my friend Joe got challenged by Ryan Macklin to write a functional RPG in less than 500 words. That challenge turned into Dime Stories, an RPG about cowboy gunfights and cartoon villains in Spaaaaaaace. It got me my second RPG writing credit (after the... underutilized Red Dragon Inn Appetizer) and I've had the chance to run it at GenCon for the last 4 years. Dime Stories has been good to me.
I went through a pretty severe depressive episode over the past week. An utter loss of motivation, a huge upswing in disassociation, and a tsunami of existential dread. I'm sure part of this was triggered by editing some very personal blog entries for a friend, but I knew that going in to the project. Usually, when I'm going in to these sorts of episodes, I focus on the things that make me happy. I talk to my wife, I play with my cats, I read upbeat books, I listen to fast music. None of that really worked well this time around. Eventually, my mind wandered back to my last year of high school and my first year of college. The age when I started going to punk shows.
Punk shows, in that era and in that part of Ohio, were a really weird thing. They usually took place in VFW halls or in someone's barn, because that's where the available space was. There were a lot of skinheads, because it was Ohio and Ohio has a higher than acceptable percentage of racist assholes. There were a lot of shitty bands, because it was Ohio and Ohio's music education programs are about as robust as our Ski Rescue programs. There were a lot of great memories, because it was my first real experience getting out into (what I though, at the time, was) the wider world.
Half-remembered concerts, fistfights, and nights at Tom's Donuts (ordering only a drink and eating Day Old Donuts that were 50c a piece, for five hours, while my friends chain-smoked a pack and a half each) flooded back to mind. Inspired by Quinn Murphy's excellent game Five Fires, I felt the need to put my experience into a cohesive form. I jammed out a bunch of words and something resembling Punk's Been Dead Since '79 happened. It was only afterwards that I decided to try to fit it into the 500 Words framework. (Note: I am aware of the newer 200 Word challenge, but I can't be arsed to edit this down to that level.)
In PBDS79, you're a member of the punk community in the space between cities in the (Late 90s / Early 00s). Your goals? Go to shows, find a place to belong, seek an outlet for your feelings, look for companionship, or just break everything. It's based loosely on the (Apocalypse World / Dungeon World / Monsterhearts) games, because they're fast and easy and full of raw emotion.
Check it out.
-----
Follow this link to Punk's Been Dead Since '79 for complete rules.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
2013/01/23
On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha...
Preface: This is another one of those not-at-all-related-to-gaming posts. So if you come here for those, you'll be disappointed. I seem to be doing that a lot lately; disappointing people that is.
Since I was young, probably 11 or 12, I've had panic attacks. My brother also suffered from them, though his started when he was around 16 if I remember correctly. It always seemed like our shared terrifying experience. After I moved out, whenever I was having one, I would call him. Just hearing him tell me that everything was okay seemed to get me to calm down. He'd do the same when he was having one. We had a decent system.
That all changed this summer. When I heard the news of his death, I had a panic attack that lasted for the better part of an hour. I was curled on the floor, shaking uncontrollably, sweating profusely, and I think I may have blacked out at one point. The worst part was, I reflexively picked up my phone and started to dial his number. I couldn't imagine dealing with this without him.
Since then, I hadn't had any panic attacks. I'm not sure if I'd developed some sort of psychological coping mechanism to keep me safe or if it was some sort of empathic thing with him. Last night, I had my first panic attack since last June. It was just as terrifying as usual. And just like I'd done since I was 18, my hand went to my phone and started to dial. When I realized what I was doing, it just made the situation worse. I was shaking and sobbing like a 4 year old. All around me was darkness, and not just because it was midnight and I didn't have any lights on in the house. The only thing that brought me out of it was my contempt for myself. I knew I was stronger than this; I wasn't some lost kitten in the woods. I refused to be a blubbering mess on the floor. My rage burned back the darkness long enough for me to get my bearings again. Eventually, it passed.
I have people I could call. I know that. I have people that care about me, who don't want to see me like this. I also can't bring myself to bother any of them with this sort of thing. I refuse to be a burden on them any more than I already am. I'll figure out a new way to cope; a new way to deal with the panic and dread.
I will stand against the darkness. I will not let it win. I will endure. That much, I can promise myself.
Since I was young, probably 11 or 12, I've had panic attacks. My brother also suffered from them, though his started when he was around 16 if I remember correctly. It always seemed like our shared terrifying experience. After I moved out, whenever I was having one, I would call him. Just hearing him tell me that everything was okay seemed to get me to calm down. He'd do the same when he was having one. We had a decent system.
That all changed this summer. When I heard the news of his death, I had a panic attack that lasted for the better part of an hour. I was curled on the floor, shaking uncontrollably, sweating profusely, and I think I may have blacked out at one point. The worst part was, I reflexively picked up my phone and started to dial his number. I couldn't imagine dealing with this without him.
Since then, I hadn't had any panic attacks. I'm not sure if I'd developed some sort of psychological coping mechanism to keep me safe or if it was some sort of empathic thing with him. Last night, I had my first panic attack since last June. It was just as terrifying as usual. And just like I'd done since I was 18, my hand went to my phone and started to dial. When I realized what I was doing, it just made the situation worse. I was shaking and sobbing like a 4 year old. All around me was darkness, and not just because it was midnight and I didn't have any lights on in the house. The only thing that brought me out of it was my contempt for myself. I knew I was stronger than this; I wasn't some lost kitten in the woods. I refused to be a blubbering mess on the floor. My rage burned back the darkness long enough for me to get my bearings again. Eventually, it passed.
I have people I could call. I know that. I have people that care about me, who don't want to see me like this. I also can't bring myself to bother any of them with this sort of thing. I refuse to be a burden on them any more than I already am. I'll figure out a new way to cope; a new way to deal with the panic and dread.
I will stand against the darkness. I will not let it win. I will endure. That much, I can promise myself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)