In order for me to describe what happened today, I have to admit some things that are deeply personal and a little bit scary.

It’s not like I’m trying to hide any of this. People ask me how I’m doing, and depending on who it is, I often tell the truth: I’m not doing very well.

“Why, what’s wrong?” they ask, sometimes.

And I gesture to the larger world around us, because that’s very understandable, and it’s true. I’m one man, scared and feeling powerless, looking at a broken world I desperately wish I could fix, but I do not have the tools or strength to do so.

I know how we got here. I know why it continues. I also know that this has all happened before, only a little bit different, and the pain of the now will end. We will make an incremental change forward as a society.

Trump will die. The fascists will be defeated. We will close down the concentration camps. We may even tear down ICE. It’s possible we dismantle Homeland Security, too, eventually. Maybe, just maybe, a little bit of justice will be dispensed.

Will I be alive when that day comes, when things slide back in the right direction?

I’ve talked before about how I probably don’t have a long life expectancy. It was nearly 5 years ago when I wrote that post, and nothing has happened to change my estimation. I don’t think I’m going to make it out of my 50s.

The cause of my death is not really a mystery to me, at this point. I’m going to have a heart attack, a stroke, or organ failure, as a result of high blood pressure. I’ve been checking my numbers more lately, and according to the Mayo Clinic, I should have sought immediate medical help several times the last couple of weeks. I took the cuff of just now after clocking a brisk 168 over 119.

I’m not bringing this up to talk about dying again. I’m establishing where my head is at.

It is very difficult to focus on work, especially when I don’t believe in the tasks I’m given. I fully believe I don’t have that much time left. Why would I want to spend any of it doing bullshit?

I also have a hard time working on stories I don’t think will matter. And, looking around, it’s hard to convince myself that any stories matter at this point.

Some of you like my stories. I will finish The Psychic Out of Time soon. And then I’ll work on the next story. And the one after that, on and on until my time finally comes.

The depression is real, and the dread is ever-present, and it’s difficult for me to remain pleasant when the act of putting on a facade feels like bullshit. I don’t have much of a filter left.

I woke up this morning feeling just as shitty as I felt when I woke up yesterday, and the day before. All three days, I considered calling in sick, because I just didn’t want to do any of it.

In particular, we are working on a new feature for a new product, and I have had a strong disagreement with some of the folks on how we should do it. I spent time thinking it through, and while the other people involved don’t understand what it took for me to summon the strength to spend that time, I know, and I’ll be damned if I let this thing go awry.

My passion reached my throat yesterday, heating my voice. I argued, logically, but also with clear emotion.

This morning, my rival tried to flood the field, which is how he always gets his way. It is the same tactic Trump uses, but I don’t associate my rival with Trump. Seeing the similarity in tactics does piss me off, though.

Again, strength filled me, because fuck that guy but also, if we’re going to do this thing, let’s do it right.

I took every single one of his points and responded. For a full hour this morning, I wrote.

And then, for the next 6 or 7 hours, I was like my old self. I attended multiple meetings and made people laugh. I was laughing.

What I wrote in the morning wasn’t a story in the traditional sense. There was a hero (me) and there was a villain (my rival). I used my voice, trying to be careful not to create personal attacks. No ad hominum, but I did mercilessly attack the ideas my rival presented.

It felt good. I felt good. At least for a little while.

So I’m writing this, to record what happened and pass on something I witnessed.

Writing something with passion give me some of myself back. I’m even considering taking my blood pressure medication, though as I told Melissa earlier in the week, that’s just a different kind of death. The meds add to my depression and make me sleep 12 to 14 hours a day.

Let me close this by spelling out the point, in no uncertain terms. In a world that’s on fire, dominated by rich idiots that are supported by uneducated, stupid racists, I find myself living with a death sentence and the power to extend my life and my time in this shitty world by choosing a different sort of misery. From that perspective, one might understand why when asked the question, “Do you want to live longer?” I might answer, “No.” But one really good moment of writing today makes me want to reconsider my answer, and that’s powerful.