Sell it and they will come. . .

So many books!

I should really write a book.

This blog is intended someday to become a memoir. If it doesn’t, I’m OK with that. The writing is more therapy than anything. But the more I look for books on bipolar/depression, the more I am convinced that many of them are written so the writer can gain fame and fortune.

I won’t name names. Just google search bipolar and dig a little into some of the author sites and you’ll see what I mean.

Kids are a growing market in bipolar

I get it though. Book deals and speaking tours are great if you can’t work a conventional job. I have this fantasy that I’ll just go around the country doing TED talks and other seminars where I can add a whole lot of psychobabble bullshit to my personal experiences.

But I can’t do that. There’s enough of that already.

The problem is America doesn’t really want to face up to the reality of mental illness. They want to read stories of overcoming, of triumph. They want a happy ending, believing everything has a fix if we only work/read/meditate/pray enough. The books reinforce that perception.

Bullshit!

The whole idea of suicide prevention in this county is to keep people alive. That’s admirable, of course, but in many instances, that’s it. Great, you’ve rescued them from killing themselves – now are you going to provide affordable and compassionate mental health services in the community so they won’t do it again?

Of course you won’t. There’s so much more that needs to be spent on weapons and subsidies to corporations. Besides, if you can’t afford the services, it’s because you’ve failed, and why should I have to pay for someone else’s treatment?

Unfortunately that is who we are.

BUT, we have lots of cheap cures in the form of books and tapes and, my, oh, my, drugs (some of the most widely used are generic and therefore, by comparison, cheap) that you can have, but geez, having the taxpayers furnish luxury hotels with compassionate, well-trained staff is a bit much, don’t you think? 

The problem is that too many people watch ‘reality’ shows like ‘Intervention’ and think everyone gets to go to the Mental Health Club Med where the kind director meets you at the door and starts scheduling your horseback riding therapy classes in the morning.

So. . . who ordered the wine? Dinner at six!

These places are anywhere from $15-30,000 a month and even if you have insurance, forget it.

An attack at the Arizona state mental hospital

The real reality is that you are taken by force, usually by the police (they don’t usually send men in white coats anymore) to some kind of county facility which resembles something out of Dickens’ time, where staff that get $9 an hour throw you in with people who may or may not cause you physical harm. If you’re lucky, you get to see a real, live therapist for 30 minutes a week or every other day. Your insurance, if you have any, may pay for 30 days of inpatient treatment. Then, ‘cured’ or not, it’s out on the street you go. Good luck!

If we are going to keep people alive, we, as a society, have to ask ourselves: why?

If it’s just a ‘feel good’ exercise, for the love of God, stop it. Let these people have their eternal relief. Yes, I know, many mentally ill people (usually with means and an already existing support system) get ‘cured’ and never try it again. But I can almost guarantee you; they think about it the rest of their lives. 

And then there are the people who get out of our medieval mental health facilities and, faced at some point with the prospect of having to go back, and unable to afford therapy, quietly hang themselves in a closet. Where are all the self-congratulators then?

He. . . is. . . .serious. I got nothing.

What I’m getting at is there is nothing sexy, trendy or hip about having a mental illness regardless of what you see on TV or read in these books. I can speak to bipolar, depression and anxiety. Believe me, there is nothing glamourous about it. The reality is, for most of us, there is no cure but a gritty, grinding, awful existence that is punctuated occasionally by brief periods of relief.

It is a hard life and for the vast majority of people suffering, there is no cure; it is something they have to deal with all of their lives. 

The cruel thing is not only the stigma we face – it’s all the quackery sold to us by the books, the seminars, the yoga teachers, the sweat lodge shamans, the homeo- and naturopaths – all more affordable than decent therapy and medications and all promising something they can’t deliver.

And if you fail, it’s because you ‘didn’t try hard enough.’

Yeah, eat your way to sanity. Woo!

There is not one physical ailment in this country that someone isn’t hustling a quack cure. ‘Buyer beware’ has never been more relevant than with the mental illness community.

I have a son with autism. I remember going to some of the Autism Society seminars and, looking around at the booths and companies offering this and that. I felt the atmosphere the same as a sales convention – because that’s exactly what it was. 

Step right up! Can I get a witness!?

So my message today is that if you suffer from these maladies, don’t buy into anyone’s quick fix – it’s a long hard road and beware those who say they have been ‘cured’ by any one method: often they have an investment in that method.

This one I recommend

For society, please understand that we as a community are always keeping the wolf from the door. If we could snap our fingers and ‘snap out of it,’ we would. Don’t push the Dr. Oz snake oil on us and then blame us for our own lack of effort. Believe me, you wouldn’t want to feel like this and we are doing all we can. 

There’s nothing to sell here except blood, sweat, toil and tears. Every day we rise again, it is our own little triumph. Understand that. 

I could write a book about it. But I don’t think it would ever get published.

Well meaning advice and sick coping strategies

You have your coping mechanisms, I have mine.

Post Script: HOW COULD I MISS THIS? It's one of my favorite movies. Anyway, the subtitle for this piece should be:

How I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb.

The Mighty has run another interesting article by an author who deals with a problem very familiar to me: pre-worknight anxiety (is that a thing? it is now).

3 Tips for Managing Sunday Night Anxiety

The author, Andrea Addington, is a self-desribed (and commonly known as) an 'Anxiety Counselor' who plies her trade in the wilds of New Brunswick. Apparently she has mad marketing skills and is attractive enough (and young enough) to make it into The Mighty. That aside, she offers a basic set of pretty good techniques to help the garden variety anxious ready for their workweek.

I wish these techniques worked for me. 

They deal with WORK DEMANDS which are a real thing for a lot of people with anxiety. I get them too, as an added bonus to the real 800 lb. gorilla which is a hostile workplace which Addington doesn't address. 

What Addington describes are what I refer to as the 'mind tricks' that I have tried several times (including failing miserably at meditation) that no longer work.

Ergo, Ativan. Ergo, addiction.

But I sure can identify with what she writes here about her 'catastrophic thinking:'

“Oh no I’m going to go into work Monday morning and have a ton of emails to respond to, I won’t be able to get it done in time and my boss is going to get upset with me and think I am a terrible employee, then I will have an awful performance appraisal and get fired and wont be able to pay my mortgage and lose my house and end up homeless!” 

I am dead serious when I write that that 'fired' and 'lose my house and end up homeless' part is the end of pretty much every fear I have.Every. One.

So I thought, here it is, Monday, which is my Sunday, my I don't have to run day (OK, I couldn't resist the Bangles reference), and even though I work four 10 hour weeks to get a three day weekend every weekend (I know: what the hell am I complaining about?), so what would my paragraph of fear contain?

“Oh no I’m going to go into work Monday  Tuesday morning and have a ton of emails to respond to, one of which might be a summons to another inquisition about something I said that was jumped on as 'disturbing' by the people I work with who are constantly listening for me to say something they can take the wrong way. Despite getting my work done in time and in good order, they will eventually find some other rationale to convene another administrative investigation board, and, because I already have a reprimand in my file for quoting a movie line,  I won’t be able to get it done in time and my boss is going to get upset with me and think I am a terrible employee, then I will have an awful performance appraisal and I'll get fired, [redacted], but at least I won't have to work at the VA anymore!” 

But this is defeatism, yes, and it's not like I still try to play the psychological mind tricks on myself to put all this horror in perspective. I mean, seriously, how would you cope at work when behind every set of smiling eyes you see in your office you know they're just waiting to pounce? It's not paranoia when it's already happened more than once. And going back to the story of almost being killed on my front step by a SWAT team is getting a little tiresome. 

Yes, I'd quit if I could and I almost got a PR job locally in another Federal agency until one (or more) of my coworkers called said agency and, well, what are the odds of two positions, advertised nationally, going to two employees from my office?

Anyway, with the reprimand in my file, that cuts off any chance of getting another Federal job. So I am well and truly fucked trapped. I have to deal, I have no choice. Private industry? Again, give me a break? Two words: age discrimination. PR is a young person's game. I don't even bother looking at Linked In anymore.

So I how do I get ready for Tuesday?

This article has me thinking about things I can and could do to help, so let me blue sky a little here.

1. Ativan - the go-to benzo. The problem of course is with a dependence on it, one has to ramp up the dosage in sudden crisis situations. But it's there if needed. Like the old Dr. Pepper commercials, I tend to take it at 10, 2 and 4. 

2. All my other meds. What do they do? I don't know anymore, but if I stop taking them bad things will happen. Big Pharma loses a point or two on Wall Street. Not advised. 

3. Prayer. I don't mean to offend anyone but for me this is a desperation move. I'm always reminded of a Mad Magazine spoof from my youth, titled 'You Know You're A Football Fan when' where one of Jack Davis' (RIP) football fans is on his knees in front of the TV and the caption reads "you rediscover a childhood prayer when your team is behind by six points with one minute left in the game." 

One day, I don't remember what was happening, the Ghost of Catholicism Past pushed through all the shit that normally clutters my waking stream of thoughts and blurted out:

"Remember oh most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known, that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your assistance, or sought your intercession, was left unaided . . ."

Good Catholics (or those with good memories) I'm sure recognize that as the opening line of The Memorare. It's an intercessional prayer to the BVM (Blessed Virgin Mother) to get the pray-er out of some serious shit.

Then, of course, when you want to call out the heavy artillery (no offense BVM), there's this:

"St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. . . "

Of course, I feel GUILTY when I utter these prayers because I have not turned out to be a Good Catholic, and where the hell do I get off saying these prayers when I am not in a state of Grace? Do I really think that God, whom I'm not sure exists in the form I was taught, is going to even pay scant attention to the prayers of someone who only rediscovers their childhood religion when they have nothing more to fall back on?

 But hey, deus ex machina and all that. 

4. Walking around the complex. This doesn't seem to help anymore because it leads right back to my office and I'm sure when I'm out I catch the cops giving me the look. It's not a "short calming break." It's more like taking a stroll around the prison yard. But in this one, I can buy a candy bar; see: fat.

5. Relaxation tapes. There is no sanction against listening to music at your desk in my office as long as it doesn't disturb anyone and I have tried this numerous times. Again, it doesn't seem to work anymore. It throws off my concentration when writing. Then I have to lean back, close my eyes and listen and you can imagine the fear I have of being caught doing that! If I do it for two minutes, that will be the two minutes my boss comes through the door. I try music as well, but I find that classical music is what I reserve to myself when I am home or in a safe place and my good old time rock and roll just reminds me when life was not so painful (and it seems every song has a memory attached to it), so I pretty much spend my time in silence.

6. Reading self-help inspirational pieces on the Internet. See above. They're column fodder, nothing else (it's all been done, like 29 shrinks). 

Ah hell, what's the point? Andrea has it all down pat for her situation. Good for her. 

The brutal truth for many of us is, at some point, life becomes a slog and a bad one at that. I have been able to punctuate it with brief but happy moments of diversion but as they say, the laughs are getting fewer and farther between. 

The only real mental coping mechanism that works is reading various websites that remind me that the world is truly going to hell in a hand basket. Between the US and Russia perhaps willing to start a war over Syria, the North Korean madman anxious to try out his new nuclear toys, the artifice of an unsustainable economy disintegrating and the acceleration of global warming and the rising extinction of species, plus the fact that the next leader of the US is either going to be a warmongering, psychopathic liar or an arrogant, fascistic psychopath, I think I'm in pretty good stead to this - this too will pass - into some kind of nuclear fireball. 

It's sick, but it's all I got. 

. . . some sunny day

The Shame Game or how to lose a crappy psychologist in six sessions or less

This story highlights the fact that there are a great number of shitty mental health professionals out there:

9 women share horror stories about being shamed for their mental health — by doctors

I think it is my fate to have met most of them.

This is a big one

As I read this story, I recalled some of these things happening to me or variations thereof but for women, apparently, it's much worse since many in the 'caring professions' don't take them seriously.

Of course, this reminded me of the near shouting match I got into with my last dud of a psychologist. It was not the first time I have left a psychologist under less than cordial conditions.

And I offered a little advice about feeling out your counselor early in the sessions to see what their basic outlook on life is to include politics, religion, social values, etc. Because believe me, if you believe that being totally honest with your shrink and that honesty reflects something opposite of their belief system, you cannot trust that they will remain impartial.

Shocking, isn't it? No, not really. Many people get into the 'caring professions' because they are as fucked up as their patients. Many of them are social voyeurs and many of them also like the power trip of playing puppet master with someone's life. And, for the most part, it's relatively easy work if you're into that sort of thing.

The worst part, as always, is paperwork and paying malpractice insurance. Understand that it's incredible difficult to win a lawsuit against a psychologist because, well, they're good at obfuscation and the burden of proof is very high.

So my advice is this:

1. DO research your potential psychologist or psychiatrist online. Believe half of what you read from both the counselor's write up (my God how some of them lie!) and the reviews from patients. Remember the truth lies somewhere in the middle and it is up to you to make that call.

2. Take careful note of the kind of practice they have? Do they specialize in adult, senior or child psychology?

3. In the same vein, read what conditions they say they specialize in. This has become less useful as time has gone by since to practice build they need to pretty much list every condition they spent a chapter in school studying to get as many prospective clients as possible. Once you're on their couch they can wing it (books, Internet, etc.) You, nine times out of 10, won't be any the wiser. After all, you're in distress and they're the professional.

4. Forget about finding any lawsuits, board actions or any other sanctions. They aren't there.

5. For God's sake, make sure they accept your insurance before you go - and even then, double check it with your insurance company. I had a very nasty experience with one charlatan who flatly stated they accepted my insurance at 1 p.m. on the afternoon I finalized my appointment, but once I got on her couch, all of the sudden, I found out she didn't accept my insurance. She had four hours to call and tell me this but chose not to, instead, she tried to work out some kind of deal with me in the therapy room. It sounded like I was arguing with a car salesman and I literally fled the place.

6. Ever have a friend say to you I have such a great shrink - she'd be great for you - you must see her? Um, no. Don't. Each person is a whole different kettle of neurons and you don't want a friendship to come between you and a counselor.

Upon entering their office:

7. If they have 'Psychology Today' on the coffee table, leave immediately. No self-respecting therapist should read or foist that trash on anyone.

8. Note how you are greeted. Do they seem warm (remember how easy it is to fake sincerity though)? Or, do they seem distracted and treat you like another profit center? Shrinks who work for HMOs are notorious for this.

9. Don't be put off by the paperwork. They ALL have to have you sign disclosure statements. BUT if they drop them in your lap with a pen and don't go over them with you, that's a big red flag.

10. Set parameters of what you want to accomplish first. You have some basic issues and you're counselor should have some ideas about how to treat them. Make sure you are comfortable with their approach. Your gut is really the best judge. If things seem creepy and off, they probably are. What do you hope to achieve in therapy, is an honest first question. Tell me about your relationship with your mother, is not.

11. There is a delicate balance between talking and listening. The longer I saw my last psychologist, the more red flags went up in my head since I was doing 98 percent of the talking. I would come in, she would ask so how are you doing today, and then listen to me ramble on uninterrupted for most of the session. If you ask your counselor to respond to something you said, or you ask them a question and they turn it back on you or brush it off or give short non-answers, you have a problem. They're cashing your insurance company's check and you're providing entertainment.

12. If they're advice doesn't seem to make sense for your situation, tell them why. If they get arrogant about it, that's a good sign that it's time to leave. If at any time you feel you're being intimidated to accept any course of treatment - LEAVE! Just because you have a mental illness does not mean you can't trust your instincts. OK, sometimes, but rarely.

13. This should go without saying but nowadays one must: no touching, no suggestions of sex with you (don't laugh, the great M. Scott Peck has sex with his clients - he should have been thrown in jail not given book deals), I mean any violation of your personal space means it's time to leave - NOW! In some cases dealing with sexual abuse, certain probing questions about one's sexual practices may be fair game - but not when you're presenting for Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

14. Never commit to any number of sessions. Ever. If you feel you are being pressured to do so, leave. Committing to a number of sessions is a guilt trip mechanism designed to keep you on the couch long after you're so uncomfortable with your therapist the thought of going there makes you break out in hives. Basically, you're making their car payments.

15. If they're selling you their books, methods, tapes, keychains, etc. Leave. Not professional.

16. This one is going to upset some people but here goes: if you are a gun owner DENY IT if asked and don't ever bring it up unasked. With some counselors, at that point, you have been tried, convicted and sentenced in their mind as some kind of dangerous lunatic who either has a warped idea of manhood or is turned on by phallic symbolism. Or a Republican. Any which way, any useful therapy just ended and now you are a target.

17. Always remember YOU are the one in charge and YOU are the one determining whether is counselor is right for you (unless of course, you say you're going to kill yourself or someone else - don't do that). If at some time, a counselor says they are not right for you, don't argue - they are doing you a favor. BUT - if they give you referrals, never use them. It's just their friends passing people around. Go back to your own research.

Well, I'm sure I'm missing a few but these are based on my own decades of experience and your mileage of course, may vary. In any case, should you decide on seeking counseling, and you forget everything else I've written, remember this: let the first few sessions truly be a feeling out time where you determine your level of trust and comfort. When you're convinced you've reached that point, then you can go on about why you're bothered that your spouse allows the dog in the bedroom during sex.

My First Science Lesson or How Not to Melt Your Manhood

It was a hot August night.

I would soon do an imitation of this album cover

Let me back up a bit.

In my house, it was a bad move to ask for Coke or Pepsi. Not because it would start a fight over which was better, but my mother didn’t buy much of either and it was only for special occasions (Saturday nights) not for every time we were thirsty.

Inevitably, when I would ask if we had something to drink, the answer would be: water. We had a well, the water was, well, free.

There was one exception to the rule and it was anything that could be made with water. This DID include Kool Aid (IF mom bought any) and Tang, although after bugging mom for months to buy the ‘spaceman soft drink’ after a few tries, we all admitted we hated that crap.

Because here on Earth, it sucks.

There was coffee, which as a kid; I didn’t understand why anyone would drink this evil stuff, and tea. Everyone could drink tea.

The Beatles bring decent tea to America

We could also have iced tea. Of course, like Tang, ice tea mixes had to be bought and, well, like everything else kids wanted, it was ‘too expensive’ to be anything other than a sometimes treat.

BUT, we always had tea bags (Lipton, of course, we’re Americans, thank you). 

Brits wouldn't be caught dead drinking this shite

And you can make iced tea the old fashioned way by boiling the tea first.

As a side note, ‘iced tea’ is somewhat of a weird concept to Canadians. When you ask for it in a restaurant, they will bring you hot tea with a glass full of ice. This may have changed over the years but the last time I was there, that is what they served. That and Beaver Tails.

So.

It was the August before starting eighth grade (1976) and, of course, there was no Pepsi, Coke or even that God-awful Tab or Diet Rite my mom would buy. No one wanted water, there was no iced tea mix and so I went about boiling the water and adding tea bags.

Then I got out the pitcher. It was a very nice pitcher. I remember it to this day – cut glass, a sort of golden color, held a gallon. A veritable work of art.

I poured the tea into the glass pitcher. Boiling tea. Glass.

I still remember how it disintegrated, allowing scalding tea to cascade over the counter on to my legs and, yes, nether regions.

For a moment, I was in shock. My parents heard the pitcher crash and then a few beats later, my screaming.

I ran into the living room, screaming. I could not elucidate. I could only scream.

Then something happened I will never forget.

My mother, in her frustration over my inability to articulate that my balls may have just been melted off, drew back her hand and gave me a good slap across the face.

It was worthy of Bette Davis.

Articulate damn you!

In further shock, I ran upstairs howling, went into the bathroom and proceeded to peel off my jeans and the top layer of leg skin went with it.

Long story short: ER trip, Silvadene cream, bandages and dressings, home from school for a week.

In answer to the inevitable question (which my classmates asked as well), I later had two children.

What happened after that was relatives on both sides of my family spent weeks giving me what they felt was useful advice on how not to scald your balls off. My sainted Grandma Gottschalk advised putting a wooden spoon in the middle of the pitcher to absorb the heat.

Even at 13, I knew that would not have helped.

The moral of this story is that we wait too long in school to teach our children the laws of thermodynamics. We think that telling kids not to put their hands on a hot stove and stick bobby pins in electrical outlets are enough. 

Either that or we feel some lessons need to be learned the hard way. As John Wayne said, “life is tough; it’s tougher when you’re stupid.”

One thing I couldn’t quite figure out. Why is it that when mom made Jell-O™ she would boil water and put it in the glass measuring cup and then into a glass pan without either the cup or the pan similarly shattering?

So if I could pass on one of life’s great pieces of advice to all other young people it would be in one word: Pyrex.

 

"Pyrex"

Post No Bull

I spent a good deal of time writing a new post that would have appeared here about. . . now.

It was an experimental post that encouraged you, dear reader, to find me disgusting. Sort of a George Constanza reverse experiment. Since I have had a hard time throughout my life making lasting friends and having people like me despite my personality disorder, this was an attempt to do the exact opposite of what I usually do.

That is to say, by coming across as a complete ass, you dear reader would find me cutting, edgy, interesting etc.

And, frankly, I had a ball writing it. I thought it was cutting, edgy and genuinely tart.

Knowing that because of my condition, my perception is quite often skewed, I had my wife look at it first.

She didn't laugh once.

I think, in one respect, she doesn't like seeing me put myself down so savagely, even if it is done ironically.

But she also said it was particularly mean spirited at times.

A big part of what I write has to do with my experiences growing up with an undiagnosed mental condition and talking about my family is a part of that. But this time, my wife felt I laid on the snark with a particularly huge and nasty trowel.

And deep down inside, I know she's right. It was meant to be.


But, again, this is part of the process of trying to understand and control my behavior. It's a perfect illustration of how I tend to offend: what seems funny and edgy to me might be repulsive to you, the reader.

It can be something I write or say. It really doesn't matter. Perceptions are everything.

So I'm going to let it sit in the queue and stew for awhile and come back to it later, possibly for a re-write but knowing that I often get a very different feeling about something from one day to another. Tomorrow, or some other day, I might look back on what I wrote and think 'good God, I almost published that shit.'

The takeaway is that, for many of us, we get to the point where we don't trust our own instincts. And I don't trust mine anymore. It's a byproduct of bipolar.

I won't lie - it hurts. But I would rather follow the advice of someone I love and trust than possibly wound the blog - which has helped me as therapy through writing - than stubbornly insist that everything I write is golden. When I have been wrong before, I've been spectacularly wrong.

I guess it's progress that I can recognize and admit this.

So maybe someday you'll read it in the proper context or maybe not. But I didn't want to hit the hay tonight without writing something about The Post that Wasn't.

Because for me, it's all about working it out in print and learning from the misfires is a part of that.

Sabotage!

So here comes some decent advice from Psychology Today.

How To Stop Sabotaging Your Own Success

Consider the case of Keith George:

George is always on a diet. He says his goal is to lose 20 pounds. He goes for a run every morning, eats a healthy breakfast, and chooses wisely when he takes clients out for lunch. But George sabotages his weight loss by keeping a cabinet full of junk food and “rewarding” himself with chips and cookies when he comes home hungry and tired.

Well, I feel for George. I feel his weariness, his hunger, his need to reward himself after another day surviving a soul-killing job in an environment of abuse and hypocrisy. 

For me, it's ice cream.

I think Big Pharma has been playing with us for some time. Are you telling me you can't make a pill that makes you feel as good as a bowl of ice cream or a big piece of chocolate cake (with lots of icing)? Oh, yeah, we do have those (opiates) but if we start enjoying life to much from a pill, some of us will OD and well. . . 

My wife takes pity on me when she buys groceries. When I'm melting under the couch, she'll bring home the stuff I shouldn't be eating but I do. 

And it makes me happy - for an hour -- then I feel guilty. 

It's not like I haven't said no to myself.

Like this - no.

Sometimes, when I'm really feeling good, I'll say it like this - no. 

But I really need to say this - NO!

I remember an interview a long time ago with Boy George where he was discussing his drug addiction problem and referenced Nancy Reagan's 'Just Say No' campaign. He made the point that you can consciously say no but your body says, uh, I need those drugs and I need them NOW or you will PAY!

And for many of us who are depressed, these foods are a drug. A bad drug to be sure because the effects don't last as long and have more calories than a Vicodin.

But there's more to the article than conquering fat. Some of us engage in a lot of self-defeating activity of which, we are fully aware.

You may not apply for a promotion because you’ve already concluded that your co-worker is better qualified, or you give up on online dating because deep down you don’t think you’re pretty enough or young enough. You worry that you’ll fail, so it’s easier to not even acknowledge that you want a promotion or committed partner.

But of course, this can be learned behavior, rammed into your consciousness because it has happened over and over. What is never quite acknowledged by psychology is that many of us have these gun-shy tendencies because these things have happened no matter how confident we were at the time or how well we put our best foot forward. Once or twice, one can, reasonably, recover. Several times and many of us figure - why put ourselves out for more pain?

Yes, people have failed many times, stuck it out, and become a 'success.' But I would put it to you that they are different-minded people from the world of the walking wounded. If this sounds like excuses, spend a lifetime in our shoes. 

I got to do almost everything I wanted and took very serious personal and career risks. It's a miracle that I landed on my feet when I could have cashed in several times. But the older you get, the more risk-adverse you become (well, at least I did) because for many of us, we've escaped from potentially catastrophic incidents so many times, despite our condition, that many of us feel we may have used up our store of good fortune. And this is a very definite feeling.

For instance, at my age, the prospect of being assertive at work when I recently had a case of people laying a trap for me because of my behavior, is terrifying. At 53, who would hire someone who got booted from the Federal civil service? Thankfully, lessons were learned, meds were adjusted and things have become tolerable. But in the back of my mind there is still fear. And I'm afraid it will never leave. 

And I am not alone in this. 

One more bite at this article before I go. We're giving some seriously mixed messages in our society today and here is an example. 

The author of this piece, Sharon Martin LCSW, writes:

Allow yourself to dream big. Don’t be afraid to imagine a bright future for yourself. Expecting failure or catastrophizing won’t protect you from disappointment. It only keeps you stuck in a negative mindset.

Dream big, which to many of us, sounds like following our dreams, our passions.

But then Mike Rowe comes along and douses the fire:

"But when it comes to making a living, it’s easy to forget the dirty truth: just because you’re passionate about something doesn’t mean you won’t suck at it.'"

The problem here is that both Martin and Rowe are right in their own way. I'd like to see them on a panel discussion. But here is the truth - one may suck at something that is their dream BUT if they never try, they'll go to their grave wondering 'what if?'

Rowe's point also has a dirty little secret encapsulated inside of it -- with the cost of higher education and the narrowing job market, the price of failure in America has never been as great. If you dream of being journalist, as I did in the 70s and 80s, you can go to J school, graduate with $100,000 or more in debt and find yourself working in a dying industry for $25,000 a year, IF you're lucky enough to get a job.

So the bottom line here is this: is regret on your death bed a greater fear than poverty and disappointment? Or do you believe you will be one of the exceptions?

This is one of many struggles that become internalized more severely among people with depressive disorders.

So too many of us land up like Homer:

So stop the negative head talk and stop sabotaging yourself.

If you can.