the tap

I wrote this yesterday and decided not to post it. Then this morning during my commute MPR was airing a discussion which involved the stigma of mental illness (set in the context of politics in this case). I don’t like to keep quiet about my problems and I really don’t like feeling like I have to keep quiet. This is my life and if some part of it sucks, I’m going to talk about it. So, I’ve changed me mind. Here’s what I wrote yesterday…

Some days I just cannot get it together. My head is cloudy, my body is tense, and my emotions twist like a knife in my chest. I try to focus and I can only capture a fixed point in space and time for a few seconds before blurring into a catatonic hundred mile stare. Everything is bad, bad, bad and as far as my aching head is concerned, it can really only get worse.

Anyone who’s followed this little blog of mine knows that 2009 was the worst year of my life and that I am currently in a perpetual state of crisis. So it is from within this particular depressive period that I’d like to make a few observations about how I experience depression/anxiety/being nuts.

First, depression seems to equal the absence of hope. If you can find some hope, which I would define as some possibility of a better tomorrow, you can think your way into a functional state. Or at least, I sometimes can if my mood is triggered or heightened by circumstance. This might seem obvious to a sane person but to crazies, hope seems mushy and sappy and useless and naïve. But if you have some of it, then your suffering is finite and you can muster the will to make it through.

Second, having people dependent on you is a blessing and a curse. My kids save my life every single day. I could never hurt myself because I wouldn’t do that to them. I can’t even wallow around in self-pity because I wouldn’t want them to see that. For them I put on a mask of normalcy and pretend to function. On the other hand, they are insanely demanding and quickly tap my already limited energy reserves. They tear a swath of destruction and in their wake I am left standing amongst the rubble; an emergency response team of one. At times like this, I have to remember the upside: they keep me going and I love them more than anything or anyone.

Third, nobody is going to understand BUT that’s not the same as not caring. What’s happening is happening to you and it is not entirely rational (let’s take a moment to recognize that it’s not all irrational either). Don’t expect sympathy, understanding, support, sex, or hugs. You usually won’t get it. But that doesn’t mean the entire world is a cold and indifferent place. Those same people who don’t get it are probably worried about you but think about it, what can they really do? In my particular case, visible sympathy or concern is usually met with deftly deployed minimization and denial tactics. Instead of accepting the help or sympathy, I recoil and insist that I’m just a little tired today.

Finally, if you can trick yourself into getting out of your own head, it will help. Today I read an early draft of a friend’s short story and that made a big difference. It elbowed my analytic mind to the foreground and forced me to do something I’m good at. Suddenly a little pride slipped in and my whole world got a little brighter. It’s simple but it works.

Until this period ends I’m sure I’ll be writing more about depression than film, screenwriting, comedy, etc. and I know it might not be what people want to read. Bummer, it’s what I need to write.

Also, I know my readers are mainly comprised of close family and friends and these posts could be taken the wrong way. So let me clear that up: this isn’t a veiled attempt to get help, you don’t need to do anything, but I do need to have this blogging outlet. Seriously, you do enough by reading this as it justifies the existence of this blog and I find the whole thing…therapeutic.

Christmas for most is a time of family and presents and good will towards everyone but that fucker who cut you off on the highway. It’s those things for me too but another thread that runs consistently through my Christmas celebrations is some sort of illness. It varies from year to year but somehow, in some way, I will be sick on Christmas, and with the holiday a mere day away, the sugarplums that should be in my head (whatever the hell those are) have been replaced with massive amounts of snot.

As a kid this trend was less of a bother because a kid can be on his or her death bed and still jump up and down screaming when it’s time to open presents. But as the years have progressed and my enthusiasm for everything has diminished and my Christmas responsibilities have increased, it’s become a real drag. And it’s so recurring that one has to wonder if it’s psychosomatic (especially with a neurotic like myself) but at times the illness has been so debilitating that psychological disturbance couldn’t possibly be responsible.

The worst was something like five or six years ago during which I was stricken with the worst case of flu I think I’ve ever had. I had a raging fever, was vomiting constantly, and only spoke in confused broken sentences. My memories from that Yule tide hell are spotty at best but a few moments persist in my memory and playback with the slow motion detail of a near death experience. I remember, for example, being propped up on the couch in a daze as little kids piled presents on me with screeching enthusiasm. I also remember being expected to open presents and while I got an iPod, the flood of warmth I felt was a shivering surge of fever and I believe I lost consciousness. Finally I remember being in the car late on Christmas Eve as Shannon drove us to her parents house. I was doubled over in pain, moaning and crying, begging her to take me to the hospital.

So if it’s just a cold this year, I figure that’s pretty good. It could have been swine flu instead which, with my holidazed history, would probably kill me. And so, as you gather with friends and family, know that in my cloudy snot filled head, I’m wishing you and yours a healthy and happy holiday.

Merry Christmas.

Ok, if someone actually read my blog, that person might be quick to point out that I posted three entries and then disappeared. If that person were also an authority on blogging, social media, or self-indulgent cries for help, it might also be noted that this is a great way to guarantee that I never get a reader or that a general lack of response de-incentivized the process for me and without a quick easy reward I’d never continue (again, destroying any chance of getting a reader).

Well fuck that guy. I’ve said from the outset that this blog is for me to spew words when my words need spewing and like most spew, it is probably not meant for consumption by anybody but the dog (or, depending on your definition of spew, a girl who swallows). The truth is, 2009 has been the worst year of my life and I’ve just been too busy or too depressed to post anything. So fuck you, theoretical opinionated bastard. I’ll spew when I’m good and ready (which is right now, I guess).

It’s hard for me to elaborate on why 2009 has been so terrible as some of it is classified but in broad strokes, it’s something like this: Every second of every day is spent doing what I have to do with no end or reward in sight. Now sure, lots of people say that sort of thing but in my case, it’s absolutely true. I work all the time, I’m broke, I have four kids, my wife works long hours, we can’t afford daycare, everything we own is broken, the cat’s bulimic, my wife swears like a sailor, I’m only as good as my last tv commercial, I work artistically unrewarding freelance jobs ‘cause I’m broke but I have to stay up late to finish them because of the demanding kids, I dream of independent projects but have no time to create them, my commute is an hour long, there’s a million reasons we can’t have sex, there’s nowhere to masturbate, I haven’t been out socially during this presidency, the answering machine is maxed out with collections calls, I have unread mail from July, and I’ve become very fat.

I just keep thinking to myself, “this is how it happens. Life just wears you down until your dreams are forgotten and the lawn is a topic of serious concern.” And maybe that is how it goes for some. But what I’m noticing about myself is that even without a chance to create, the inspiration to try is ever present and in that observation I find some hope. Maybe this stage of my life can be waited out and when I emerge at the other side I’ll take a breath and find I’m still me and I can still make…things.

Until then, I endure in semi-silent suffering, crushed by the weight of innumerable responsibilities, serving in perpetuity, trapped in my head, and sucked dry by parasites.

There is what I would call an “epic” amount of bullshit about mental illness out there. From the coldly clinical to the touchy feely helpless victim crap, you can easily get lost in the minutia with a simple Google search. And at various points I’ve plunged into the murky waters of online psychology journals and patient support sites to either enhance my own understanding of myself or sometimes, yes, to get a little sympathy from people with similar issues.

But I don’t do that anymore. The science end is interesting but useless on a personal level and the fellow crazies are often locked in a hopeless pattern of sympathy dependence. Really, if your mind or emotions are distorting your world on a day to day basis and you’re seeking something constructive to get you through, there’s not much there beyond statistical data, the hug seeking chimps behind the numbers, and a sea of aggressive snake oil salesmen.

My personal diagnostic history, ever changing according to which therapist I’ve been talking to, goes something like this: PTSD, OCD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Depression. But let’s forget those fun little diagnostic labels and focus on the truth of my reality, most of the time I’m dragging my tense and twisted insides through the day with no hope of feeling anything but that debilitating ache of perpetual stress. Everything from going to work to eating lunch or writing this blog is preceded by a dark storm cloud of dread. It colors my thinking, my emotional reactions, my behavior, and my view of…Well…Everything. It’s so omnipresent in my life that I often deal with the paradox of not noticing the way it’s coloring my life because anxiety is the noise floor/base line that must be tuned out to function.

But I’m lucky, I do function. In my teens and early twenties I self medicated (anxiety has given me a heavy predisposition to drug addiction) and now as a bonafide grownup, I’m simply medicated. I have a rich creative life, a decent job, a wife, kids, house, cat, car, etc. and all of it achieved in spite of the tons of weight pressing down on my shoulders. Yay triumph over adversity! But the weight is still there and the accomplishments are all undermined by the life draining despair that lingers no matter what positives exist in my life.

Imagine, you just got a blow job on your private jet as you get ready to parachute into a pile of money surrounded by your adoring fans. I assume most people would feel absolute bliss but if you’re like me, you’ll ruin it. Your twisting guts will bring a hint of darkness and some thought will materialize. Maybe it’s “I’ve become the shallow pop star I have always mocked, I’m horrible”, or it could be “in spite of all of this I’m eventually going to die and be forgotten”, or perhaps it’s as simple as “shit I’m running out of cigarettes.” Whatever it is, it seems like the thought creates the anxiety and not the other way around. So whatever you happen to achieve in life, you can’t completely enjoy it because of the intrinsically dark nature of…well…everything. Like everyone, you believe your conclusions are correct and that your emotions are a reaction to something real.

Sounds pretty fucking horrible, huh? Well, it is. I hate it and I envy all those empty drones milling around in their shallow lives, enjoying every second of it. I envy them even while I enjoy hating them. But I can’t be like them and in reaction to that fundamental truth, I seem to have compensated by building a personality, identity, and outlook that derives satisfaction from being a dark hateful bastard. And you know what? It, combined with a single non-destructive escape I’ll get to in a moment, works.

If you can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em. Or maybe just verbally assault their every assumption. Shock them with whatever you can get away with. I mean, if I couldn’t be part of the happy crowd, I’d embrace others who shared my cynical view of life. Punks, outcasts, dissidents, anti-heroes, villains, crass comedians, subversives, debasers, weirdoes, freaks, monsters, losers, beaten artists, poets, mutants, bikers, rockers, geeks, crazies, addicts, fringe intellectuals, sexual deviants, these are all my people. We are the marginalized, the shunned, the rejected, and without ever saying it, we’ve all agreed to not judge each other. We’ve created a community to get the small sense of belonging we require without our assumptions being challenged and this is both effective and self perpetuating.

The second thing that’s kept me alive is perhaps a little more unique to me. Somewhere inside, past the darkness, curled up between my frontal lobe and the largely neglected pleasure center of my brain, is my happy place. This is where I chronically daydream about unwritten characters, unfilmed movies, unrecorded songs, potentially doctored photos, possible blog entries, and amusing Facebook status updates. I spend as many conscious hours in this happy place as I do dealing with the external world and this will never change. It can’t. I’m completely addicted to the fantasies the creative process enables and it’s this one thing, this one precious and sacred little thing that has expanded my identity beyond my angst and given me the hope and pride I need to survive.

That’s why it’s ok that I’m not that successful, that most movies remain unmade, and that nobody is going to read this blog. It’s also why I don’t give a fuck that you have some harsh criticism of me or this blog entry. It’s why I don’t care if I offend you or use the word fuck constantly. It’s even why I don’t care that I’m posting this highly personal information on the internet. The combination of being stuck outside the mainstream and locked in my own head has had the benefit of setting me free.

So there it is, a broad stoke view of my experience with being nuts. Obviously, I shared this because of the time I spent in my head composing it. And maybe your experience is different, maybe you can’t relate, maybe you sympathize, or maybe you think I’m wrong. Great, I’m very happy for you. And I hope you don’t mind that I don’t give a fuck what you think. Unless you like what I said, then I’d love to hear it (ok, coping mechanism three is an addiction to praise).

We bought our first house three years ago and like most new home owners, we didn’t own any of the tools one uses to maintain a privately owned space. From items as small as a screwdriver to leaf and snow blowers, we started acquiring the necessary items for private dwelling upkeep from item one.

Last year I got my first chainsaw to take care of a branch that had fallen during a storm. I had tried my father-in-laws electric saw and didn’t like it. No, I opted for a moderately priced black and green thing with a mid sized blade and read enough of the manual to learn how to mix the gas and oil and start the thing.

I was a little disappointed in that they are kind of hard to start. I wanted to yank the cord in a standing position, have the saw roar to life, rev it a few times for effect, and proceed to do the Leatherface dance of holding it over my head while shaking it back and forth. I was finally able to do the dance but only after setting it on the ground, adjusting the choke, and yanking until my arm hurt. The dance was still fun but it lacked any badass horror movie villain spontaneity.

That one fallen branch aside, I’ve mainly regarded the chainsaw as a fun prop or possible weapon during an impending zombie apocalypse (though the slow starting thing has been noted so I won’t count on it as a quick draw weapon). I’m not useful or outdoorsy in the typical male sense and whenever I do have to take out the saw I wish I’d had the foresight to buy a clown outfit, a propeller beanie, and a pair of stiletto heals in my size. I mean, I look like an artsy dork so the chainsaw doesn’t fit anyway. Why not take it to the next level?

Well, today I found that the reason our power went out last night was that half a tree fell over and landed in our neighbors yard. It was my tree and I already felt bad for having knocked out everyone’s power (I know the storm did it but I still felt a sense of responsibility) so I decided I had to clean it up.

I can’t stress enough what an enormous task this is. The tree wasn’t huge but at its base it had a circumference of a foot or so and there were a lot of really thick branches. Now most people in small town Minnesota would rally their friends and family together and a team of blue-collar macho men would drink beer as they labored together in the hot sun. More well to do families would hire similar guys through a local company to do the job but without the beer. Shannon’s parents aside, I don’t know fuckin’ anybody in this town and I’m poor enough that I just try to ignore the check engine light in my car. So out I went in a pair of sandals, cargo shorts, a Japanese t-shirt that spelled out the abbreviation YMCA as Young Muslim Christian Atheist, and my Buddy Holly glasses for eye protection.

The work was exhausting as the wood literally smoked as I cut it. Chainsaws vibrate like mad and while they aren’t all that heavy, you do have to apply pressure and after a couple hours my arms felt like jelly. My heart pounded in my chest, I was drenched in sweat and that I’m in my 30’s meant a heart attack wasn’t out of the question. It was time for another break (previous breaks had more to do with throwing the chain, searching for an important looking nut that had fallen off the saw, or taking care of the kids). I sat smoking, exhausted and defeated, taking some small comfort in an iced coffee as I surveyed the remaining work from my patio.

The neighbor cater-cornered to my back lot, an old guy who likes to shoot crows and squirrels with a pellet gun from his back porch and who’s name I can never remember, yelled over and asked the strangest thing, “do you want me to sharpen your chainsaw?”

There are people out there who are well prepared for adulthood. They learned about cars, plumbing, cooking, laundry, taxes, masonry, financial planning, time management, organic hair conditioners, small engine repair, and chainsaws. I, on the other hand, make shit up and actually ran my chainsaw initially without knowing they require something called bar oil (it lubricates the chain while you use it…though I’m not sure how). So I admit that while I had heard that chainsaws can be sharpened, it seemed like something I’d never need to do. I mean, that has to be for people who use their chainsaws day in and day out, and not for someone who only wants to use it in his next short film.

He set the chainsaw in a vice and using a file apparently specifically designed for this task, made his way around the chain counting his strokes on each link thingie. He mentioned his trailer was “up north” which opened up an opportunity for me to ask where someone would bring something like brush and logs for disposal. He let me in on what I regard as a small town secret: there is some private property just past the local sewage processing plant where the owner allows locals to dump grass clippings and brush. According to “old guy”, the piles of each are huge and it’s free to all. I thanked him and turned away, suddenly self-conscious about my t-shirt (a shocker since this is the sort of small town old guy I normally love to make uncomfortable with weird shit).

Oh my god what a difference a sharpened blade makes! The wood no longer smoked as I tried to cut it. Instead the saw ripped into each branch with ease. And while I was suddenly being covered with much more sawdust than before, I now understood why there hadn’t been much to begin with. The next three quarters of the felled tree was cut up in the same amount of time it had taken to smoke through the first quarter and while I was sore and exhausted, I also got to wipe sweat away with a real sense of accomplishment. I was so grateful that I finished up by getting out a rake and adding all the really tiny branches to the pile.

So I’m not a native and I don’t have a dozen friends here to help drink my beer but in some simple symbolic way “old guy” opened the possibility of maybe one day bridging the gap between me and everyone else. He also reminded me that there’s a learning curve to life and arrogant assholes like myself need to remember that crazy old people with pellet guns possess a wealth of useful, provincial knowledge. And while I never planned on being an adult, now that I’m here I need to learn things like the importance of proper chainsaw maintenance.