Boring Man Goes to New York

There are, it seems, 10,000 blogs in English talking about various mental illnesses. Mine is one of those.

Of course, I want to talk about other things as well, with an emphasis on sharing my experiences in midlife dealing with bipolar2 and anxiety issues.

I don’t think I’ve been doing a very good job of it. I’m not good at self-promoting. I feel I have something to say but, really, are my experiences any better or worse; is my writing better or worse than the other 10,000 bloggists? I read some incredible blogs, some that literally want to make me stand and cheer.

I look at what I write and it seems flat.

I really used to be better than this. I was a columnist for two daily newspapers. I’ve been a journalist most of my life. I used to get a lot of kudos for my columns and it kept me going. I enjoyed writing them. I am acutely aware, right now, that my short sentences must sound like a jackhammer on the brain.

In the last several years, I have forced myself to write through the illness for my own mental health. This does not always produce entertaining or enlightening material. And let’s face it: no one wants to read vanilla blogs.

It is a great sadness to me that writing only comes when it comes. Several days go by and I just can’t do it, even though I have something to say. And when I do, it all seems so flat; sort of the writing equivalent of a flat affect personality.

Is it the medication? I think that plays a part. When I miss the highs and lows I also miss a lot of the creative spark that could send my writing flying in all kinds of exciting (and dangerous) directions.

Am I more afraid? Perhaps, but I’m getting over that. Pretty much everyone who knows me knows what I’m dealing with. There are certain things and people I can’t write about, family being one of them.

I think it is possible that I fear wasting the reader’s time. I’m probably doing that right now.

Author David Foster Wallace worried extensively about his medications hashing his creativity. A switch in medication led him into a downward spiral resulting in his suicide. Considerations of dropping medications for the sake of creativity are not to be taken lightly.

As much as I miss a lot of the old me, I understand why I must stick to my medication. The mania that was so self-destructive is held at bay and the depression, well . . . it’s handled as best as can be expected.

My psychiatrist has suggested subbing Celexa for Lexapro when I get back from New York. I doubt it will make me feel like a ‘new man’ whatever that means, but I’m more willing to experiment (with her supervision) than I would have been two years ago.

The basic problem is I can experience all the lows but the highs bring with them a certain glib silliness without the energy and creativity I would like to experience again.

My psychiatrist said I should mentally prepare myself for our (my wife and I) upcoming trip New York City. I told her that I was doing that by imagining every terrible thing that could happen to us.

Why do I do this? Simple – it’s insurance for the anxiety. If I go through every bad thing that might happen, if it does happen, I’m mentally prepared for it and it’s less of a big deal than being surprised. If nothing happens and I have a good time – it’s a bonus.

This is the typical thinking of people with anxiety issues. It’s why so many of us find it hard to relax and have a good time. Going to New York is me pushing myself far out of my comfort zone on the off chance that I will actually enjoy myself. It beats sitting on the couch wondering: what if?

Me and a tree

In the backyard there was a pine tree. 

  Where I used to sit on the roof. The tree is marked with an arrow. The pool was not there when I climbed it.

On the trunk, some branches had been cut off leaving protrusions that one could imagine as ladder rungs. Up about 12 feet there was a Y-shaped branch split that my neighbor, a guy a few years older than me, would climb up and sit on.

Just for reference, I was eight-years-old.

He would try to cajole me to come up.

“Aw come on,” he’d say. “It’s easy.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I’d say. “I don’t think my parents want me to climb up there and I don’t think they want you up there either.”

But if my parents weren’t home, he didn’t care what I said.

The bully kid a few doors down would come over and make fun of me for not climbing the tree. I guess it was a rite of manhood that my fear of heights was preventing me from passing. He was the kind of kid that would hit me in the head with a baseball when we played ‘running bases.’

So I as did then and do now, I stewed and ruminated until the whole issue got under my skin. 

You ever see weightlifters psych themselves out before a big lift? I saw this guy on TV walking around the barbell shouting about how he was not going to let this weight ruin his day. And then he lifted it. 

I was thinking the same thing about this tree. 

I waited until none of the neighbor kids were around and gingerly climbed up the first few ‘rungs.’ That was easy – I’d done that before. 

There were the last two larger tree branches and I grabbed one with both hands and went over on my stomach with an audible “oof!”

I had one more to go to the Y branch which was about a foot wide on both sides. I remember looking down. I remember thinking going up one more branch would be a lot easier than going down at this point. And then I could say I did it.

With one more heave, I did and sat on the Y branch with a sense of accomplishment. I imagined myself as the frog from the story that sat on the largest lily pad and “was the king of all he could see.”

That sense of accomplishment lasted about a minute. I looked down and all of the sudden the branches that seemed so doable going up now seemed so perilous going down. It was all a matter of perspective, another lesson I would learn that day. Looking up, the Y branch didn’t seem like such a high place. Looking down from it was akin to the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

So there I sat, trying to think my way out of this when the neighbor kid comes sauntering over.

“Hey you finally did it,” he said.

“Yep,” I said. “I made it.”

“So come on down and we’ll play catch,” said the neighbor kid.

“Ummmmmm . . . in a while,” I stammered.

“When,” he asked.

I looked at him and he looked at me and he knew. 

“You’re too scared to come down from there aint’cha,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. 

“OK look, I’ll help ya,” the neighbor said. “I’ll stand here under the tree and guide ya down. OK first slide down and put your foot on that one branch.”

I did and then froze.

“OK, swing your other foot over to the same branch,” he said.

Yep, I was stuck with my legs doing the splits, ass-side up in a tree.

To make an excruciating story shorter, gradually, other neighborhood kids came over to gawk at my ass in the tree, each one alternating between giving me advice and laughing at me. One kid, I don’t know who, just said “jump – “you won’t get hurt bad.”

Oh, that was all I needed to hear.

Then my dad came home. He looked around at his son making a spectacle of himself in his own backyard.

“Geez-us-Christ get down from the tree already,” was the first thing dad said. 

The neighbor on the other side came over. He went hunting with my dad.

“Well, well, well,” he said with that Southern Ohio drawl. “Your boy seems to be stuck in the tree.” 

So he stood under me and offered some advice. I managed to get my other leg down and now my hands were on one branch and my feet on another. Next was the tough part. I had to bend down from here and squat to get my feet to the next branch down. After that, it was only the smaller rung-like branches and I was home free.

But if I squatted, I was afraid of losing my balance. I was already embarrassed and I felt falling would add more embarrassment and a broken neck.  I’ve always feared the worst, as you know.

Eventually, dad got so frustrated with me; he stood directly under me and ordered me, as only a Marine can, to get down one more branch.

What I did was slither down vertically, shaking like a leaf in a, well, you know; doing a kind of half-sit until I was sitting on the lower branch. From there, I lowered myself and my dad grabbed me and pulled me to the ground.

Everyone had a good laugh and since the show was over, they left. I felt like Charlie Brown. I always wished Charlie Brown was real so I could commiserate with him.

I don’t remember what dad said. He wasn’t as mad as he was channeling a yet-to-be Hank Hill: that boy ain’t right.

I did the walk of shame back to the house. 

On the last day at the house after selling it, I went to the backyard as part of my ‘goodbye house tour’ and took one last look at the tree, remembering that humiliation from 42 years before.

It’s strange how we forget so much in our single digit years and the things we remember are usually moments of joy and triumph mixed with moments of shame and pain. I guess that’s normal.

What isn’t normal is this: I believe that tree, in all its innocence, started me down the road to being risk-averse. I guess that’s the nice way to put it.

I never climbed a tree again and remained scared of heights. There are folks who get an adrenaline rush from things like skydiving, motorcycle riding, bungee jumping and so on. I will never know that.

How I got through the obstacle course in basic training is still a wonder to me. Extreme peer pressure and a screaming drill sergeant will do that. In like for Ft. Jackson’s Victory Tower, – a tangle of logs to climb and ropes to swing from, one of the drill sergeants saw the fear in my face. 

“Hey you got one of your troops that’s looking a little too hard at that tower,” one drill told my drill.

I found myself on one side of the rope swing (over a net) and everyone was calling my name and it felt just like. . . you know. I had no choice -- I grabbed the rope and jumped. I didn’t quite make it and my jaw hit the lower log post with a resounding ‘thwack.’ I ate out of one side of my mouth for a week.

I remember that moment as I looked at the tree, cursing it and myself. Thankfully, one only had to do the tower once. The ropes gave me calluses I still have on my hands.

The funny thing is when I get a real good dose of hypomania, I’ll take all kind of risks with relationships, careers and money. But I still will not take physical risks. 

Some people wear their bruises, bone breaks and scars with pride. It is a sign they have challenged themselves and have no regrets. 

I look at them and feel small and wonder what part of life I have missed. 

I took one last look at the tree, sighed, took my wife’s hand and walked slowly back to the house and to the rest of my life.

Footnote: on this day in 1987, I shipped off to basic training at Fort Jackson, SC.Hua!

Walking out of my comfort zone

Some things you just do.

Because they mean a lot to your wife.

Even though going downtown on a (good God!) Saturday morning and marching around for two miles is NOT my idea of a leisurely way to start the day.

But. . .this was the Pittsburgh Step Out Walk to Stop Diabetes and my wife is diabetic and she's been doing this walk forever and we've been married six years annnnnnnddd. . . I've never done the walk.

Of course she drove.

We get there and park and walk down the street without being mugged.

Things went south in a hurry when, while waiting to check in, I stepped in a big mud puddle.

Shaking that off, I got my nifty t-shirt, absently-minded picked at an ingrown beard hair and bled on it.

My wife noticed, pointed it out to me and I tried to do a field-expedient pre-treat of the blood stain my smearing spit on it.

You do what you have to.

Someone from a drug company hands me an apple. Apples are cool. There are several drug companies companies on hand pushing various diabetes treatments while giving out lots of cool swag. Wife takes swag, I decline. I do take some coffee from the local grocers. If I forget any of these sponsors, they're all on the back of my T-shirt.

By the way, they have port-a-potties that actually flush some kind of blood-looking liquid. I use one and am impressed. 

We get in line for fruit, energy bars, water and bagels. We split a bagel, I am impressed that they do not skimp on the cream cheese.

We are accosted by numerous mascots. I'm not a fan of interacting with people in furry suits (surprised?) and I avoid Iceberg, the Pittsburgh Penguins mascot and some kind of giant purple dragon. I think there was another stuffed human furry but I can't remember what it was.

"At least we don't have Steely McBeam," my wife says. "That would be really scary."

Au contrare, my dear. Look down at the starting area.

I don't know what my wife has against Steely.

Anyway, at some point this walk has to begin and after several speeches it does. I am instantly accosted by screaming children. Now, I have to be honest. These are little girls who scream. You know the scream - the kind that pierces eardrums and volcanic rock. The kind of banshee shrieking only a 2-year-old girl is capable of. Boys are noisemakers too but they usually bawl rather than scream. I can't stand either but boys bawling and whining usually has a 10-foot noise radius. The little girl screaming can be heard for at least a mile.

If you want to unnerve me instantly, that will do it. The little girl is in a stroller. We pass the family but with my lumbering gait, they quickly catch up and I bug my wife to let them by. Even though the little girls has been bought off with a juice box, somehow I know it's only buying some time.

We meet other groups of rowdies and I land up walking behind my wife so these bands of unruly diabetes walkers can pass by. I don't want to hold anyone up.

We cross the Hot Metal Bridge. Unlike the Liberty Bridge, it does not catch fire, nor shake, but I am on guard.

We then walk the trail along the Monongahela River toward the midway point. It is along this path where we first encounter angry reckless bicyclists who did not realize 1300 people were have the unmitigated gall to take up their precious bike paths of which our mayor is so proud.

My head is on a swivel for them as they suddenly appear out of nowhere shouting "PASSING ON YOUR LEFT; WALK ON RIGHT!"

Yeah, uh, go fuck yourself.

Other non walkers emerge from the bushes on the trail. They look like runners and are equally annoyed. They could be decoys for muggers so I keep my eye on them.

We grab out water and the midway point and I steel myself for the return trip.

On  the way back we dodge more angry bicyclists and annoyed joggers. I notice that we have been following a group of folks that include a. . . little person? I don't know what the correct term is so I'll use the term from television. It annoys me that at 30 inches tall she's walking faster than I am. So it goes.

And then it happens - the stinging pain down the right side of my right leg. No doctor has ever been able to give me a straight answer as to what causes the pain, it just happens, usually while walking or standing too long and usually at the worst possible time. I had taken two Aleve pills prior to with my Neurontin to prevent this, but they fail. Of course they do.

Crossing the bridge again, I start to limp slightly and fall further behind my wife, who, helpfully takes pictures in order for me to catch up.

The view. Can't beat it.

I stop to rub my leg and then, gamely with jaw set, march on toward the finish line. And then it happens.

"Sir!"

You talkin' to me?

"You're leaking water."

So I was. I was carrying my water bottle upside down for some reason.

"You'd take the next drink and find it was empty," she said.

So I would. I feel stupid. I thank her, right the bottle and move on.

Startled by a loud noise, I realize it's a train.

I limp slightly over the finish arch and, although I need to sit down, the DJ is too loud so we move down the river a bit.

And it's over. I have survived the Pittsburgh Step Out Walk to Stop Diabetes. I am relieved, my wife is happy. I had raised almost $250 online from some nice generous people. I walked to honor their pledges but mostly for my wife and hopefully, someday, for a cure.

My wife is happy with me and that matters a whole lot more than the sting in my leg.

I took the selfie. I appear to have a tree growing out of my head, but it's all good.

Was that really me?

Well that was the weekend that was (bonus points if you get the TV reference).

Seriously, I don't even remember this

My 35^th high school reunion has come and gone and there is much to reflect upon.

First, I had a great time – far better than I thought I would have had.

Seriously, that's me having fun. It can be done.

Why? Because people like me always prepare for the worst. It’s a classic trait of folks with depression, anxiety and bipolar issues. We’re mostly concerned that we may do or say something that will offend someone – and we won’t realize it.

And add to that concern, the fact that I had not seen most of these people for at least 25 years, some 35 years. And, of course, there are the memories of high school, many good, but many awkward and cringe-worthy.

The difference between me and others is that I ruminate over those embarrassments all these years later. Sometimes, it seems like only yesterday and hope people will forget because I remember almost everything.

What happened to me was shocking. In fact, I’m having a hard time relating this any other way but to do it in bulleted points:

• People were glad to see me and I felt included in everything. It took a while to get over the shock.
• I was told some people actually showed up because I was there. I find that unbelievable.
• My wife (who was the official photographer for the event) and I were thanked profusely for everything we did. I am not used to being thanked for anything. And we did not do much of anything to really deserve it. She was the photographer and I was the PR man. Neither of us did the grunt work of reserving and preparing the venues, getting the hotel, DJ and invite list.
• I had a genuinely good time.
• I’m left with a feeling of wanting more.
• And perhaps I’m not such a schlub.

schlub

SHləb/

Noun NORTH AMERICAN informal

a talentless, unattractive, or boorish person.

Of course, once I got home, I burrowed back into the living room couch waiting for another reason to extract myself from the house or, perhaps, the third full moon of the calendar year.

 

Seriously. . . I'm alright, don't nobody worry 'bout me

Up on the Roof

Just don't sniff the sewer vent

On the roof it's peaceful as can be
And there the world below can't bother me

I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I did it. And I don't regret it.

One fine summer day, I decided to escape my bedroom fortress and sit on the roof. I didn’t know what it would be like and I didn’t know how my parents would think, but for once I decided to engage in, what was for me, risky behavior.

I left the window open and turned up the radio. I had WHK-AM tuned in back in the day when it was Cleveland’s only country music station. Now, I wasn’t a big country fan – I was listening because Gary Dee (a local redneck talk legend) was followed by this new guy named Don Imus.

And Imus was making me double over laughing. I didn’t know it then but later he described his time in Cleveland as being spent in a cocaine haze. But the interaction between Imus and the callers was golden. It was then I thought – ‘I’d like to do that someday.’ And someday, I would.

I carefully crawled out my bedroom window and edged myself slowly out a little further, where I took this photo. It was summer 1978. I figured, this was my fire escape anyway and I might as well do a dry run. If there was a fire on the second floor, I had nowhere else to run. I could jump from the other window and fall 20 feet or so and probably break my back or worse. 

This way, I could go out on the roof and make the 10-foot jump into the pool. And, if you’re on fire, jumping into a pool is not a bad thing.

But on this fine summer day, I wasn’t thinking about a fire. I was thinking – why hadn’t I done this before? Short answer – I’ve always been afraid of heights, my parents wouldn’t want me up here, and, I thought I might damage the roof.

I had climbed a tree once when I was much younger. You can see the trunk over the fence to the middle-left. I got up but when I looked down, I froze. It caused a neighborhood spectacle. Eventually it drew my father and a crowd giving me step-by-step advice on how to get down. It was humiliating as hell. I don’t recall how I got down. But I never went up again. 

But the roof? That was different. No climbing involved. 

I had a moment up there I’ll never forget. Laughing to the radio, soaking in the sunshine, enjoying the bucolic view of the neighborhood. A cold drink, a mat, and a pair of shades and a fella could get used to this. I had a huge maple tree behind me providing shade.

My bedroom was my fortress of solitude but this was something different. In a way, it was analogous to stepping out of my comfort zone and what could be gained by doing so.

Now I can go sit in the backyard and take in nature. But there’s something about being up there – up on the roof – looking out, above it all, feeling the breeze. You can think, relax, dream. It’s kind of a special place. Most of us can’t get up on the roofs of our homes. I can’t do it where I live now because – well, it’s one level and it would look silly and I’d roast in the heat. 

If I wasn’t hammering on the roof, neighbors would probably call the cops. People just don’t go on top of their roofs for no reason.

But that afternoon, I did. I always wish I had come out at night, but I never did. 

I think about it today and wonder where my ‘roof’ might be? Where can I go to get both up and away – where the world below won’t bother me? Perhaps we all need to find a ‘roof.’ No TV, no radio, no cell phone. Just you, the sky and your own thoughts. 

Carol King had it just about right.