November 29, 2024: "Quandary," Sadness, My Brother

I found myself up late last night, reading and writing.  It's a bad habit since I don't really ever get a chance to sleep in.  Often, when the alarm goes off, I feel more tired than when I went to bed.

At about 2 a.m., I could feel myself getting sad for no apparent reason.  It just happened, like some kind of dark weather front moving in.  I couldn't fight it off, and suddenly I was just crying uncontrollably.  Not just sniffing and wiping my eyes, but big, gulping sobs that I was afraid would wake my wife or puppy.  It continued until I finally fell asleep, despondent and exhausted.

I'm not sure what triggered the tears.  Lack of sunlight?  Stress?  Impending holidays?  The Felon in Chief and his band of Merry Morons?  A piece of bad fruit?

Billy Collins takes a bite of an apple . . . 

Quandary

by: Billy Collins

I was a little disappointed
in the apple I lifted from a bowl of fruit
and bit into on the way out the door,
fuzzy on the inside and lacking the snap of the ripe.

Yesterday it was probably perfect,
I figured, as I held it out before me,
soft red apple bearing my tooth marks,
as if I were contemplating the bust of Aristotle.

I considered all the people
who would be grateful to have this apple,
and others who might find it in their hearts
to kill me before slipping it into a pocket.

And I considered another slice
of the world’s population, too,
those who are shielded from anything
as offensive as a slightly imperfect apple.

Then I took a second bite, a big one,
and pitched what was left
over the tall hedges hoping to hit on the head
a murderer or one of the filthy rich out for a stroll.

There's a lot going on in the world that is simply depressing.  Starving people for whom an apple would be a feast.  Refugees who have no homes or homelands.  Filthy rich people hell bent on making the poor even poorer by hook, crook, and lies.  Wannabe dictators and their brain-dead followers.  Willful ignorance and rampant hatred.

All of that is enough to keep the makers of Prozac in business until the next millennium.  

When I woke this morning, the sadness was still with me, and it has remained my constant companion all day long.  I tried to keep myself busy, picking out and rehearsing music for this weekend's church services.  Taking my puppy for a few long walks, despite bitter winds ad snow.  The distractions helped for a little while, but, as soon as I stopped playing keyboard or got home from a stroll, the sadness came back doubly strong.

I have a feeling this bout of melancholia is the beginning of one of the blue funks I've experienced off and on since I was a teen.  They can last a few days or a few months.  Today, I found myself obsessively thinking about my brother, Kevin, who passed in 2014.  He had a pretty difficult life, suffering a stroke that ended his career as a plumber and left him dependent on a walker during his final years.  Yet, he maintained his sense of humor to the last, quick with a new joke or pun.

An apple a day isn't going to keep this sadness away, even if said apple is ripe and sweet instead of soft and fuzzy.

So, dear disciples, please be patient with me in the coming days/weeks/months.  I will try to find light in the dark, joy in the bone-crushing cold.

Saint Marty will end this post with a picture of his puppy who crawled into his lap this morning, licked and licked his face until he couldn't help but laugh.

June 24: Using My Mind, Literature of Madness, a Rabbit

A revelation about Zaphod and his brain . . .

Zaphod paused for a while.  For a while there was silence.  Then he frowned and said, "Last night I was worrying about this again.  About this fact that part of my mind just didn't seem to work properly.  Then it occurred to me that the way it seemed was that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it.  I put the two ideas together and decided that maybe that somebody had locked off part of my mind for that purpose, which was why I couldn't use it.  I wondered if there was a way I could check.

"I went to the ship's medical bay and plugged myself into the encephalographic screen.  I went through every major screening test on both my heads--all the tests I had to go through under Government medical officers before my nomination for presidency could be properly ratified.  They showed up nothing.  Nothing unexpected at least.  They showed that I was clever, imaginative, irresponsible, untrustworthy, extrovert, nothing you couldn't have guessed.  And no other anomalies.  So I started inventing further tests, completely at random.  Nothing.  Then I tried superimposing the results from one head on top of the results from the other head.  Still nothing.  Finally I got silly, because I'd given it all up as nothing more than an attack of paranoia.  Last thing I did before I packed it in was take the superimposed picture and look at it through a green filter.  You remember I was always superstitious about the color green when I was a kid?  I always wanted to be a pilot on one of the trading scouts?"

Ford nodded.  

"And there it was," said Zaphod, "clear as day.  A whole section in the middle of both brains that related only to each other and not to anything else around them.  Some bastard had cauterized all the synapses and electronically traumatized these two lumps of cerebellum."

Ford stared at him, aghast.  Trillian had turned white.

"Somebody did that to you?" whispered Ford.

"Yeah."

"But have you any idea who?  Or why?"

"Why?  I can only guess.  But I do know who the bastard was."

"You know?  How do you know?"

"Because they left their initials burned into the cauterized synapses.  They left them there for me to see."

Ford stared at him in horror and felt his skin begin to crawl.

"Initials?  Burned into your brain?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what were they, for God's sake?"

Zaphod looked at him in silence again for a moment.  They he looked away.

"Z. B.," he said quietly.

At that moment a steel shutter slammed down behind them and gas started to pour into the chamber.

"I'll tell you about it later," choked Zaphod as all three passed out.

What Zaphod describes here is something that sounds very familiar.  I sometimes teach a class on the literature of madness (my term) at the university.  For the semester, we read novels, graphic novels, and memoirs by people who suffer from some mental illness.  Bipolar disorder,  Schizophrenia.  Major depression.  It's a heavy semester, and I often joke as I hand out the syllabus that I have a supplement of Prozac to go along with it.

Anyway, how Zaphod describes his condition--"that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it"--sounds a whole lot like schizophrenia.  The fact that he has two heads sort of enforces the metaphor.  Two brains.  Two heads.  Someone else controlling his thoughts.  I'm not a psychiatrist, but it sounds pretty textbook to me.

In the last couple months, I have felt a little driven by outside forces myself.  Things that I simply couldn't control.  (If you think I'm writing about my daughter's graduation again, you are mistaken.  My life has been in a state of upheaval for various other reasons, and I have been struggling to find my equilibrium.)  Some days, it literally feels as if somebody completely outside of myself is piloting the ship.  On those days, I have to wrestle my thoughts to the ground and pin them down.

Today has been a good day.  While not without stress, I have pretty much remained at an even keel.  I haven't chased the white rabbit down any holes.  In fact, when I got home from work today, there was a rabbit sitting in my backyard.  I got out of my car and slowly began walking toward it.  Step by step.  Not rushing,  For me, it was an exercise in meditation.  Deep breathing.  Slow movements.  Patience.  I got within a few feet of the rabbit before it moved.  It didn't bolt away from me.  Instead, it nonchalantly hopped just a few steps and then stopped again.  It wasn't panicked.  Just curious.

The rabbit and I simply occupied the same space together for a few minutes.  The same oxygen.  And then, as if by mutual agreement, with both turned away from each other and moved on with our lives.

Perhaps I sound a little insane here.  I might be.  But I think of my encounter with this rabbit as a victory.  A sign that, maybe, my life is regaining some balance and peace.  Either that, or I am one step away from the bell jar.

Now, if Saint Marty shows up for work tomorrow dressed as the Queen of Hearts, screaming "Off with his head!"--that's going to be a real problem.

June 5: Intelligent Life Form, Work Stress, Dance Recital

Having just landed on the mysterious planet of Magrathea . . .

"Are we taking this robot with us?" said Ford, looking with distaste at Marvin, who was standing in an awkward hunched posture in the corner under a small palm tree.

Zaphod glanced away from the mirror screens which presented a panoramic view of the blighted landscape on which the Heart of Gold had now landed.

"Oh, the Paranoid Android," he said.  "Yeah, we'll take him."

"But what are you supposed to do with a manically depressed robot?"

"You think you've got problems," said Marvin, as if he was addressing a newly occupied coffin, "what are you supposed to do if you are a manically depressed robot?  No, don't bother to answer that.  I'm fifty thousand times more intelligent than you and even I don't know the answer.  It gives me a headache just trying to think down to your level."

Trillian burst in through the door from her cabin.

"My white mice have escaped!" she said.

An expression of deep worry and concern failed to cross either of Zaphod's faces.

"Nuts to your white mice," he said.

Trillian glared an upset glare at him, and disappeared again.

It is possible that her remark would have commanded greater attention had it been generally realized that human beings were only the third most intelligent life form present on the planet Earth, instead of (as was generally thought by most independent observers) the second.

Did you miss me?  Sorry for disappearing like Trillian's white mice for a few days.  Let me assure you, I have not been under the influence of laziness (went to a poetry workshop/open mic on Monday night, wrote a resume/cover letter last night and applied for a job last night).  I didn't take a surprise trip to London to protest Donald Trump's visit to Buckingham Palace (I wish).  And I haven't been curled up in my bed with covers over my head contemplating my existence on this planet like a manically depressed robot (a term with which I take issue, as it trivializes a serious mental illness).

No, I have simply not had the time or energy these last couple days--once I finally did arrive at home--to sit down at my laptop and reflect on the state of my life, the world, or the universe.  Tonight, however, I have a few quiet minutes before my wife and son arrive home to be introspective.  (I hear some rumblings on the front porch, so I may have spoken too soon.)

The struggle these last couple days has mostly been work-related.  I am now employed at a cardiology practice of around ten providers.  Over the weekend, the whole shebang was relocated to a newly-built medical office building.  (This brand new medical office building is attached to a brand new hospital, which also opened for business on Monday.)  So, these last few work days have been filled with computer issues, copier issues, lost patient issues (the patients were literally lost), and parking issues. 

These two new facilities cost hundreds of millions of dollars to construct.  They were supposedly necessary because it would have been too expensive to upgrade the existing facilities in the city.  Having worked in healthcare in this area for over 20 years now, I can honestly say that I'm skeptical as to the necessity of these buildings (however beautiful they may appear--they even have a new smell to them, as if they've both been recently unpacked from a box).  However, I am, generally, a skeptical person on most topics dealing with big business (and healthcare is BIG business).  Therefore, take my opinions with a grain of salt.

Dealing with the stress of the move, set-up, and opening of this new medical office building has given me major headaches in the evenings and caused me to lose quite a bit of sleep.  It also didn't help that this all happened smack dab in the middle of my daughter's graduation weekend.  Highs and lows have abounded.  And it ain't over yet.

This weekend, my daughter has her last dance recital.  She's been taking dance lessons since she was in kindergarten.  That means that my wife and I have been driving her back-and-forth to her dance studio and competitions and conventions for about 13 years.  All that is going to end this weekend, too.

So be prepared, faithful disciples.  There will be many more posts in the upcoming days that should not be read without a healthy dose of sunshine and maybe Prozac.

Saint Marty is just speaking his truth.

April 12: Proof, "Autoerotic Asphyxiation," Matt Gavin Frank

Just to prove to you how crappy my poems are, I'm going to prove how good my friend Matt's poems are.

This poem is from Matt Gavin Frank's newest collection of poems, The Morrow Plots.  It's titled "Autoerotic Asphyxiation."

Now, please excuse Saint Marty.  He's going to slip into the nearest bottle of Prozac.

Autoerotic Asphyxiation

The world goes pink with buffoonery,
billions of squirrels

running away.  In their cheeks
acorns arrange themselves

like dog stars, wait
for the constellation

that looks like a camel.
A mesquite jealousy

in humplessness, the stockings
we save for just such an occasion.

We haven't spent
this much time here

since we were seventeen,
when mortality was a barking sky,

an animal a continent away,
this documentary

about Morocco.  Like the squirrels
we move without headlights.

You speak equations
into my ear that would take

the stocking to solve.
Canicula.  Ligature.  In the next

room, we hear my father's
one sharp cough, wonder

if we're not breathing
enough.

Let's just prove how crappy my blog is, too

December 10: "Carol" Dip Monday, Mental Health, Dysfunction

I come from a family that's really good at guilt and anger and depression.  The Holy Trinity of family dysfunction.  Of course, this time of year simply magnifies these problems.  We are expected to be together and behave like the Waltons.  Unfortunately, Christmas morning at my parents' house is more like celebrating with the Bunkers.  Lots of inappropriate comments, lots of whispering and eye rolling, and lots of overeating.  Throw in some depression and other mental health issues, and that's the yuletide season at the Saint Marty homestead.

Of course, my family is no different than any other family.  There's no such thing as a functional family.  There are simply levels of dysfunction.  Even the Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie had to deal with drug addiction and racism and class conflict.  If I were to rate my family, I'd place us somewhere between the Bundy clan and the Ewing clan.  Of course, that doesn't mean I hate my siblings or parents.  I love them, with all their faults.  I'm pretty sure they feel the same way about me.  (I have been the three-headed stepchild for a long time.  The lone Democrat in a family of Republicans.  A poet and musician and teacher.  I might as well wear a sign at family gatherings that reads, "Try not to talk about me until I leave the room.")

I have a particular sibling who is struggling at the moment with some severe depression and anxiety issues.  She's been struggling for quite some time.  Over a year.  If I try to talk to her about mental illness, she simply shuts down.  I can see a physical change in her body, as if she's a rose that's folding into itself to avoid a frost.  In the past, she's always been the person in charge.  The sensible one.  The one with all the answers.  Now, she puts everyone on edge.  At family dinners, she slams dishes and snatches plates.  She hollers if the fork is set on the wrong side of the plate.

Christmas and New Year's Eve for this sibling is going to be a challenge.  On New Year's Eve last year, she was practically in tears because the "crowds" of family/friends in the house made her anxious.  She's even worse this year.  If she makes it to January 1 without major medication, it will be a miracle.

My questions for Carol dip Monday is pretty simple:

Will my sibling get help for her mental illness problems soon?

And the answer from the great book of Dickens is:

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had given him time...

That's a pretty good answer.  If my sibling would be "gay and light of heart," we all would have a Huxtable Christmas.

Sing with Saint Marty:  "Joy to the world, Prozac has come..."

It's all in the family

July 30: Disappointment, Jordyn Wieber, "Carol" Dip

So I watched the Olympics last night.  Of course, there were a lot of events that were covered, but the one that really struck me was the women's gymnastics competition.  I think the term "women's" is a little misleading, because most of the athletes competing are these tiny little teenage girls.  That being said, I was really moved by the story of American gymnast Jordyn Wieber.

Here's a girl who's been working her whole life for this Olympic moment.  She's the reigning world all-around gymnastics champion.  She posts the third best score of the night, but because of a rule that only allows the top two scorers from each country to compete in the women's all-around finals, Jordyn Wieber will not be able to fulfill her dream of trying to win an all-around Olympic gold medal.

That wasn't the part that really move me.  The part that moved me was Jordyn Wieber's disappointment, which was immediately evident and immediately heartbreaking.  She alternated between tears and stiff-upper-lip.  As the father of a girl who dances competitively, I just about died watching Wieber's post-competition interview.  I've sat in an auditorium and witnessed my daughter receive a medal I knew she wasn't happy with.  I don't care if my daughter takes bronze, silver, gold, or platinum in competition.  I care about the disappointment she feels in herself.  That's what I saw last night with Jordyn Wieber, and I could barely stand it.

This post isn't about the United States being screwed out of a chance for a gold medal.  Or an unfair Olympic rule.  Or unfair Olympic judging.  It's about a little girl who isn't even going to get a chance to make her dream come true.  That's really depressing to me.

It is a Monday, and, therefore, it's time for a Carol dip.  I've been thinking long and hard about the question I was going to ask this morning.  I think it's going to have to do with disappointment:

Will I be disappointed with the employment contract that's currently under negotiation at the university?

And the answer from the ever-wise Charles Dickens is:

...The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever...

Wow.  That answer depresses me even more this morning.  Misery.  That doesn't sound very appealing.

Excuse Saint Marty now.  He needs to go take some Prozac.

I just want to give her a hug