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'

Seven things I no longer give a damn about now that I’m middle aged.

Yes, it's been eight days. I've been busy. The muse has been hard to catch. You know, I got nothin'

But inspiration came from this Huffington Post article in the, um, 'FIfty' section (which I'm allowed to read because I'm over 50) which bears the same title as this post. 

No I have not received my AARP card. Somehow, their all-knowing computer missed me. I'll have to wait a bit to get a discount on my Metamucil. 

Ever have that 'irregular feeling?'

Anyway, without further adieu (and that's how it spelled, not ADOO, the same way voila is not spelled WALLA or any other botched French), here's my seven:

1.    Sucking in my gut – with a few exceptions (military service), I was born fat, have been fat and will stay fat until I die (probably of fat). And I just don’t give a damn anymore. I have hated buying ‘yo-yo dieting’ clothes and keeping clothes that are too large or small for me at that time ‘just in case.’ An entire industry has been built in this country to shame ourselves over our bodies to get us to buy all kinds of horrific foods and exercise club memberships. I’ve done it all and I am tired of it. Yes, I will probably die sooner. But, face it, unless you’re rich, who wants to grow all that old in America? When we value our senior citizens in the same way we value vapid celebrities, then get back to me about living a long life.

Ham on, ham on, ham on whole wheat. . .

2.       Work – after spending a lifetime of worrying about taking the next step up, I’m tired of the climb and all the sacrifices it entails. I’m in a comfortable spot now and am thankful for it. I did everything I wanted to do and it’s done. No, I’m not in a job I love, nor am I using my capabilities to their full potential. But the great health insurance and time off give me the time to enjoy life more outside of work and the peace of mind that goes with steady employment. Let’s face it – most of what we do at work is futile. In the end, is making quarterly sales goals going to make the world a better place? Is it a matter of life or death? (this discounts those in jobs that really deal with life and death like cops and surgeons). Then stop treating it like life or death. Do what you have to do to stay employed if that’s what you want. I’m tired of lifestyle gurus telling me about my deathbed regrets including a lack of job achievement and satisfaction. I believe I wasn’t put on this planet to spend my life chasing the almighty dollar (making others rich) and worrying about adjusting my resume for my gravestone. Work to me now is a means to an end, not a lifestyle and it is liberating.

3.       Admitting my mental illness. Yep, I’m bipolar2, and deal with depression and general anxiety disorder. What does that make me? Human. You can take your zero-sum no defects world and shove it. I’m far more comfortable around people who struggle with problems than I am with those who put up an unbelievable Facebook-perfect front. And working against the stigma of mental illness is as important as anything I have done in my life. This effort pushes back against the forces of darkness who would lock all us ‘defectives’ back in basements and asylums where ‘decent people’ wouldn’t have to deal with them. Fuck that. Also, having a son with autism also raised my awareness level a thousand notches. It also humanized and humbled me. We all have a right to a decent life and respect.

Wait! No! Um, let's paint the house! Now!

4.       Being cool. I’m going to my 35th year reunion. It took 35 years for me to get beyond feeling lesser in the presence of the cool kids. The cool kids, most of them, grew up and realized that life was not one long photo opportunity. I also listen to classical music and all kinds of music I wouldn’t have been caught dead listening to in my car 30 years ago. And I don’t care.  I’m fat, I deal with mental illness, I sometimes get goofy and act out. It’s my version of normal. I can be three different people in three different days – or hours. Take me or leave me. There is no more liberating feeling than dropping the mantle of being a people pleaser and not worrying about what others will think of you. I realize that all the times my parents embarrassed me growing up was their reaction to being able to let go of this self-consciousness that thwarts authenticity. Be you as hard as it may be sometimes. Like the crew on Mystery Science Theater 3000 used to say, ‘the right people will get it.’

 5.      Death. Of course no one wants to die. But a serious preoccupation with cheating death leads to a lot of obsessive behavior and dashed expectations. Your body will get older. I am finally going gray and not having a fit about it – no Grecian formula for me. Wrinkles appear – spending thousands to fight them and all the other effects of gravity on aging will ultimately result in draining your disposable income in a losing battle. And if you’re doing it to keep your similarly obsessed friends, you need new friends. Sure, it was hard to take for a while, but nobody leaves this world alive and aging is a process everyone must face. It doesn’t mean it’s time to get measured for your casket. The other thing is if you died tomorrow, could you say you have lived enough of a life and been satisfied with it that you could accept death peacefully? I can – now. And with what I see of the future and how our society treats the aged (especially those without means), who wants to be shuffling around a nursing home being treated like a dolt? I have my bucket list and I’m going to start caring more about what I do on my time off than what I do at work. No one ever said on their death bed: ‘I wished I had spent more time at work.’ If they did, I feel very sorry for them. Wait, no I don’t. They were probably type A assholes.

  6.       Politics. I’ve been a Republican, I’ve been a Democrat. Having worked the party game for both sides and actually run for office once (school board), I’m completely over hoping for a political solution to any of our problems. The reason is simple: the human race has not evolved to the point where it can save itself through reason. And that’s OK. Well, it’s not, but what can you do? I know of so many politically oriented people who are mad as Hell – on both sides of the political spectrum – and don’t realize (1) you will never get the world you want and neither will your children and (2) you will take your anger and bitterness to your grave. Who needs it? There will always be the true believers and the ambitious and the out an out psychotic that will seek power and public office and there will always be their followers thinking – this is the guy or gal that will lead us to the great utopia. But it ain’t me babe. I’ve seen and experienced too much to have any hope. Now, I treat it all as it is meant to be treated – as entertainment. After all, in the real world, the people who control the political process don’t give a shit about you – why should you give them your time, money or even vote?

 
7.       Spending money on stupid shit that makes me happy. I drive a 2015 Mustang. I swing between falling in love with the car and castigating myself for buying something so impractical. I could have spent less on a sensible car with more interior room for less money. But I always wanted a car like this and (see: bucket list) when you get to be my age and have just enough money to swing the deal, something you just gotta say, why not? Now I don’t beat myself up over it (sounds silly doesn’t it). No more driving kidney killing small cars and outdated Buicks. Also: I’ve been carrying around the stuff of my life (ephemera, mostly newspapers) all of my life and now, with my basement, I have created a newseum (perfect for a former journo) where I can display all the historic newspapers I saved from my youth including a whole host of sports and news memorabilia. The basement has a built in bar, couches, a big screen and all the accouterments necessary for a personal sports bar and museum. I’m buying frames, lighted beer signs, old tube radios – all the stuff I love that I couldn’t afford to buy when I was younger and struggling. My wife is the same way. Maybe I’ll get to retire, maybe not, but I’m not going to worry about buying something I like that makes me happy anymore. I spent too many years denying myself what I wanted ‘just in case.’ As Coach George Allen once famously said “the future is now.” It’s time for some self-indulgence.

I feel indulged

Traitor!

I’ll admit it.

I slept with a Cleveland Browns football. 

It was one of those mechanically signed cheap footballs where the older it got, the more the pebble cover flaked off. Dad got it for me in 1969 so it had the signatures of Leroy Kelly, Don Cockroft, Jim Kanicki, Milt Morin and, well, you get the picture.

My dad was actually at the 1964 NFL Championship game where the Browns laced the Colts 27-0. It would be the last time the Browns . . . well, you know.

Dad got me a pennant. I think my ex-wife has it which means it was probably burned in a ceremony with all my other stuff I failed to take with me before the divorce.

It kinda gave me nightmares

The pennant had an angry dwarf in cleats throwing a football. 

This is what a ‘brownie’ was supposed to look like. If you want to make fun of that, take a good hard look at Steely McBeam.

Like any Cleveland youngster, I grew up pathologically hating the Steelers. And since this was the 70s, there was a lot of hate to process – until the Dawg Pound days. 

But it just didn’t matter. Yes, I froze along with everyone else at Cleveland Stadium on the day the Brian Sipe threw ‘Red Right 88’ and the Browns Super Bowl dreams into the toilet against the Oakland Raiders.

I sat through ‘The Drive’ and ‘The Fumble,’ fuming about what God had against the Browns and Cleveland in general. 

Love ya' Cleveland!

Slowly, slowly, my frustration was reaching a boiling point. That point was reached when He Whose Name Must Not Be Mentioned moved the Browns to Baltimore. 

And while you're at it, shove it up your ass

I was through - finished. I had lost too many vocal cords yelling at a team that could never quite put it together and I had nothing to show for it except a nervous tic when anyone mentioned John Elway.

I was working in Illinois when the ‘new’ Browns appeared. Already kinda rooting for the Bears, I tried, I really tried to work up some enthusiasm for these strangers who wore the right colors and played just as bad. But I couldn’t. Because they stunk too.

So work brought me to Pittsburgh in December 2010. My first ex-wife’s family was all Millvale-Etna-Shaler Township denizens so, that being the only neighborhoods I knew, I got an apartment there and moved in with my wife who never fails to remind me that Big Ben is a Miami alum.

Gratuitous photo for my wife

Pittsburgh. Never thought I would find myself here, of all places.

My wife, a big hockey fan and native Clevelander, was excited to be in an NHL city so becoming Penguins fans was easy. The Pirates played in the National League so technically, I could still be an Indians fan if I wanted to but I lost interest in the featherheads pretty quickly.

Shaler Township's famous homemade fountains. Take that Etna!

But what about the first love of my sports life, the NFL? What to do?

Could I? Would I? 

So the month we moved to the ‘Burgh, the Steelers were heading for the Super Bowl. 

Now I don’t normally think of myself as a ‘front-runner,’ but it took about a week to get all the black and gold I would need for the end of the season. I turned faster than Benedict Arnold.

My wife remained a Browns fan. Needless to say, her family and my former Cleveland friends were aghast, aghast I tell you, at my treachery.

The cry of traitor! rang from one end of my Facebook to another. 

You know, I get this every time I go back too. Sheesh!

What I did to the beat-up garden shack in the backyard didn’t help either:

Stiller pride! It's priddy n'at

OK, some said. We get the ‘when in Rome’ nonsense, but seriously, you aren’t serious . . . are you?

I finally got sick of it all and wrote down some talking points for these benighted Clevelanders which I have compiled here.

Saw the Stillers beat the Browns there

First, I gave up my youth for a team that held its fans in contempt and for an owner who eventually left the city. This – is a team that has sucked and continues to suck in every obscene way imaginable. Hell, even the locals call Browns Stadium ‘the factory of sadness!’ 

I live in Pittsburgh now and I think I’ve earned the right (by suffering) to root for a franchise that has a little more than a clue about what it’s doing. If you lived here, you might feel the same way.

We let you know if we don't like you

Second, about Pittsburgh: I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to live in a city that doesn’t constantly whine every time anyone says something nasty about it. Cleveland has so many self-image problems the whole city needs a shrink. We don’t feel the need to grab visitors around the lapels and scream about a world-class orchestra or LeBron James. 

Pittsburgh has so much to offer that we take it all in stride – including the sports championships. We don’t need to constantly explain how great our city is. You like us? Fine. You don’t? Get ahta tahn. Like that? I'm still learning Pittsburghese.

The inference is intended

I used to get nostalgic for Cleveland. No more. The city wallows in its own self-pity and even if I were offered the opportunity, I’d never go back.

Three last things:

Seriously, that stuff is awful

I still won’t drink the swill that is I.C. Light. 

You have to draw a line somewhere.

I’ve gotten used to Steely McBeam even though my wife hasn’t.

 

And I still have that football. 

Yeah, I'm holding it. Xmas 1969. I will never live this down