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So Utterly “Tragic”

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This isn’t a fun comic. I am in so much fucking pain. There’s no joke here.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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Celia Drowns In The Basement

technologiesShe’d shut and locked the door at the top of the stairs, but thinking now, it was a good thing this basement had been basically set up as a bomb shelter in the 50s, because locking the goddamned door wouldn’t do much good alone. Celia then started to walk downstairs, and put a chair in the center of the room and walked around it a few times, taking in the basement, in all its glory.

God, the things that had happened in this basement, a perfect example of the age old sentiment “if walls could talk”, because damn, the stories they would tell. Memories flooded her mind instantly, which made her smile at the irony of the euphemism. There was the time she and her older sister had hidden down here from their father after her older sister had hit the bumper of his car with her bike, and they were afraid he’d be mad, but in the end, he was just happy they were okay and told them to come to him and never be afraid. Her mind turned to the time she and Ashley Mossica got together and played a bunch of low fi cassette tapes in the basement at max volume because they had the house to themselves…god that weekend. The taste of her strawberry lipstick, how she had to hide the stains left behind by the kisses on her neck with a scarf, which thankfully worked considering it was snowing outside, and nobody questioned her clothing choices. The way that, the night of high school graduation, while her sister went to dinner with their parents, she and Ashley decided to stay in the basement and lay on the couch together, discussing plans for the future. None of which ever came true.

Now though…what had once been an escapist dream was now just an old, ratty basement in a home that could no longer sustain it. She’d since dropped out of college and been unable to afford her medications, and since her parents had discovered that she’d been seeing a woman from her support group. So much for parents loving you no matter what. Her parents hadn’t kept the basement up to snuff, and it had fallen into a state of disrepair, but now….now it’d be more than just that. She’d see to that. Sure, the rest of the house would remain fine, but this room would always and forever be Celia Armak’s. She sighed, grabbed an axe and started cutting into the old rusted pipes in the basement walls, which started to flood the room. Celia then sat down in the chair, strapped her legs to the chair legs with rope and cuffed her hands with an old pair of handcuffs after she’d put a blindfold on. She smiled, listening to the water as it began to fill the room and soak her shoes and socks, and climbing ever higher every second.

This basement, the games with her sister, the derby car projects with her father, the dance lessons with her mother, the first kisses, the loss of virginity, the first suicide attempt before college…yes, this room was her entire history, her entire life. The water quickly rose to her neck, and she craned her head back to give herself a few more seconds of breath, thinking about Ashley, thinking of all the promises they’d made to one another, all the things she’d planned to do with her life; go to college and become a famous clothing designer, maybe eventually do costume work for films…but not now. No. The water overtook her, and the chair was floating, as was she, still strapped to it. Her head was getting lighter, her thoughts foggier, her breathing tighter, and soon she was thrashing violently, and before she knew it, she was at peace, and soon Celia wasn’t thinking anything at all anymore.

“You can have the house,” she’d thought as she’d set this up, “But the fucking basement is mine.”

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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Depression Cares #1

depression

written/drawn by Maggie Taylor

It’s shocking sometimes how what makes you want to kill you can also feel like the only thing that really understands how you feel, even if it’s selfishly doing so to preserve its own existence. This illness is a parasite, and we are the host.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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Survival Of The Spiteful

I have developed the absolute best mindset to how to go on, day by day, and that is to hate existence so much that I need to survive simply to spite it for putting me here in the first place; to show existence that I’m better than it is. I fucking hate life. I hate that I have to endure it. I hate that it was thrust upon me without any decision on my part, and now I just am expected to live through it, because to do the opposite is “selfish” or “cowardly” (hot take, they’re not), but now I’m realizing that my best weapon available to me in fighting to continue onwards is to show life what a prick it is.

Spite. Spite is what’s kept me going. Spiting the people who were mean to me growing up, the people who hurt me that I loved, the bad experiences that made me the bitter, cynical broken bitch that I am. I’m not staying alive because I enjoy it, I’m staying alive to prove to life, and these people, that guess what, you’re not better than me. I don’t make a whole lot of money, but despite that I’m still doing what I love for a living (writing, making art, etc), which is more than most people can say. I followed my dreams and they ruined me, but I’m doing it, and that’s something I can applaud myself for. It’s hard to find things to hopeful about, but you know what I realized? Not only am I working on showing life I’m better than it, but I’m also working towards an overall end goal: the eventuality of my death!

Having goals is important, that’s a thing your facebook friends who share posts from pages like “Moms Against Cynicism” say, right? Try and have a bright outlook, set some goals and achieve them? Well now I am. I’m actively working towards eventually dying of old age, and when I reach it, I will feel so good about having stayed alive long enough to have achieved it! Sometimes the seemingly bleakest outlook can be spun into the most hopelessly positive one after all.

Listen, it’s the healthiest coping mechanism I’ve got, alright?

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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To Drown In Sorrow

She’d walked into her bathroom last night, locked the door and ran a bath. Once the tub was full, she climbed in fully clothed, laid down and relaxed, then slowly lowered her head under the water and kept herself there until she started drowning. Those last few fleeting moments of her life, she didn’t think of anything except that someone would have to take her cat, and once it was over, it was over. The only reason anyone found her was because someone had gotten some of her mail, and when they went upstairs to give it to her, they realized the door was unlocked and she was nowhere to be found. When they finally forced their way into the locked bathroom, that’s where they discovered her body, gently floating in the water. She’d been dead for 3 days. Nobody had called her.

The game of phone tag began an hour later, when her family was informed, and her sister had to break the news to their parents. They all cried together over the phone, and her sister took it upon herself to continue calling her sisters friends to inform them of what had happened. Each one reacted in somewhat the same way, with small differences. Some broke out in sobs immediately, some went quiet with shock, and others weren’t all that surprised but were still sad nonetheless.

The thing is, nobody had called her. Nobody had reached out to her. Everyone knew how she felt, they’d known for years, and nobody had done a thing to help her not feel alone, even when she reached out she was often shut out because they had something else come up that was “more important”, and now, these people who had “more important” things to do than talk their suicidal friend down were wailing on their kitchen floors and beds and their own bathrooms because their friend had taken her own life, all while realizing maybe if they’d just said a single fucking thing to her, she would’ve opened up more and this wouldn’t have happened.

“Gone too soon”, “this was inevitable”, “these things happen”. No. She wasn’t gone too soon. She wasn’t a martyr. She was a fucking victim. She was a victim of ignoring that which made her friends uncomfortable, too uncomfortable to help their friend they could see was clearly in visible pain that was pulling her apart right in front of their eyes. And now? Now here they were, tossing out platitudes about the meaning of life and how there’s ultimately no helping these sorts of people. How this is the way they all wind up. Again, no. She’d wanted to talk. They didn’t want to listen. These things happen? Yeah. You’re damn right they do, especially when you actively turn the other cheek to it. She wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of a crime or any of the sort. She did this to herself, because they’d all done it to her too. The way she saw it, nobody cared about her, so why should she care about herself?

She’d been brought into this world by loving parents, family who fawned over her, and she’d left without anyone. even. noticing. And the worst part was this happens far too goddamn often. But now she’d be nothing more than a photo on a shelf, her pain reduced to that of “oh, our daughter was unhappy”. She wasn’t unhappy. She was tired of being ignored, and she found the only way for people to care was to die.

If only someone had shown her otherwise.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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What Is Wrong With You? #3

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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Jeremy Suffocates In The Garage

technologies“I wonder if I need to change the oil,” Jeremy thought to himself as he held his car keys in his hand, gathering the courage to put them in the ignition.

Jeremy Tanner, 37, had been unemployed for several months now, and was unable to obtain unemployment benefits. His wife had taken off to LA for a few weeks to work on a project, and now was the only time he’d have to do this. He thought back to when he and his father spent a lot of time in the garage, working on his fathers motorcycle or a go kart or using his fathers wood working skills to make something for scouts. Jeremy smiled, thinking of how much time he’d spent in the garage over the course of his life.

But, with his father dead and his mother living elsewhere now, Jeremy couldn’t get into his childhood garage any longer, as she’d sold the house when she moved. Jeremy sighed and thought back to that garage; he could recall every square inch crystal clearly, the shelving system he and his brother had installed when they were teenagers, and the lighting their father had put in one year. It was so nice. Jeremy could remember all the time he’d spent as a teenager with his friends, laughing, watching TV and listening to music. The door lead directly into the kitchen, and they could often hear his mother cooking or his parents talking.

But this garage? His garage? No personality whatsoever. So bland, so plain, so blah. Jeremy sighed, stuck his keys in the ignition and started the car as he glanced down at the hose that was leading back into the car from the tailpipe, pumping the exhaust into the car with the windows mostly rolled up. He sighed and leaned back in the drivers seat, shutting his eyes. His father would understand, he knew he would, he’d have to. After all, his father had done the same thing only 10 years prior, on this very same day. He knew if anyone would understand, it’d be his dad. Jeremy thought back to the last time he saw his father, which was, coincidentally, in the garage.

His father was putting something together, sitting at his little workshop desk, while Jeremy paced behind him, talking about having just gotten married. He remembered telling his father he was terrified of letting Lana down, about never being good enough for her, and worrying he’d never be as good a dad as his own had. His dad had chuckled, turned around and said, “You don’t have to be a good dad like me, just be a good dad like you.” Jeremy never forgot that, but unfortunately the advice never came into play, as Lana had a miscarriage a few weeks later, and they’d been unable to get pregnant since. That’s part of why she’d gone to LA, was to see a specialist. But now, here he was, ready to end his life, and all because he couldn’t handle the financial burden that was now upon them, and he was worried he’d just take his wife down with him, and felt she deserved better than that. And with that thought, Jeremy drifted off into the long quiet.

When Jeremy opened his eyes, he was laying on a couch. He looked around, his eyesight blurry at first, when he noticed his neighbor, an older man named Robert, coming in from another room, handing him a glass of water.

“Jesus Jeremy, you alright?” he asked.

“What happened?” Jeremy asked, and Robert shrugged.

“Near as I can tell, it looked like you almost suffocated. I opened your garage to find you passed out. I…I was bringing your lawnmower back, and, I was really scared for a bit that you weren’t going to be okay, but Lorraine, she said you’d be fine. Guess that’s what I get for being married to a nurse all these years,” Robert said, as Jeremy took the glass of water and chugged it.

“…you were returning my lawnmower?” Jeremy asked, “…I guess I forgot you borrowed it.”

“You okay?” Robert asked.

“…not particularly,” Jeremy said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes on his shirt sleeve, “…everything is fucked, Rob.”

“You’re alright, everything’s alright. Here, come with me,” Robert said, helping Jeremy up. He lead Jeremy into the kitchen and opened a door that lead into a large garage, in which from the ceiling were hanging what appeared to be at least a hundred or more birdhouses. Robert was grinning, hands on his hips, clearly so pleased with himself. Jeremy was surprised, his eyes wide as they stepped inside.

“The hell is all this?” Jeremy asked.

“This is what I do now,” Robert said, “Felt like I wasn’t worth anything since I retired, felt useless, so I figured I’d do something with my time, something that actually made a difference to somebody that matters.”

“These are incredible,” Jeremy said, “You made all of these yourself?”

“Yeah, well, yeah, I mean, Lorraine paints ’em, but yeah I built ’em,” Robert said, “…she’s not here at the moment, you wanna paint one for me?”

Jeremy smiled, feeling ever so lucky this old man had found him. So Jeremy stayed in Roberts garage that afternoon, and had dinner with him and Lorraine that night. He returned the following day, and the day after that and the day after that and so on. Eventually, he and Robert had made a collection of their own birdhouses and started a beautification project, putting them up in the neighborhood, at the park and selling them at crafts fairs in town.

Sometimes, all it takes is the comfort of a garage to save a life.

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, the satirical online newspaper of “Nowhere, US”, my podcast “Coping With Tonal Shifts In Reality” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip.

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