September 17-18: What Happened, Fresh Starts, Words

Our heroes are about to be Kill-O-Zapped to death . . .

But the end never came, at least not then.

Quite suddenly the barrage stopped, and the sudden silence afterward was punctuated by a couple of strangled gurgles and thuds.

The four stared at each other.

"What happened?" said Arthur.

"They stopped," said Zaphod with a shrug.

"Why?"

"Dunno, do you want to go and ask them?"

"No."

They waited.

After reading Tuesday night's post, many of you might be thinking, "What happened?"  Usually, I avoid engaging in political discussions.  My only answer is that it was late, and I was tired and cranky.  For those of my disciples who were turned off, I am tempted to apologize.  But I stand by what I said.  The United States has become a society that has legitimized bullying.

That being said, I promise not to talk in this post about Donald Trump and the criminal acts he's committed since taking over the Oval Office.  If there's one thing that I've learned about bullies in my life, it's this:  bullies love being the center of attention.  Therefore, I will not waste any more energy on Donald Trump.

In fact, I am so tired at this moment that I'm going to have to turn this into a two-part post.  Everyone has gone to bed in my house, my ten-year-old son a little reluctantly.  I am surrounded by night sounds--a clock ticking, the wind rattling my windows a little, and deep sleeping breaths.  Every day is a new beginning, a chance for fresh starts . . .

And this is a new day.  Thanks for hanging in there with me.  This week is turning into one of those weeks where many little and bigger things are encroaching on my time.  Projects and bills and work.  By the time I sit down in the evening, I'm one of two things--exhausted or busy.  Neither is conducive to writing blog posts.

It's strange, but, when I don't write at least one blog post a day, I feel a little off center.  The balance of my day is thrown awry.  Writing is the thing that keeps me in touch with my inner artist, which doesn't always get a chance to come out and play during the work week.  These blog posts are sometimes my only creative outlet.  They force me to pay attention to what's going on inside my head and heart.  Thus, if I don't blog, I neglect an important part of myself.

Tonight, I'm feeling anxious for various reasons.  Being away from my wife and kids does that to me.  When I'm present at home, I can sort of maintain the illusion of control.  I know it's an illusion, but it keeps my mind at ease.  I sort of thrive on that illusion.  It allows me to sleep on sleepless night.

So, I give thanks for these few minutes of writing on my laptop, sending my thoughts out into the world.  Even with these small paragraphs, I am more grounded, until I can get behind the wheel of my car, drive home, and walk through my front door.  See my wife.  Son.  Daughter.  They remind me why words were invented.  To say, "I love you."

Words have saved Saint Marty, over and over and over.

June 5: Mind Flew Back, Over and Over and Over, Disquiet

Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing of it.  The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought.  Marley's Ghost bothered him exceedingly.  Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, "Was it a dream or not?"

Scrooge is stuck in the limbo of the spirit world.  He wakes up after the visit from Jacob Marley's ghost, and he's not sure what's going on.  The world is dark when it should be light.  The clock strikes midnight when it should be noon.  Scrooge finds himself in a position of disquiet, mind racing, thinking and thinking and thinking, over and over and over.

It's a pretty good description of the kind of mania that comes with mental illness.  The obsessive thoughts.  The displaced reality.  I've seen this state in my wife more than once.  However, Scrooge's disquiet is not really due to mental illness.  (At least, I've never interpreted A Christmas Carol in that light.  However, Scrooge does have visions of spirits that could be psychotic hallucinations.  He does have an altered sense of time.  At the end of the book, his frenetic state of joy could definitely be attributed to a hypomanic bipolar episode.  Hmmmmmm.)  Scrooge's disquiet is due to fear.  He's afraid of the upcoming appearance of the Ghost of Christmas Past.  He's afraid of the possibility that he should "retire to Bedlam," as he says earlier.  (Bedlam is short for "Bethlem Royal Hospital," which was a London hospital that was first to specialize in treating mental illnesses.)  And I think he's afraid of the prospect of change, for that's what Jacob Marley wants him to do:  change his ways.

I could go with any of the above explanations for Scrooge's disquiet.  I, myself, have experienced the kind of racing thoughts described by Dickens in the above paragraph.  It's not fun.  Usually, I fall into that pattern of thought when I'm worried or anxious about something:  job, bills, money, the past, the present, the future, a mole on my calf, my weight, my house, my attic, my garage, the clunk in my car engine.  That's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.  I could go on, but that would take way too much time.  You get the idea.

My point is that Scrooge can't change a thing that's going to happen to him.  The ghosts are going to show up.  Jacob Marley is pretty clear about this fact.  The only thing Scrooge has any power over is his reaction to the ghosts.  He could cower under his bed or soil himself, which would be my reaction to random spirits appearing at my bedside in the middle of the night.  Or he could roll with the punches and go for some ghostly strolls and obtain some ghostly wisdom.  Scrooge chooses the latter.

I can't change most of the things on my list of worries.  Sure, I could go on a diet.  Clean my garage or attic.  Take my car to a mechanic.  None of those things will really alleviate my worries.  I'll just be thinner with anxiety.  I'll have an attic or garage to have a breakdown in.  I'll have a car to drive to my therapy appointments.  But I'll still have worries. 

Worry is about control.  I'm a control freak.  (I'm also a chocolate freak, book freak, poetry freak, and movie freak, since I'm making a confession.)  Control means happiness, at least in my book.  Of course, a lot of people would argue this point with me, including my therapist and pastor.  Scrooge's miserly ways are all about control, as well.  He was pretty wounded as a young person.  Abandoned by his father.  He doesn't want to be wounded again, so he pushes people away and collects wealth to protect himself.  Of course, all he's done is create the illusion of control.  Jacob Marley tears away that illusion.  But I'm OK with the illusion of control.  It calms me down, makes me feel safe and secure, like a warm blankie.  Marley can stay away from my skewed view of reality.

As long as Saint Marty has the illusion of control, he can sleep well.

Calvin has some control issues