August 2: Nothing's Gonna Happen, Mental Illness, Stigma

Lazzaro said that he could have anybody in the world killed for a thousand dollars plus traveling expenses.  He had a list in his head, he said.

Derby asked him who all was on the list, and Lazzaro said, "Just make fucking sure you don't get on it.  Just don't cross me, that's all."  There was a silence, and then he added, "And don't cross my friends."

"You have friends?" Derby wanted to know.

"In the war?" said Lazzaro.  "Yeah--I had a friend in the war.  He's dead."  So it goes.

"That's too bad."

Lazzaro's eyes were twinkling again.  "Yeah.  He was my buddy on the boxcar.  His name was Roland Weary.  He died in my arms."  Now he pointed to Billy with his one mobile hand.  "He died on account of this silly cocksucker here.  So I promised him I'd have this silly cocksucker shot after the war."

Lazzaro erased with his hand anything Billy Pilgrim might be about to say.  "Just forget about it, kid," he said.  "Enjoy life while you can.  Nothing's gonna happen for maybe five, ten, fifteen, twenty years.  But lemme give you a piece of advice:  Whenever the doorbell rings, have somebody else answer the door"

Lazzaro is crazy.  That much is clear.  His whole existence orbits around anger and judgement and retaliation.  His advice to Billy is intended to ruin Billy's life, make him spend years and years worrying about some unknown gunman appearing at his front door.  That's all part of Lazzaro's plan--to make his victims suffer as much as possible.

I am not one to minimize the severity of mental illness.  Mental illness has touched my life in significant ways.  Still does.  Depression.  Bipolar.  Mania.  Obsessive compulsiveness.  Addictions.  They are all part of my daily existence.  I'm not complaining about this or trying to make you feel sorry for me.  Mental illness is simply a part of the fabric of my day-to-day.  I accept that.

What is difficult for me to accept is the stigma that still surrounds mental illness.  Rather than seek effective treatments and medications, the government cuts funding for mental health and addiction services.  When hospitals look for ways to save money in their budgets, they usually start with mental illness treatment.  I have seen it happen, up close and personal.

People with mental illness are expendable members of society.  Rather than help the mentally ill before they harm themselves or others, it's easier to wait for disaster to strike, throw them into the criminal justice system.  Throw the crazy people in jail.  Don't give them a chance to become functioning members of society.

Yes, I'm on a soapbox right now.  I'm on vacation, and I'm on a soapbox.  I'm in a privileged position.  My family members who have mental illness are able to seek treatment.  They have the help they need.  I don't spend every waking minute of my life worrying about them.  That's unusual.  I'm lucky.  Most people aren't that lucky.

Today, when I take my son to the water park, I am going to give thanks that he is happy and functioning.  It may not always be like that.  I know this.

But, for today, as his son goes shooting down a slide on an inner tube, Saint Marty knows he will come out the other end, safe and laughing.

May 24: A Blanket, Unknown Needs, Ellen Steinbaum, "Letter Home," New Cartoon

"That's just what we need," said Avery.  "A blanket."

"Of course it is," replied Lurvy.  And he spread the blanket across the sideboards of the truck so that it was like a little tent.  The children sat in the shade, under the blanket, and felt better.

After lunch, they stretched out and fell asleep.

Avery doesn't know what he needs.  He's hot and tired.  When Lurvy shows up with the Indian blanket he won, Avery doesn't realize it's just what he needs.  A blanket.  Tent.  Shade.  Nap.

Most of us don't realize what we actually need.  We walk around, vaguely unfulfilled, not knowing what will make us truly happy.  A new job.  New love.  Happy family.  All of the above.  None of the above.  Most of the time, we yearn for things we don't have.  And if we get those things, we find out they don't make us happy at all.

For years, I've dreamed of a full-time teaching gig at the university.  I've convinced myself that, if I had that, life would be perfect.  Of course, I know that's a load of crap.  Perfection is a fallacy.  A dream.  Unattainable.  Something that simply makes me strive for something better all the time.

Needs, once met, become experience.  Experience becomes memory.  Memory becomes story.  I guess what I'm saying is that we're all trying to write our story, and we all want a happily ever after.  That's not a bad thing.  For the moment, I'm happy.  I have a home, wife, children, family.  I can almost pay my bills on time.  And, through the fall and winter months, I get to do what I love--teach and talk about literature.  I'm lucky.

Saint Marty has a poem for you tonight that seems appropriate for Memorial Day weekend.

Letter Home

by:  Ellen Steinbaum

I love you forever 
my father's letter tells her
for forty-nine pages,
from the troopship crossing the Atlantic
before they'd ever heard of Anzio.

He misses her, the letter says,
counting out days of boredom, seasickness,
and changing weather,
poker games played for matches
when cash and cigarettes ran out,
a Red Cross package--soap,
cards, a mystery book he traded away
for The Rubaiyyat a bunkmate didn't want.
He stood night watch and thought
of her.  Don't forget the payment
for insurance, he says.

My mother waits at home with me, 
waits for the letter he writes day by day
moving farther across the ravenous ocean.
She will get it in three months and
her fingers will smooth the Army stationery
to suede.

He will come home, stand
beside her in the photograph, leaning
on crutches, holding
me against the rough wool
of his jacket.  He will sit
alone and listen to Aida

and they will pick up their
interrupted lives.  Years later,
she will show her grandchildren
a yellow envelope with
forty-nine wilted pages telling her

of shimmering sequins on the water,
the moonlight catching sudden phosphorescence,
the churned wake that stretched a silver trail.

Confessions of Saint Marty

December 17: Resentment, "Carol" Dip, Job

I have a confession:  there is a part of me that resents the fact that my wife is able to stay home and take care of our children.  I know she didn't choose to be pink slipped.  The day she lost her job, she called me, crying, and said, "I'm not sad about getting fired.  I'm sad about not being able to help you with money.  I know how hard you work."  All I think about right now is how to pay the next bill or buy the next Christmas present.

Since she joined the ranks of the unemployed, my wife has been visiting my son's classrooms and going to Bible study at church on Tuesdays.  She's catching up on the laundry, and dinner is usually made by the time I get home from work.  But, when my alarm goes off at 4 a.m. every morning and I have to drag myself out of bed, there's a part of me that gets a little bit angry.  I can't remember the last time I slept past 6:30 a.m.  I'm tired.  I was thinking of canceling my vacation at the beginning of January because I could earn a lot of overtime pay if I worked, but I can't bring myself to do it.  I am really looking forward to having two full weeks off.  Now, I feel guilty about my vacation.

I've said before that I know I'm lucky for having the jobs that I do.  Not many Americans have jobs that give them health insurance and paid time off and vision coverage.  Many people would kill for the kind of benefits that I have.  I'm lucky.  I'm blessed.  I'm grateful.  There, I've said all the things I should say.

But I'm still resentful and tired.  I don't want to get up at 4 a.m. for the rest of my working life.  I want a normal existence.  One job with decent hours and pay and benefits.  Of course, my choice would be to work for the university as a full-time instructor.  It's the one thing I do in my professional life that provides me with a sense of fulfillment.  I love being on campus and teaching.

I bet you can guess what my question for Carol dip Monday is going to be:

Will I get a full-time teaching job at the university this coming year?

And the answer (although I don't hold out too much hope) from Scrooge and company is:

...What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen months presented dead against you?

Hmmmmm.  Paying bills without money.  Balancing my books and having every item for a year listed as a debt or liability.  Sounds pretty bleak.

Looks like Saint Marty's going to be setting his alarm to 4 a.m. for another year.

My least favorite time of day