Am I Dead But I Don't Know It?

But I still like Randy Newman

I have nothing left to say
But I'm gonna say it anyway*

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the fact that I rarely listen anymore to the music I grew up with and, up until about 8-10 years ago, used to love – basically, rock and pop.

I think both people dealing with anxiety issues and those growing older may experience this and wonder what the reason may be.

Mozart rocks. . . gently

Most of the time, I listen to classical music but also jazz, blues and some other forms of instrumental music. At the beginning, during a particularly bad episode of anxiety, I felt the classical music I was listening to helped me to calm down and relax.

After a while, I found myself enjoying it to the point where it became my preferred music.

My changing taste in music was driven home to me a few months ago when I went to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band live. Springsteen had been my favorite artist and I had grown up with his music, knew most of the songs by heart and had the same transcendent experiences that many other fans do during live shows.

This time, it seemed like more of a muddle-through. I had heard and seen it all before and something was missing. As Bruce and the band plowed through song after song, almost mechanically, I began to look at my watch. 

And then I wondered: is it really true that if it’s too loud, you’re too old?

I’ve been bothered a bit by the experience ever since. I have all the genre music and rock channels programmed on my Sirius radio in my car but I find I might listen to them for maybe a song or two and I look for something else – even news and talk.

I still have enough of my faculties to remember the way I used to be. Part of it was having what I will call an ‘exuberant energy’ that seems to have left me. I had a sort of manic enthusiasm for many things that are gone, leaving me somewhat emotionally bereft. Again, what is the cause – aging, medications, work stress, or something else or a combination of factors?

I used to enjoy driving long distances to see new things and meet new people. Now I just want to stay home with my wife and cat. I physically could not drive that many hours without collapsing anyway.

I liked going out for movies and conversations with friends over drinks. Now those friends are gone, I don’t drink much, I find I have no desire to see what Hollywood is putting out (nothing for my age group) and the idea of crowded theaters doesn’t appeal to me. 

I used to collect coins and marvel at the designs and the fact that when you held an old coin in your hand, you were the last in a long string of people throughout the years who also held that coin. Now my silver is removed from their cases and bundled up as I occasionally check the going price of bulk silver looking for a good time to unload the lot.

I used to be politically engaged and looked for opportunities to change the world or at least my little part of it. Now I’ve given up on all of that, seeing those efforts as having wasted a good part of my life slamming my head into a wall waiting for a different result. And society has degenerated to such a degree that I want no part of interacting with it.

I loved reading books more than anything. I still have hundreds of books which are in good need of a dusting. If I read any books at all, they are on Kindle and it takes me all year to get through even the ones I enjoy. I haven’t the attention span any more. 

Is this the progressive course of depression, again or something else?

One of my first and longest lasting loves was newspapers. I got my mom to subscribe to the local papers when I was 11. I kept many of the front pages of my youth which now hang on the wall of my basement museum. I got to work in the field and was lucky and privileged enough to do some great stories and experience history. I would eagerly anticipate the paper delivery and devour it all.

Now the newspaper sometimes doesn’t make it from the driveway to the front door without being thrown in recycling. 

And newspapers are dead

There are many more examples, but I don’t want to belabor the point.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.  -- 1 Corinthians 13:11

What bothers me about the above quote from St. Paul is that these things I’ve mentioned that I lost interest in are not childish things; per se. Adults still partake in every one of them.  I do not think I outgrew any of this. Something else happened and I don’t like it. All of this passion I once had for things has slipped away.

Part of the reason I can’t quit Facebook even though I know it’s probably not good for me, is that I get a window into the lives of people who always seem happy. Mostly my high school classmates, but others too. They are out having fun with their big families and enjoying everything. I look at this parade of smiling people and their travels and celebrations and think: what’s wrong with me? I was kind of like this. What happened? If they can do it, why can’t I?

Shiny happy people - is it all an illusion

I used to me be but now I’m someone else. Like one of T.S.Eliot’s Hollow Men. 

I’m dead inside. I exist, but with no real passion, excitement or anticipation of better things to come. I’m going through the motions, waiting for the shadow man with the scythe to come for me. My last two remaining material pleasures are fattening food and a halfway decent night’s sleep. There are depression sufferers who often will spend a day or a week in bed. I get that. Bed is the only place I feel totally comfortable with myself.

I continue to struggle at work. I often get confused and forgetful. I get very frustrated with myself and realize that if I ever got a job as a reporter in a newsroom again, I couldn’t handle it. I have to double and triple check everything I do. I forget names, places, dates and what I did earlier in the day. 

I wonder how long this can go on.

I have a family to support
But surely, that is no excuse
I've nothing further to report
Time you spend with me
Is time you lose*

When we were kids, the whole idea of growing up and getting to do adult things and getting a fantastic job and having a great life were what we lived for. For me, the trip was marching at one horizon after another. I’ve done a lot, seen a lot and have mostly enjoyed my experiences, at least when my bipolar was not causing issues. 

They say that the magic is in the trip, not the destination. But I think some of us actually reach a destination when the road comes to a dead end. For whatever reason, the possibilities are now closed, the mind and body start to decline and you’re just holding on. Not a really bad situation, not a good one -- just stasis, entropy, disillusionment. We got to where we were going and found there were no answers, no great truths revealed, and no pot at the end of the rainbow. There was, however, a comfy couch and a TV with 157 channels.

If there was anything left to do, I wouldn’t have the energy for it anyway. 

I always thought that I would know
When it was time to quit
That when I lost a step or two or three or four or five
I'd notice it
Now that I've arrived here safely
I find my talent has gone
Why do I go on and on and on and on and on*

I’ve seen it all, heard it all, and now I am tired. I work in job where I’m not needed, I carry issues that leave me no peace, and career and life goals are just a remembrance, receding in the rear view mirror.

Kurt Vonnegut became a big fan of the Statler Brothers and especially their song ‘Flowers on the Wall.’ Vonnegut interpreted the song as a story about a man who has lost his usefulness in the world. I always thought it was the only hit song that mentioned Captain Kangaroo, a childhood idol.

But I think he’s right.

Last night I dressed in tails, pretended I was on the town
As long as I can dream it's hard to slow this swinger down
So please don't give a thought to me, I'm really doin' fine
You can always find me here, I'm havin' quite a time

I’m not sitting in my living room playing solitaire with a deck of 51, but like the character in the song, I dream of doing the things I used to but when I go out, I find it a strange and challenging experience and wish to return as soon as possible to my ‘room’ and perform my tired yet comfortable and safe routine.

I know I seem to be feeling sorry for myself and in a way, I’ll cop to it. But I know I can’t be the only one who feels this way. I just haven’t meant anyone who does, probably because most men (or women) don’t want to talk about it. And, I hate being this way and have tried numerous things to get me out of this rut. Writing this essay is akin to wandering in the woods speaking your thoughts to the trees and perhaps an idea will emerge. But right now, I’m out of solutions.

F. Scott Fitzgerald once said there were no second acts in American life. I know he’s wrong. I’ve had second, third and fourth acts. All I want is one more act, one more adventure, one more burst of energy. I didn’t think it would be over at 54; sixty-five maybe but not now. 

I think Randy Newman captured the feeling perfectly as well:

When will I end this bitter game?
When will I end this cruel charade?
Everything I write all sounds the same
Each record that I'm making
Is like a record that I've made
Just not as good

I'm dead but I don't know it
He's dead, he's dead
Please don't tell me so
Please don't tell me so
You're dead!*

 

And now a surprise twist:

Submitted for your approval. . . .

 Sunnyvale Rest, a home for the aged – a dying place and a common children's game called kick-the-can, that will shortly become a refuge for a man who knows he will die in this world, if he doesn't escape into – The Twilight Zone.

The episode is called Kick the Can and it was remade for the Twilight Zone movie.

I just remembered it. That means I have to see it again.

“What happened Ben? What changed you? Was it time that did it . . . or was it something else?”

“I feel if I could only run again, growing old wouldn’t be so bad.”

Sunnyvale Rest, a dying place for ancient people, who have forgotten the fragile magic of youth. A dying place for those who have forgotten that childhood, maturity, and old age are curiously intertwined and not separate. A dying place for those who have grown too stiff in their thinking – to visit – The Twilight Zone.

 

Kick the can

I have to find it. The magic.

                                                                     * -- Lyrics from Randy Newman “I’m Dead but I Don’t Know It”

When Anxiety Overrides Anticipation or Surviving Springsteen

It’s becoming more difficult lately to put a smile on my face, I’ll grant you that. 

I look at most of the blogs in Pittsburgh Bloggers which I write alongside and other blogs of this type and I see most of them tend toward more uplifting subject matter or practical advice. Outside of them, to be popular among mental health community blogs, as I have written before, it helps to write stories of triumph and happiness (however illusory) if one wants to be popular and published in the mainstream.

It also helps to be young and photogenic, as I have also written before, although I’m sure people will use that tired old defense of jealousy to defend against that charge. A short perusal of these blogs is all one needs to back up my assertions. I also write at levels far above the sixth grade comprehension that has been so in vogue since America decided dumb was more profitable. My work would be difficult to edit down to ‘see Spot run’ level.

I have decided to be who I am and write what I believe is true for myself.

So today, a bit of introspection and perhaps a clue for those who ask the question: how do you know when you are in bad shape mentally?

One of the aspects of mental illness of any sort that fascinates people is how self-aware we are in measuring whether we’re in a better or worse state, depressed, manic or mixed episode of bipolar, and in need of greater self-care. It’s a good question because many people with mental illness either live alone or with people that aren’t really trained to help the afflicted person in their various stages of funk.

For that reason, among others, many afflicted people land up quickly going to their doctors or a mental health ward. The unlucky ones get arrested or worse.

Tomorrow night, my wife and I have tickets to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. This will mark, with my bad memory as a caveat, about the seventh time I will have seen the band live. It is an experience, as a longtime fan, that I have always eagerly anticipated. There’s nothing like seeing Springsteen live. Ask anyone.

Except now. 

I had tickets for the show last winter here in Pittsburgh. While serving my banishment from work and not knowing whether I would lose my job, I decided the responsible thing was to sell the tickets to a friend. 

I swore that no matter what, that wouldn’t happen this time, as opportunities to see the band live are getting fewer and farther between.

But rather than being excited, I’m worried. 

I know – how in God’s name can you NOT be looking forward to this?

Try this:

I hate going downtown. The traffic bothers me and I feel unsafe. So my wife is driving.

I got the closest parking to the venue I could but still am worried about getting mugged walking to and from the parking lot. 

I no longer feel comfortable in crowds. I also have less of a tolerance for certain noises at certain times. I doubt that either of these will be that great an issue once I get inside. Unless, of course, the people around me are obnoxiously drunk. Thankfully, the Springsteen audience has grown older as I have and this possibility is a lot less than going to a typical Steelers game.

And finally, with my sleep problems, I’m worried we’ll get two hours into the show and I’ll start having trouble staying awake. I trust the normal energy of these shows will outweigh that problem. And I have an appointment with the shrink the next day at 2 p.m. which should allow enough recovery time. I’m already fretting about having to compact a weekend’s worth of yardwork around the concert and recovery and I think it’s just not going to happen so the grass will get long and I will feel guilty. 

You would think a normal fan would be overjoyed that the Boss is still doing four hour shows. I just hope I can make it without viewing the encore without stifling yawns and rubbing my eyes.

If all of the above disgusts you as a fan or concert-goer, it disgusts me too. I didn’t use to be like this and, no, really, it’s not age. Well, maybe a little, but that never affected the anxiety levels. 

I hope to enjoy this like it was old times. I hate that I’m preparing more to endure the experience. I hate this and I hate myself for being this way. The guilt and shame become a vicious circle. 

I don’t go out much anymore for all of the above reasons. After the mental toll work exacts, I usually come home, feed the fish, eat way too much and go to bed by 8:30. And then I get up and repeat the process until my three-day weekend where I justify my existence by doing endless hours of house and yardwork, so come Tuesday morning, I’m exhausted and strung out which is a great way to start the work week in a job that’s killing my will to live anyway.

This is why I can’t wait for winter – a break from the endless cycle of yardwork. But we bought a house and with it comes the responsibility of upkeep. I need to hold up my end of the bargain for my neighbors and my own sense of duty.

I have digressed a little from the topic, but just enough to give the reader an idea of the various stressors that I deal with on a weekly basis: stressors that normal people can deal with but for me, turn into a weekly battle to the death.

So I need fun and relaxation which is where activities like this concert are supposed to come into play. But instead they provide more anxiety and exhaustion. Fun and relaxation for me comes from self-medication, sleep and occasional forays into ‘safe’ activities.  

I hate being this way more than you can imagine. If I could flip a switch and go back to the more energetic, optimistic me of 15 years ago, I’d do it in a heartbeat. 

But I have written all this to give the reader an idea of how some of us think, feel and experience life, warts and all. I hope instead of disgust, people will understand. 

THIS is how I know I’m not in good shape – fear and dread instead of normal excitement and anticipation. And I can tell you there is no pill or mental tricks I can play to make it better. I’ll only know that I’ve enjoyed the experience when I get home safe and sound.

Remember that September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. If you know of any depressed people, cheer them up with some ice cream. It’s happiness (however brief) in a bowl. 

PS: I forgot to work into this post about the upcoming Springsteen autobio and his recounting about how he dealt with his depression. You can read about some of it here. I guess he put Patti (his wife) through a lot. I feel dumb not having guessed at how bad it was for a long time. If one tracks the song lyrics over time, you can see his depression and stress reflected in his music. Tunnel of Love (one of my favorite albums) has for years been regarded as dealing with his doomed marriage to Julianne Phillips (which I wonder if he did because he thought this is what he had to do at this stage of fame). But there is so much more there through the years that provide clues. 

I haven't always been strong, but never felt so weak
All of my prayers, gone for nothing
I've been without love, but never forsaken
Now the morning sun, the morning sun is breaking

-- Bruce Springsteen 'My Depression'