Goodbye to all that

First, an announcement. 

I think it is best for my own mental health at this point to drastically cut back my participation on Facebook. There are several reasons for this that I won’t bore you with but I would say the main one is that it does nothing to help my depression or associated conditions. In addition, I spend far too much time on it that could otherwise be spent on more productive activities, such as writing.

In order to help myself break this addiction, I have taken it off my sign in page for Firefox.

I find that the longer I spend on Facebook, the more depressed and upset I get. One of the things that has bothered me for a while is the constant reminders by Facebook of past posts which I would rather not be reminded of. In addition, pages that I have made for other reasons are constantly popping up in my main feed to sell me more eyes on.

In the last few days, I have pestered by Facebook to buy ads for one of these pages, featuring a photo of a woman I have never seen before.

I can be found on Twitter although I am prepared to curtail my activity there if things get out of hand, which, so far, it hasn’t. Whether it is a good platform to promote this blog is too early to tell but that is the main reason I am remaining on the service.

For many people like myself, I think we come to the point that the longer we participate in social media, the worse we feel and the more our interactions with the real world fade in obscurity. For some, this is a godsend, for others, it is dangerous to their mental health.

In the past 18 months, I have experiences a number of negative events that have put me into a position where perhaps, some pulling back of the reins can be interpreted as self-care. One of the main reasons I increased my presence on Facebook this year was not just to promote this blog but to try and enlarge my circle of friends, having lost all chance of forming lasting or even decently superficial relationships at work.

I have found, at least in my case, that it is true that you can’t go home again, nor should you try. The nature of human relationships in the digital age has changed drastically from even 15 years ago and social media, for better or worse, forms the cornerstone of our relationships to each other and the world around us. I believe this is dangerous for one main reason: the desire to be loved and accepted engenders the creation of an unreality in the way people present themselves on social media. 

For instance, old classmates are not the way your remember them. They have re-engineered themselves to the point where you wonder where the past left off and the present presents. In any case, Facebook presentations have become the digitized versions of those god-awful end of the year Christmas letters we used to get telling us the grand, glorious and god-like experiences of some distant in-law's family over the past year. With Facebook, that sort of nauseous shilling is now a 24/7 proposition. I don't know about you, but it must be exhausting constantly tending to one's personal shop window.

And, after all, this is what life is all about anyway, right?

In short, nothing is what it seems. This is not just for individuals but for corporations, media outlets and pretty much any other human endeavor that uses social media to grow their brand or whatever the term is today.

It was different in the past since there were fewer channels of communication that built more of a commonality of experience. Those of my generation remember that we had three news networks to watch, for instance, a presidential debate. Now there are countless avenues to experience this event, but more importantly, you can choose the political ideology you identify with as a lens with which to view the event.

Many herald this as liberating, and to a degree, it is. Those who claim media bias are no longer bound to watch anything that doesn’t agree with them. What they don’t realize is the way they have ghettoized themselves into their own little echo chamber that continually reinforces their worldview to the point of paranoia and fanaticism. This works for the left as well as the right, and the amazing thing is, neither side can bring themselves to admit it.

For those of us who give living in American society at least some of the blame for exacerbating our mental conditions, the only way to protect yourself is start to disengage. Merely being careful consumers of news and culture, while always recommended, is not enough. It is too easy to be influenced by repeated images, slogans and propaganda without even being consciously aware it is happening. 

The effects can be felt long after exposure, and tend to manifest themselves with anxiety, depression and even rage that seemingly comes from nowhere. These messages, even though they may reinforce our worldviews, can be so disturbing to our gentler natures, that they overwhelm our sense of empathy and rationality some point where they are generated from our subconscious in relation to some stimulus. 

I would say that the world is mad. The ongoing train wreck of this year’s presidential campaign is simply the latest and the most egregious example. Although there has always been a dark side to the Internet and social media, the tribes that Americans have sequestered themselves into are now so sharp that we are seeing raging, hate-filled flame wars between family members and long-time friends online that we have not seen since the Civil War. 

"the Democrats left us defenseless against the aliens, impeachment is the only answer"

Without going to deeply into the subject for now, I believe we stand at a very perilous time in American history. Some have described it as a turning point, which can be good or bad. I believe that no matter who wins the election, the fabric of commonality that used to unite Americans to some degree has been shattered and cannot be rebuilt. Even if there were, say, an invasion by aliens, I believe we would see furious arguments between the warring factions of the left and right on the right way to fight the invasion and who is responsible for our unpreparedness, even as our world is being destroyed.

As it is now, by our hands, being destroyed. 

It does not do me any good to continue to try to influence public opinion by way of social media. I believe now, that that way lies madness. It may be that this vast odious sandbox was indeed constructed to corral public opinion in such a way that all energy would be expanded by wars within the system, keeping them out of the streets. The fact that this has not worked in all cases, specifically with the anti-police brutality movement, is a testament to the helpless frustration of those in underprivileged communities who feel they have nothing left to lose.

Self-care for the terminally anxious and worried folks can take many forms, some of them self-destructive. But I think pulling back from the madness that is enveloping us, not a surrender to the forces of darkness, but a simply acknowledgement that for many of us, over the course of our lives, we have done the best we could. And, the effort has degraded our energy and our souls in equal measure and that it is time, in the necessity of preserving whatever peace we can find left in our souls, to disengage. 

I have fought this for a long time but I have to admit that as time goes by, I lack the will to care anymore. I cannot stop what is happening. But I can stop the deleterious effect these events are having on my state of mind. Forever addicted as a news junkie, I know that I will never totally disengage, but I will withdraw as far as I can.

For all my friends, acquaintances and those who stumble on this blog, I leave you to your own battles and wish you well whatever your cause. But I can’t and won’t be part of your crusades any more. You would find my true feelings to be offensive anyway, and best we just take care of our own concerns.

Thank you for visiting my grave - but first a word from our sponsors

This blog, despite what some may think, was never meant to change social or political history. My radio show was supposed to do that and, although the effort was a good one, at a for-profit enterprise, it was doomed. What the blog is all about is (1) therapy writing for me to express things that I am reluctant to do personally and (2) a diary of sorts that acts as a written gravestone or testament. 

You may know that there are some cemeteries that will sell you an interactive gravestone that flashes images from the deceased’s life and audio of their words and others that knew them. This, of course, is somewhat crass but understandable from a society that has taken the idea of ‘personal branding’ even to the grave. 

If some people wish to give a spin on their thoughts, beliefs and actions through that medium, fine for them. I’ll do it the old fashioned way, with words and stories.

American Skin

I feel that in light of last night's tragedy, this post needs a disclaimer. I wrote this yesterday before the tragic events in Dallas last night. I still think there is something worth saying here. But I want to state for the record that this is NOT an anti-police screed. I am very grateful for the professionalism of the police that showed up to my house a year ago today. I am trying to draw a distinction between my treatment and those in different neighborhoods who receive a different reception. I do not, nor would ever, support the wanton murder of police officers. What happened last night will only lead to more division among us. It does not serve us as a country or a civilization to condone or celebrate the murder of anyone. This morning I fear for my country. We may have crossed a line in incivility that may be hard to undo. With all that said, here is what I wrote yesterday:

Lena gets her son ready for school
She says, "On these streets, Charles
You've got to understand the rules
If an officer stops you, promise me you'll always be polite
And that you'll never ever run away
Promise Mama you'll keep your hands in sight”

-- Bruce Springsteen “American Skin”

On these streets . . .

It was one year ago today that I could have easily been killed by a SWAT team responding to a call originating with my employer.

I wrote about it a few days ago here.

There was something else about that situation that I didn’t write about and it has nothing to do with my mental condition, so I am going to write about it now.

There are particulars to my story that are very important in understanding what I am about to write.

First, the police were notified, and to this day I don’t know by whom and why, that I was holding my wife hostage in our house with a rifle.

They showed up ready for war. There were about a dozen officers from multiple jurisdictions in SWAT gear that formed a perimeter around my house while I was sitting on my couch, sipping coffee, unaware.

There were cops in my driveway, cops in my backyard, cops in the neighbor’s yards, including a sniper team that were under the porch awning of my neighbor’s house waiting for me to come out.

If I live to be 100 (which I won’t), I’ll never forget the sight that greeted me when I opened the door. Cops in riot gear everywhere. M-16s pointed at me.

The first thing out of the hostage negotiator’s mouth was “I need to see your hands.” 

Not these streets - my front stoop

I was holding my smart phone in my right hand. I thought briefly of dropping it but thought that might be misinterpreted, so when I raised both my hands slowly, I kept the cell phone (thankfully in a bright red case) in my right hand telling the police it was a cell phone.

Thinking back, I am surprised I didn’t wet myself. I was trembling, not understanding what the hell I had done to deserve this. But I knew any sudden move might be my last and I didn’t want to die on my front lawn.  

I was given verbal commands to walk slowly down my front steps, hands in the air, to my wife’s car where I was frisked. 

It was there that I was allowed to tell my story, show the cops my cellphone which proved I had emailed in sick for the day and that email had been received and approved. Up in my house, my wife, who had just come out of the shower, was being asked if I had intended to hurt her. 

My neighbor strolled up to my driveway, recognized one of the cops, and vouched for me. “He’s a good guy,” my neighbor said. “He was just in my pool last Sunday.”

After five minutes the cops were apologizing to me for the inconvenience.

I know I might get a lot of crap in light of what happened last night about what I’m about to write, but here it is. 

I’ve always had the nagging notion that I wasn’t shot and later was treated with respect and civility by the police for one reason and it wasn’t just because of my compliance.

Because I’m beginning to believe that compliance doesn’t always matter. It didn’t seem to with Philando Castile.

I was a white guy in a white neighborhood. I believe my odds of being perforated by bullets were substantially reduced over a person of color by an unknown, but sizeable factor that day.

Understand please, the seriousness of the call the police received – domestic situation (always a big caution for cops), hostage situation, and a firearm present.

This was no broken tail light.

Here is what happened in my situation:

1.     Unlike Mr. Castile, I was not shot.

2.     Despite the report that I was holding a gun on my wife, It appeared to me I was not assumed to be armed when I left the house: I was not asked to kneel on my front steps and assume a prone position while armed police came up with weapons drawn to cuff me (which would have been the procedure), nor was the phone in my hand mistaken for anything else.

3.     Upon reaching the police, I was not taken hard to the ground and cuffed or tasered. I was given an extremely polite and brief pat down while standing and then allowed to drop my hands and give the police my side of the story.

4.     My wife, who was going to pieces in the house, was comforted by a police officer. Mr. Castile’s girlfriend, Diamond Reynolds, and her child, were not comforted by the police. In fact, according to CNN, the St. Anthony police separated her from her daughter, didn't tell her until 3 a.m. that Castile was dead and didn't take her home until 5 a.m. "They took me to jail. They didn't feed us. They didn't give us water," she said. "They put me in a room and separated me from my child. They treated me like a prisoner."

5.     My neighbor was not angrily told to back away and keep his distance. He was allowed to literally walk up to a police action and, because he knew one of the officers, talk to them about what a great guy I was. Ask yourself how many people of color would be afforded such a privilege?

6.     And, I received an apology from the police. Two of them also gave me their business cards. I mean, please, let’s not be crazy here. Cops generally don’t apologize for doing their duty even when a mistake is made: it’s a potential legal liability to do so. 

I can only speak to what happened to me. But when I look at my situation as opposed to Mr. Castile’s especially, I can only draw one honest conclusion and it’s one that makes me very uneasy. 

Sometimes, despite our upbringing, our culture and our own personal prejudices, we have to face the truth. Let me just say this for the record: on July 8, 2015, I was damn happy to be the beneficiary of white privilege. 

Because I’m thinking that it was about 50/50 odds that without that privilege, I would not be here today or in one piece.

And that is wrong.

41 shots, and we'll take that ride
'Cross this bloody river to the other side
41 shots, I got my boots caked with this mud
We're baptized in these waters 

And in each other's blood