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?

Notes from the Schlub

Ah, a book I need

What do you do when you think your life is somewhat on borrowed time?

The WaPo reports this morning that Jared Kushner is being give wide powers to restructure the Federal government with their first sites set on the VA.

I’ve been a worrier all my life but I’m trying not to let this get to me. I have a job today, I’ll have a job tomorrow and I don’t want to live my life as if the roof is about to cave in any second. There’s been too much of that in my time on Earth.

And I’m also feeling guilty about worrying about me when there’s so many people around the world worse off. And there are a lot of good people right here doing their best for our country’s Veterans. They deserve better too.

In any case, war could break out in several places tomorrow rendering a lot of extraneous worry moot.

We’re lucky. We’ve been lucky. Perhaps it’s cosmically just that the luck, my luck, runs out at some point. But when I look at the horrible disparagement of income in the country, compared to what it was when I was a young adult, I feel less justified in guilt. There is plenty of pie to go around – for everyone. What has happened to many people is nothing less than economic violence. I’m afraid it’s going to get around to formerly lucky ones soon. If not, then robots will do our jobs. I’m waiting for the first fully mechanized McDonalds. I don’t think it’s too far off.

***

I’ve been a little rough on my psych doctor lately. It seems that the luck of the draw is the day I see her, something bad has happened and I’m in a downward spiral. She lets me vent, reminding me this is the place for it, but in fairness, she doesn’t deserve it. No one does really. I guess the measure of venting effectiveness is if you feel better afterwards. I don’t; I feel guilty.

***

There is something to be said for being electively bald. I recently had my head shaved as part of a fundraiser for St. Baldrick’s Foundation which helps children with cancer. The shaving party was at a local bar and I had an uncharacteristically fun time. But I also wanted to see what my large noggin would look like without hair, plus a beard that I was re-growing.

I knew the beard would come in mostly grey and I was prepared for that. I think it looks pretty good, my wife will get used to it but surprisingly, many of my FB and IRL friends like it too.

Two of them have said I look a little ‘BA’ (bad ass). I don’t think that’s a term that has ever been used to describe me in my life and I’m not sure how to take it. I hate being ‘lifestyle-ish.’ That is, someone who tailors themselves to a particular lifestyle (and associated look) whether it comes naturally to them or not. I’ve always been ‘me,’ which is to say, something of a schlub (and yes, I know my Yiddish).

Not saying I’ve never exhibited streaks of talent and lucidity but always within the framework of schlubbiness. I’m not sure I could pull off a new persona for even a week. 

Funeral for a friend

My best friend in high school died over the holiday. He was my age. 

I hadn’t spoken to him since May of 2005 and I distinctly remember the phone call.

Frank apparently died alone in his apartment in Florida and was found two days later as a result of a health and welfare check. I hate that he went that way.

I don’t know what took his life. 

I met Frank in late August of 1977 when he plunked down in front of me in homeroom our Freshman year in high school. We were arranged alphabetically and this is just the way it turned out. We struck up a friendship that lasted on and off for decades. 

To say Frank was something of a free spirit misses the mark – he was a total goof off with a heart of gold. He had a wonderful habit of getting into scrapes due to his adventurous spirit. I could tell many, many stories of the fun we had but I will just recount one for now.

Back in 1980, the airlines were having fare wars. Frank, always flush with cash from his father’s Air Force inheritance, decided we (around the six of us who were close to him) should have dinner some night in Washington DC.

Of course we lived in the Cleveland area. Frank put down the cash and bought the tickets.

Now, none of us really felt our parents would be up to what Frank had planned so he did something deliciously sneaky – he had us going to the airport from school, taking the 5 p.m. flight to Reagan National, landing at 545, taking a cab to Hogate’s (seafood) on the Potomac (my idea), having a two hour dinner, then taking a cab back to the airport to catch an 815 p.m. flight to Cleveland that would get us home by 9 p.m., our parents none the wiser for the cover story was we went to the movies.

I begged off as we grew closer to the date. I just couldn’t imagine the grief I would catch from my father if I got caught. Knowing my dad, well, I had enough of his volcanic temper growing up and didn’t want to poke the bear anymore. 

Alas, Frank being Frank, he could not keep his secret to himself. After all, he had scored some major savings on these tickets AND scheduled the whole thing to wrap up in less than six hours on a weekday. You had to hand it to him. 

As an aside, Frank also had another idea, based on two of his favorite movies ‘The Gumball Rally’ and ‘Smokey and the Bandit’ for a race from the Cleveland area to Kentucky and back. Calling it ‘The O-K Stogie Race,’ the gimmick was, once in Kentucky, you had to buy a pack of smokes with the state’s revenue sticker on them to prove you crossed the Ohio River. Then, the first person back to Mentor, Ohio with the sticker was the winner.

It was quintessential Frank.

So on the day of the flight, Frank shows up in school with the tickets sticking out of his shirt pocket, loudly telling everyone “we’re going tonight to DC for dinner,” Frank attracted the attention of a few teachers who didn’t believe he was really doing this and one sorta-priest who did. 

I will only refer to this ‘pastoral counselor’ as Mark for that was his first name. Anyway, Mark alerted the Dean of Discipline (the former football coach and a really nice guy) and Frank was called down to his office where he was relieved of his tickets because in loco parentis and all that.

I mean, there were a few things Frank hadn’t considered: what if the plane was delayed for some reason? We’d need another cover story. What if we were delayed overnight? What if, God forbid, the plane went down and our parents had to learn about our fate from the local TV news crews? 

Stuff like that.

Well Frank came back from the Dean’s office to a class we shared and looking at his face I knew right away what happened. 

“Father Mark and Mr. Ward took my tickets away,” Frank sulked.

Well even though I was no longer on the flying itinerary, I couldn’t stand to see Frank this way so I did so. . .so. . . um, I did something in retrospect I’m not proud of but at the time seemed like great fun.

I pumped Frank up with indignation. I reminded him that those tickets were his property and what he did outside of the school on his own time was his own business. I could see Frank getting worked up.

“They had NO legal right to do that,” I told Frank. “Do you want the card of my mom’s lawyer?”

Well by the time I was through with him, ‘Fighting Frank’ stormed back in the Dean’s office 

demanding the return of his property. All that resulted was a shouting match, Frank not getting his tickets, and a possible detention, I really don’t remember.

Lest you think this shattered Frank, it didn’t. He would proudly re-tell of the shouting match for years afterwards. All I did was put a little starch in his shorts. It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last because, well, if you can’t play asshole with your friends sometimes, what’s the point?

It wasn’t really the Dean that was this issue here. It was the smarminess of ‘Father Mark’ that galled us. 

Mark wasn’t quite through with us yet, but it wouldn’t go the way he wanted. First, Frank’s mom, after having her usual fuss and feathers explosion, quickly forgave her son with no apparent punishment. 

Then the next week at the football game, I played my card.

Before the game, I went up to Father Mark and remonstrated with him about what a low thing he did by ruining our fun and taking Frank’s plane tickets. Mark sneered.

“You know, you’re name was on one of those tickets,” Mark said. “What if I were to tell your father about this?”

“OK father, he’s right up there six rows from the top on the corner in the brown coat; can’t miss him,” I said. And walked away knowing a delicious feeling of triumph I would rarely experience in life.

See, when I finally told dad about the abortive dinner flight, he simply said “sounds like fun; I would have let you go.”

I remember feeling light-headed and wondering if this was some kind of Twilight Zone family. Seriously, you could have knocked me over with a feather (and I’m pretty fat). Had I known this, I would have been the one to take Frank’s tickets for safeguarding until the end of the day.

The whole idea was pure Frank and he had a million of them. We were young and full of ourselves and looking for adventure where we could find it. I remember those days and the things we dared to do that we wouldn’t now and I think we’re poorer for it. 

But Frank was the pied piper of the adventure and scheme. I know my high school experience would have been far, far duller without him as a friend.

In the end I lost him when he had to choose between his firefighter friends and me over some stupid shit having to do with hard feelings over a fantasy football club. Frank tried to make peace between me and them but couldn’t do it. After that last phone call, we never spoke again. 

A big part of the reason was my stubbornness and self-justification that I was right and had a right to be aggrieved. And then, 11 years later and thanks to Facebook, we had a chance to reconnect. 

We almost did, but we didn’t. I tried to friend him on Facebook but he never accepted and I didn’t really push it, thinking he was still between the rock and the hard place I had put him in a decade before. I had hoped he would come to the class reunion. He didn’t. I had no idea that my window for reconciliation was going to be so short.

So, of course, I feel like an asshole, as usual. 

Frank’s family is planning a memorial service up in Ohio in the coming days. Many if not all of the people involved in the fantasy football group that I used to so enjoy being a part of will be there. And I think they still despise me, so I don’t know what to do. I don’t do well in public gatherings and old animosities don’t help.

But I want to say goodbye to my friend somehow. We went through too much for me not to pay respects. I know it sounds hokey, but a part of my past and a part of me died too. In the weeks since Frank’s death I keep remembering all the shit we would get into and all the fun we would have.

He was the best man at my second wedding.

Wherever you are Frank, I hope you can forgive me. If it takes all the Ativan in my storehouse to make it through, I will be at your service. But I want to know where you’re buried because I want to make it more personal than a memorial service. Whether you’re remains are in Ohio or Florida, I need some time there to say a prayer for you, just the two of us. 

It’s the least I can do.

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”