“I’m going to have something made to send out to all the people that write in questions for our column!” Allison responded with, “Uh huh. Have fun.” Okay, she wasn’t into it. In fact, I’ve witnessed more excitement in line at a salad bar. Now, to be fair, Allison’s and my communication mostly consist of me writing stupid things on email or instant message and then waiting for her to get annoyed. Just yesterday I was drawing up the graphic for our newest column. As a goof I created an additional one which I emailed over with, “Next month, I have our topic.” This was attached.

Allison’s entire reply?

*sighs loudly*

Deep down I believed she laughed. But she doesn’t want to encourage me. Allison thinks my ego is big enough and has made it clear that someone needs to dress me down. So, even when I have what I think are great ideas, she’s often lukewarm. And, to be fair, her compass is well-tuned. Over the holiday break I ran with this idea that I would come up with something to send out to the people that write in questions for our column. When I landed on, “Stickers! We’ll send them a sticker!” Allison was confused. “Nobody wants a sticker, D.J. Least of all, about us.” However, I had already paid someone a few shekels to draw caricatures about us. I figured once she saw the end result, her opinion would change. After a week the artist completed the job. I emailed over the proof for Allison’s approval. As expected, she hated it.

“Once again, I’m really not excited about this idea. Nobody needs another sticker and, by the way, that doesn’t even look like me!” I replied with, “It looks exactly like you. Now shaddup.” And, it does look like her. Way more more than mine. At least she doesn’t resemble an early-forties lesbian. I was going to ask the artist to draw in chest hair, which would have made people vomit, but at least confirmed my masculinity.

To me this was a slam dunk. We’d sign a bunch of these in advance, and then if when we answered questions we’d mail out a sticker. It’s a goodwill gesture and us showing appreciation to the readers. I’m not unrealistic, however. I’m aware someone would receive this sticker and deposit it directly into their garbage disposal. But that didn’t matter to me. I wanted to go above and beyond for the people nice enough to support us. And, in theory, it is a good idea.

There were a few problems, however. First, we don’t ask for anyone’s email in the question submission form. This is by design because often people write in anonymously with personal details about themselves or their families. So, I’d have to add that field to the form, and then email them asking for a mailing address. “Hey, muskassistant@tesla.com, thank you for your question about how to handle your boss’s infatuation with staring at your butt when putting away files. Where should we send this thank you sticker?” It sort of undermines the whole anonymity premise of the column.

I assumed Allison’s reluctance was a smokescreen for her true feeling that she didn’t like the caricature of herself. So I ignored her complaints and almost ordered a few hundred stickers. But, the truth was she just didn’t think it was a good idea. I disagreed, but after I reflected on it, she was right. Most people aren’t going to want to provide their personal information and, even if they do, aren’t going to get excited about a dopey sticker.

So, the sticker project is scrapped. I’m working on some other ideas to thank our readers. Here’s a prototype I’m toying with. A thank you throw pillow. Practical and classy!

photo credit: Bill David Brooks iphone 6 Plus Elon Musk Wallpaper via photopin (license)

I needed more guy friends.

One of the bummers of turning forty is that almost all of my male friends are married. This is not a bummer for them, of course. And, damn it if they didn’t all marry well. And, once someone marries well, children are soon to follow. This is accompanied by a move to the suburbs where the excitement of city life is sacrificed for a larger home with actual grass. I’ve lived in the city for sixteen years and I’m one of the last holdouts. However, there’s no good argument to be made for a single guy moving out to the suburbs until he’s forced. The upside is that I live smack in the middle of a million fun city activities. The downside is that nobody else I know still does. So, I’m lonely.

Please don’t take this as a complaint. Nobody likes a complainer, including me. In life you have to go and and get the things you want. And, at forty, I found myself thinking something I had never thought previously.

I want some dudes!

Years before I was part of an organization where a bunch of us guys would hang out every two weeks for a few hours and talk about important stuff. Work, women, kids – anything that was going on. You could classify it as a support group, but in reality it was a group of guys meeting and listening to each other. I was a member of this group for years – until I was booted out. I had stopped going because a crazy guy had been allowed in and started harshing everyone’s mellow. I came back months later and the nutty guy basically told me how I had ruined his life and the group had to decide if it was him or me. Since he had been a more consistent member I got the boot.

This brings us to the present. I find myself living in one of the best parts of one of the best cities, but pretty damned lonely. I put my brain to work on how to meet some guys. I know how to meet chicks. That’s easy. But a guy? I don’t watch sports, which is a bummer since there are seventy four sports bars within two blocks of me. Maybe I could slap on a jersey of one of the teams here and saddle up next to another jersey-wearer at a pub. Nah, it would be inauthentic. Plus, shit, I don’t drink. You can’t watch a game wearing a jersey at a sports bar without being asked to funnel a beer after they win the big game, right?

I remembered that the guys who kicked me out of their group years before were part of a larger men’s organization. Literally thousands of men have been through this program. I sent an email to the head of their member services. Told them I was looking to get more involved and I needed a new group. I didn’t mention that I was kicked out of the previous one – figured that wouldn’t help them want to place me. I pushed send on the email and hoped I wasn’t blacklisted in their database. They replied within an hour and were thrilled to hear from me. After a month of back and forth, we found a group that wanted me and that I thought was a good fit.

In this new group, I’m the young guy. Most of the men (there’s seven of us total) are fifty-five to seventy years of age. But much like girls who were abandoned by their fathers, I like older men. They’re wiser than me. They have better perspective. Plus, they don’t screw around. So, when I told them I wanted to start working out again they asked me to make a commitment. This was a good idea because without accountability I don’t get my ass to the gym. And exercising is one of those cornerstone activities that helps just about other every area of my life aside from just looking awesome in the mirror.

I wish I was wired up more for the carrot than the stick, but I ain’t. Pain is the ultimate motivator. I wake up on Saturdays with the intention of getting to the gym, but I end up watching television and scratching my nuts on the sofa. However, let’s say while I was lounging a guy broke into my apartment and pointed a revolver at my dog’s temple, telling me that if I don’t go bust out a 60 minute circuit training set right then, he’s going to paint the wall with my chihuahua’s blood. You can bet I’d find my New Balances pretty damned quick and be out the door.

I just realized that by accident, I ripped off that idea from National Lampoon Magazine whose most famous cover of all time was…

Anyway, the guys in the group asked me what it would take for me to actually commit to the workouts. I said, “Well, I need a punishment that is painful.” One man asked, “Do you support the KKK?” I told him that I did not. He said, “Perfect. How about if you don’t go to three workouts within two weeks you donate $100 to them.” Ooh – that would be painful! Great idea! However, there’s a few issues with that punishment – first, I don’t really want to help fund a hate group. I can’t imagine that would sit well with God and wouldn’t be easy to explain to St. Peter at the gates of heaven. I really hope there is a God and a gate – I like a little pizazz and showmanship in spirituality, you know? Also, if I did send the check in to the hate group, I would imagine the government might start tapping my phone. You’d have to make the donation in cash, and then use gloves, remember to not use a return address, etc. It’s a hassle.

Then, one of the other men said, “Hey, didn’t you just get ripped off by someone?” In fact I had. If you aren’t familiar with that story, you can read it here. “What if you gave the money to the woman that screwed you over?” BINGO. Red hot anger shot through me at even the thought of giving this shithead another nickel. And I even had a perfect way to get it to her. I accidentally have a pair of her pants in my closet. I had already told her that I had the pants and that I would return them. She told me to just throw them away. All I would have to do is send a letter saying, “When I threw out your pants, I found this $100 inside.” She would think the money was hers, and would keep it. It was perfect.

So, that’s what I committed to – three workouts in two weeks. Doable, but with a real punishment. You have to admit it’s a pretty good motivator.

I’m proud that I set up a fitness goal with a real consequence. I’m also proud that I now have seven new buddies. I’m also proud I’m the only one in the group without gray pubes. For now.

photo credit: xjyxjy 070805 Lidköping bm naked Flora garden art via photopin (license)

A friend of mine passed away last month.

And while there’s plenty of humor about dying and being dead, I thought I’d take a short stab at writing something less sophomoric that my usual nonsense. Not a full seven-inches-in-stab, like the murderer in the song Blood on the Dance Floor. Michael Jackson wrote some dark lyrics. But boy could he move like the wind. Anyway, I’m drifting. Back to the topic at hand – my friend’s death.

The deceased is named Bill Flynn. I met him in an AA meeting seven years ago. After the lead (the main speaker), the meeting opened up to comments from the peanut gallery. Bill said something like, “Once you’re sober the real work begins. Like figuring out why you needed to escape through drugs and alcohol in the first place.” Bill had been sober for 25 years by the time I met him.

A year into knowing Bill he invited me to a group he had just created that met on Wednesdays. It had nothing to do with addiction and anyone was welcome to attend. The idea was that you could bring in your truth – something you were struggling with in life, and there would be processes to help you overcome the obstacle. He didn’t call it a support group because, well support isn’t always necessary. All sorts of people attended. Once a woman came and revealed, “My step-father raped me and now he’s dead and I’m angry about it because he was never punished.” So, Bill would set up a scenario where she could confront the memory of her father and get angry. Another woman  cried because she said she didn’t think she any man could ever find her attractive. Turns out her mother wasn’t complimentary about her robust physique as a child. It takes time to unpack that kind of damage, and she kept showing up and doing the work. Three years later she announced she had met a man and they started dating. A year after that they got married. All of us went to the wedding. That’s the kind of group it was. People worked through stuff.

In 2013 Bill announced he was leaving the group. He had taught us how to do the facilitations and his goal was always to resign as soon as everyone became competent at helping each other. I stepped in and became the defacto leader.

What I’d like to do is share a few of Bill’s most important teachings. They have helped me immensely and I find myself quoting Bill more than any other person in my life. I even referenced him in my sister’s wedding speech last fall where I was the officiant. So in no particular order here’s some of my favorite Bill Flynn wisdom.

The hardest thing in the world to do is tell the truth. – Bill Flynn

No, we’re not talking about lying to the police about how 70 lbs of illegal bath salts found their way into your trunk. If that ever happens, go ahead and lie. You’re kind of screwed regardless. Telling the truth is about telling the whole truth. The ugly truth. The dark truths about yourself that even you don’t want to acknowledge. Because if someone saw ALL the ugliest parts of you, they’d run screaming, right?

Let’s say your best friend suffers a miscarriage and you feel no sadness for her. Maybe you’re even a little happy she’s suffering because she flaked on dinner plans a few weeks before. Try admitting that to yourself. Then, imagine telling someone. That ain’t easy. Or maybe you’re about to get married and you know your future bride is the wrong partner but the wedding is a week away. Bill never suggested you should tell the truth at all times. It’s impractical and, in many cases, downright stupid. His point was that it’s hard to be honest.

We once had a guy named Jason come into the group who had been molested by a relative. He had never told anyone. He couldn’t reveal this to his girlfriend because he was afraid she would see him as broken. He couldn’t be there for her sexually because of the trauma. He couldn’t focus and was in and out of college and jobs. When we heard his story, by the end, everyone was crying. Except Jason. He looked stunned. His biggest fear was that we would see him the way he saw himself. We all have fears about revealing the hard stuff. The irony is, by revealing your truth people fall in love with you. Which leads me to another Bill maxim.

The only way to build intimacy is through sharing vulnerability. – Bill Flynn

When I first started in therapy years ago, my shrink asked if I had any close guy friends and I said I did. She asked if I ever talked with them about my own issues. I laughed and said, “Guys don’t do that.” She laughed back and said, “No, D.J. – guys do that. YOU don’t do that.” I was terrified that I would burden my friends with my problems, or that they’d see me as damaged. And then, they would want to leave and I’d lose the friendship. What Bill taught me was that if you have the courage to tell the truth (see above), your friends will bond tighter to you. And by sharing yourself you’ve created the space to allow them to share their own stuff. As soon as I started talking about my fears, they immediately shared their own struggles. I couldn’t believe my successful and happy friends had troubles just like me. Plus, by knowing someone’s struggles, you can better support them. In short, it’s how you become a better friend. Bill never said this directly, but the bottom line was if you don’t want to be lonely, have the courage to share all of you with people you trust.

All roads lead back to mom and dad. – Bill Flynn

Bill was convinced that most of our problems as adults are because our parents screwed up. Now, this is a difficult concept for some to get on-board with, especially if you like your parents. If your folks were obvious shitheads, this is a no-brainer. But what if they paid for your college, told you they loved you, and tried their very best to make sure you had everything you needed? Can you really say that you have low self-esteem because dad traveled too much for work and missed important events in your youth? Yes. You can say that. Bill taught about the difference between blame and telling the truth. He would say, “Our parents did the best they could. And it wasn’t enough.” Then he would pause and say, “…and it’s okay.” It’s a massive disservice when we make excuses for others’ bad behavior. It’s okay to acknowledge their imperfections and the resulting ripples in your psyche. That’s not blame. That’s just the truth. And speaking of acknowledging the truth…

You cannot forgive someone until you hold them accountable. – Bill Flynn

So, back to our previous example of a jetsetting, absent father. You’re a thirty year old woman and don’t trust men because you never got Dad’s affection or attention. Your relationships are suffering because of the damage your father did to you as a child. Did he mean to screw you up? Probably not. But it happened. Your dad did other wonderful things, so it’s okay to praise him in your mind for the good. It’s also okay to condemn the bad. People are complicated and imperfect. But, how do you hold Dad accountable? Actually, you already did. By telling the truth to yourself. Dad did some things perfect, some things just okay, and some things that crippled your mental health. That’s not blame. That’s honesty and accountability. It happens in the mind. And once you hold that person accountable, it opens up the ability to forgive. In fact, it often happens automatically. It’s a cool trick that I was never taught in school. I was too busy taking stupid classes like civics.

Anger is the best way to protect a boundary. – Bill Flynn

Anger is a healthy emotion. But it scares us. I know I’m not entirely comfortable with my own. Growing up anger is condemned and shamed. In reality, anger is just a feeling that naturally arises from the body and mind. And it’s a damned good tool to have in case anyone tries to violate a boundary. Bill used to say, “If you can’t get angry, you’ll be fucked because some time in life you’ll need it and it might just save your life.” If you’ve ever had to protect someone physically, you know how important anger is to summon. It’s the only thing bullies understand. If you want to defeat a bully, defend your boundary. Anger protects us.

The healthiest relationships are in which two people are free to leave. – Bill Flynn

I just had someone end a relationship with me. It was the most painful experience of my life, moreso than even my divorce. However, the reality is that you cannot control someone’s decisions. You fight like hell for them, and you give them all of your love, but ultimately you honor their choice to leave. And if you “can’t live without them”, well maybe it’s time to pick up a book on co-dependence. Of course you can live without them. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t care whether someone stays or goes. You will care. It will level you when someone disappears from your life. It’s loss and it’s supposed to hurt. Or as Bill used to say, “It’s the risk of love. And it’s worth it even if they leave.”

Bill’s Favorite Poem

I could write a dozen more Bill expressions, but the reality is I’m no biographer. And most people don’t have interest in this kind of stuff. But Bill did. I do. And hundreds of other people who were helped by him. the reality is that I’m a healthier person because of some of the stuff Bill taught me. I’m a better person, too.

I’ll wrap up with Bill’s favorite poem. I’ve read maybe seven poems in my life and the only one I remember is “To the Virgins, To Make Use of Time” by Herrick. Probably because I was a virgin when I read it. Anyway, Bill said this sanskrit poem out loud so many times, I damn near have it memorized. It perfectly sums up what he was all about.

Look To This Day

Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendour of achievement
Are but experiences of time.

For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn.

– Kalidasa

First I released a new version of my Apple and Android app which include push notifications. Yes, you now get a popup whenever I write something new. Does my narcissism know no bounds?

Also I launched a Twitter web app which pokes around through your followers to see if anyone famous follows you. It’s pointless and silly but so are a majority of the activities in which I participate.

Okay, so now that the housecleaning is out of the way I’d like to publicly state that I’m a fantastic boyfriend.

This is not a proclamation from my ego. Believe me, there are many areas of life where I’m not proud. Just ask my therapist. She gets to hear all about it every Tuesday.

However, I have made a simple decision in my current relationship which has transformed the intimacy to a level I had never experienced before.

Years ago I was out at a party. There was a couple and the man was holding his girlfriend’s hand as they walked around the room. I watched them interact over the course of the evening and I noticed something that, at the time, seemed strange. He was constantly checking in with her and asking her what she needed.

He would make sure she had a full drink. Went around introducing her to his friends. Made sure she was having a good time.

Now, I know this couple. He’s not a controlling guy.  She’s not needy – in fact, she’s independent. However, you could see her appreciation each time he did something to show her he cared. It was obvious that she was the most important person at the party to him.

He understood a principle that I have only recently adopted.

Meeting your partner’s needs is the most important part of a relationship.

My guess is that at this party she felt insecure (she didn’t know anyone). To make her comfortable he never left her side. He was constantly touching and engaging her.

My girlfriend at the time remarked, “Wow – that’s a real man. Look at how he takes care of his woman.”

It took me seven years before I adopted this into practice. That’s not to say I was a jerk to my previous romances. I wasn’t. Often I tried my hardest to do things that I thought a good boyfriend should do. I didn’t, however, pay attention to what the woman actually needed.

This time I’m able to show up for the relationship in a new way. I make sure that my girlfriend’s needs are met first.

Now, I should point out that I’m dating an emotionally healthy person with reasonable needs. That helps.

I’ve paid attention over months and discovered what is most important to her. What makes her feel loved. Where and when she needs support. How to show appreciation in the way that she prefers.

Some of this I’ve learned by flat-out asking. “When you’re feeling sad, what should I do?” Other times I let my intuition take over and I do what comes natural.

The question I keep in the front of my mind is, “Does my woman need anything?” It’s a mantra to me.

When I see an opportunity, more often that not, I take action.

The damnedest thing has happened as a result of this focus. My woman feels like she is the center of my universe. She’s fulfilled.

Now, I’m far from perfect. I make mistakes and screw up in the relationship. She’s not always thrilled with me, I’m sure. But my batting average is solid.

In past relationships I used to worry about my needs being met. I withheld if I wasn’t receiving what I thought was fair. I no longer think or act this way. I now give at my fullest and assume that she will do the same. She does.

I wish somebody when I was younger would have sat me down and said, “If you take care of your partner, odds are they’ll take care of you. But you have to go first.”

Now, will I continue to put the work in as time wears on? I hope so.

I mean, if you’re a total dick and making fun of a person’s problems or you start telling everyone’s secrets on your personal humor blog (see what I did there?), then I can understand it. But I got booted for not showing up.

Initially I met with the group almost without a miss for three years. This is a men’s group where we sit around a circle and talk about our stuff every two weeks. The real life shit – dating, marriage, kids, work. You know, stressful life events. They’ve been present for me when I was going through my divorce and other difficult times.

Well, after years of going, I simply stopped. Not for any other conscious reason than I was lazy and didn’t want to go. It wasn’t personal toward the men – they’re nice enough guys and I cared about them. I was just being selfish. We didn’t have any rules around not showing up, mind you.

Before I knew it seven months had gone by. I had let a long time elapse. I definitely had disappeared. I was busy dating, writing, and involved in other activities. We were meeting for three hours at a pop every other Monday night. That’s a lot of time.

I kept in touch with several of the men because we were friends. My intention was to go to the meetings, but every time I found a reason not to go. Sometimes it was legitimate (I had a date or a busy work night), and other times I just went home and watched Breaking Bad.

I finally made it back a month ago. I walked in, sheepishly, and was greeted with hugs and warm welcome. People said they were happy to see me. I kept my mouth shut as I felt lousy about not being present for so long. We went around the circle to check in, and before it got to me one guy exploded.

He started in on me about not being around for seven months. Okay, I get that. I deserve a little abuse. I listened and watched as he told me he had “fury” towards me, and how something I did about year ago fucked him up so bad that he couldn’t leave the house for three weeks. I had no idea about any of this, and he obviously harbored this resentment for a long time.

I kept quiet because it didn’t make sense to argue with this man. After twenty or thirty minutes of this tirade he got up, said he didn’t feel safe and stormed out.

I, understanding that I had failed the group by not showing up, owned my mistake and apologized to the other men. I told them I was recommitted to showing up, and I would like to rebuild the trust that may have been damaged in my absence. At the end of the meeting they embraced me and told me to come back. I was a little freaked out about the guy who had yelled at me, but I figured he’d get over it. Several weeks went by.

A few days ago one of my friends in the group called and said that the rest of the members had been talking about me over email and decided I was to be kicked out. This has got to be a first in this organization. I was dumbfounded.

I re-committed to my friend that I was interested in the group and willing to do what was necessary to rebuild the relationships I had apparently damaged. I also reminded him that everyone (except for angry guy) had embraced me and told me to come back. Apparently they had changed their minds.

I have never been kicked out of a support group, nor any group mind you. I was angry and hurt – this felt personal. And it didn’t add up. But, I wasn’t privy to their conversations and I have no idea what the real beef was. My friend couldn’t exactly put it into words.

Who knows if it was the disturbed guy putting his foot down or something else? I have no idea. But I decided I would just sever ties (they didn’t want my ties anyway).

I’d be lying if I were to say it’s not affecting me any presently. It stings a bit.  But, I made my choice by not being present and must accept the consequences. I’m still unclear on why me not being around lead to getting kicked out – I’m in other groups where we welcome anyone who shows up whenever.

Anyway, since I now have every other Monday night free, I’ll try to do some more writing. Just don’t boot me out of your Twitter or Facebook feed. That would really hurt.

photo credit: comprock via photopin cc

Not that I’m so narcissistic to believe that you live, die, and breathe my words like oxygen. I hope you don’t. But if you do, you just may make it into the Paris will. Anyshit, I haven’t been updating the blog as much as usual. There’s a few reasons why…

First, I’ve been diligently working on the official ThoughtsFromParis mobile application. This means you no longer have to visit this site directly from your phone’s browser. I do have a really easy to read mobile site, but I wanted to create something a little more fun. Shortly Android and iPhone users will be able to download from their respective app stores.

I’d also like to formally announce that I’m removing all ads from the app and that it will be free. Initially I thought there would be banner ads to help recoup some of the costs associated with building and submitting the software. But then I realized we all hate apps with banner ads. So, I got rid of it.

The app is being built more as an exciting thank you for reading and supporting this blog. What started out as a little website has grown thanks to your readership. Much of my life has changed due to the engagement I receive from your comments. I’ve connected with thousands of people and developed (and continue to develop) strong friendships. I’m taking a risk that a mobile app will actually make getting to my posts easier (or at least add more options). I could be wrong. Either way, it’s a fun thing to build.

Second, I’ve been busy working on a partnership with a media company. While I don’t have all the details yet, there’s a very strong chance I’ll be making an exciting announcement within the next few weeks. I couldn’t be more flattered that this firm is interested in working with me, and I may be the first blogger they’re supporting. Of course, this could all go to pot, too. I hope not, but you never know with these things. Nothing will change content-wise. They want me to keep being me.

Now that I’ve spewed out my reasons for being absent, I would like to restore some additional balance to my life. Which means writing more.

The great Karen and I are working on oSex episode four. That should be fun and we’ve got all sorts of sicko and non-sicko questions to answer. I also set up a lot of great interviews for the Bloggers are Weird podcast and I appreciate you supporting both of these efforts.

While I haven’t been very active here, I continue to tweet and Facebook post quite a bit. Without tooting my own horn too much, I’m pretty damned good at it. If you’re not following me, I’d love it if you would consider. Selfishly, I dig when someone bests one of my jokes. I’m constantly amazed at your responses to my jokes and am secretly jealous when you come up with something better.

Oh, my app developer’s name is DongDong, which is nothing short of excellent.

Last (or is it “lastly”?), you may have noticed a little box at the top of this post (regular readers probably won’t see it) where I encourage you to subscribe to my posts via email. Once again, just another way to access my content.

Thanks again for the support and I’ll be back soon.

I called a stranger today. It’s not a completely unusual occurrence, at my job, to pick up the phone and call someone I’ve never spoken to before. I’m sure many people call strangers, many times a day. Nowadays, I think nothing of it, and that’s the strangest thing of all.

I was 15 when I was diagnosed with the anxiety disorder. We knew, my mother and I, but nobody had ever really put a name to it. But we both knew. It was the way I had such a hard time getting out of bed in the morning when something bad was happening at school. It was the way I would not engage with people I did not know. It was the way that I physically got sick anytime something traumatic would happen, including (but not limited to) migraines, vomiting, and hives (which as a high school student made me SUPER popular). It was the depression, too, but I’m not so sure one didn’t cause the other. When you’re afraid to leave your house in the morning, life is kind of a bummer. Also, when you have seasonal affective disorder and you’re living in Pennsylvania, life tends to be an additional bummer.

I was 15 when we moved from a small town where I knew everybody by name to a town three times the size, where I didn’t know anybody, and where I got lost in the high school. I was used to a school with only two hallways. I got anxious being in school. Then I started getting anxious on the drive in. Soon enough I was overly anxious when I tried to leave the house. Eventually I got to the point where I couldn’t leave the house at all.

I was 16 when my parents had no other choice but to have me home schooled.

I was 16 when I started taking Zoloft. My therapist gave me exercises like having my mom take me to the bookstore, purchase a book, and talk to the cashier by myself. If I could manage to talk to the cashier (a stranger) without having a panic attack and leaving the store, it was a good day.

I was also 16 when I forced myself back into the real world, slowly weaning off the home-schooling and back into public school. It started with just band practice, because that was the only place I felt like I fit in. Then we made it to half days, and by the end of the school year, I was going back full time again.

I was 17 when I thought I would never be able to go to college.

I was 18 when I made the decision to go to college, and even though I wanted to move south so desperately, I decided to stay in Pennsylvania, because I didn’t think I could finish school if I was so far away from my parents. I went. I joined the band. I talked to strangers. I made friends. I joined a fraternity. The strangers became my brothers.

I was 20 when I dropped out of school.

I was 21 when I made the decision that I had to go back to school because I was not making any headway with my writing, and I was trained for literally nothing else. I could think of nothing worse than subjecting myself to school again, which had been a source of such anxiety as a teenager. I locked myself in my bedroom for four days before the semester started, only leaving to eat and go to the bathroom, not even shower. My friend Diana showed up and knocked on my door. I ignored her. She probably knocked on my door for the better part of an hour, repeatedly calling my name while I ignored her. When she tried to slide a note under the door, I finally let her in. Diana, if you hadn’t made me open the door, I would have stayed in that room forever. Thank you.

The next day I flushed all my Zoloft down the toilet.

The day after that was my first day back at school, and I collapsed on my then boyfriend’s bed crying and told him I didn’t think I could do it. He told me I’d “better fucking figure it out” because he wasn’t going to support me for the rest of my life.

That summer my boyfriend left for grad school.

That fall, I gave myself some assignments similar to the ones my therapist used to give me. The first was to force myself to talk to more strangers, and maybe I could make new friends. The second was to graduate, so that I could learn to take care of myself and maybe someday be good enough for my boyfriend.

I was 22 when I switched my major to accounting. I talked to strangers. I joined another fraternity. Those strangers became my brothers. My boyfriend was having a rough time in grad school. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. He was having trouble talking to strangers, too. I was sympathetic. But I never forgot what he said.

I was 22 when I found out he had cheated on me. I cried a lot. I didn’t eat very much.

But I still went to class.

I was 23 when I graduated, and I was worried that I was going to have to start from square one. I knew that it was time to move out of Pennsylvania, and the thought scared the living bejeesus out of me, but I knew the time had come. I got offered a job in Texas. I packed my things and moved down to stay with my friend Jessica. I found an apartment and it became my home. I found a profession that I loved.

I was 26 when I realized that I had fucking figured it out, and I hadn’t thought about him in awhile, but I knew he was not good enough for me.

I was 27 when I published my first novel.

I was 27 when I moved in with Mike, and we made a new home with Jinx.

I was 27 when I paid off my student loans, six years early.

I haven’t had a Zoloft since the day I dumped them down the toilet.

I’m 27, and I called a stranger today.

So, Delfin asked for posts about our mental health experiences, preferably with a humorous slant. Not an easy feat for anyone who has genuinely suffered, but I appreciate any efforts to spread awareness, so here I am I sat at my computer and silently wondered. I look at my mental health experience, searching for the giggle in the groan, if you like.

I’ve had bipolar disorder since I can remember; the depressive despair, the destructive and exhilarating mania, both stifling and liberating me from within. You know how it is (if not, click the link). But it took until 2005 to find out why I was this way, and to receive the correct diagnosis and treatment. I was 33 years old at that time, and I’d been in and out of hospitals my whole life.

My brother died in 2004, and by his own hand.

He also took my tethered grip on sanity with him. At least for while. He’d suffered years of the same service negligence as I had, by then. In fact, we’d suffered it together, but never knew, because we couldn’t speak of it to anyone. The fear of criticism, of rejection, of a padded cell, always stifled dialogue and disclosure you see. Our bipolar disorder (and it’s many personalities) terrified us. Of course, we didn’t know what it was, we only new what it did to our emotions, our thoughts. We were hopeless and crazy. Doctors couldn’t help, either; they just locked us up or made it worse with their pills. Of course, this all happened twenty or so years ago.

Things have improved since then. Times have changed.

Back then, our friends and family wouldn’t understand, and we couldn’t bear their pity (or fear), even if they did. So, we pushed it down, tried to cope alone.

No one should have to cope alone.

My older brother’s illness (bipolar disorder 1) manifested itself in extreme manic states, followed by suicidal depression. Mine came in more depressive (often suicidal) waves or spells of hyper-mania (bipolar disorder 2), or both moods together (mixed states), and they came often (cyclic).

The evidence was always there, but doctors never asked us the right questions. They’d only see us after a fumbled suicide attempt, which led them to mistakenly diagnose us both with depression. Later, they said my brother was a schizophrenic, then he had a personality disorder. They gave me a personality disorder too, then said I was a chronic depressive with anorexia, because I was tiny and sad.

One nurse mentioned manic depression once, but nothing came of that.

And to think, all this attention, erroneous and useless as it was, only came after numerous suicide attempts from us both. Before that, those waiting lists for counseling never shifted, and their antidepressants and guesswork made us so much worse.

This sounds crappy, right? Where is the humour, you ask?

Well, we’re not there yet. I need to lift the curtain, to reveal the set, so to speak. Bear with me.

Following my brothers’ death (age 35 years old, leaving a son and daughter fatherless), there was an investigation into the treatment he had (not) received. They looked at his records (finally) and said he may have actually suffered with bipolar disorder. Ah! So anti-depressants weren’t the best idea then?

Thereafter when each one of us tumbled through their doors, in one state or another, we also received the same diagnosis. Because he had it!

It runs in families, don’t you know?

The investigation led to a “lessons have been learned” apology (of sorts), and doctors developed a searing need to medicate us all – just in case we followed him to a rope!

We are now officially a family of mental health sufferers! Hurrah!

Sounds awful, I realize, but this meant I finally got my hands on mood stabilizers, instead of those awful anti-depressants (which made me more manic, self harm and see ghosts!). So did my brothers daughter, and then, my sister, too. We all swallowed them down and bloated up, rejoicing in those yummy, equalizing, mind numbing pills which made our world make sense for the first time. Strange that receiving the same diagnosis (as awful as it was) that stole my brothers’ life, ultimately saved ours.

Because without the right diagnosis, there can be no effective treatment. My brother is testament to that.

My poor family – cursed with an awful hereditary disease. It didn’t end there, though. Those diagnoses just keep on coming, writing one family member off after another. My youngest sister has OCD and my other, much younger brother was recently told he could also have bipolar disorder. And now, both sisters and my niece have their own families, so I imagine our doctors’ sons and daughters will be diagnosing members of my family for years to come.

What’s the odd thing about all these so-called hereditary diagnoses? What’s the giggle in the groan?

Well, my youngest brother and I share only a dad, but not a mum. Our dad was an addict, but nothing else. His mother was a stable and loving human being.

My deceased, older brother and I only shared a mum, but not a dad. His dad had anger issues, but nothing else.

Then, there are my two sisters, (one with bipolar disorder, the other with OCD) who share the same mum as me, but a different dad to me. Keep up! Our mum understandably suffered reactive depression after losing her son, but nothing else.

Neither my brother’s dad, nor my sister’s dad, nor my own dad ever received treatment for mental health issues, either. So where’s the hereditary factor?

Confused? Me too.

But when doctors asked us whether anyone in our family suffered with a mental illness, we told them about our brother. We didn’t talk about our half-brother. We didn’t feel the need to explain how the blood in our family spreads weak and wide. We talked of Brian, the one we lost, whose brain beat him into submission. As the oldest, he suffered the most, and lost his war with clueless doctors and an ignorant society.

He died so that we might finally, be heard.

FACTS: Around 2.6 percent of the U.S. adult population suffers with bipolar disorder. About 1% of the UK adult population has bipolar disorder. OCD is said to impact 2-3% of the UK population.  RARE!

So how did three dads and two mums make babies with two rare mental illnesses, without having suffered themselves – without a traceable family history of mental illness?

I have to ask: Are we all the victims of mental illness, health care negligence, life, or plain BAD LUCK?

Answers on a postcard, please!

(Or in the comment section below, whichever you feel most comfortable with).

The world is a smaller place than it was, even eight years ago. Social media helps to spread awareness, medical advances help science treat us without debilitating us (mostly), and better training of medical staff (an insightful CPN suggested to my psych-doc that I may have bipolar disorder, not depression, or a personality disorder) helps them to make the correct diagnosis, quicker.

But more needs to be done.

I now live happily on one tenth of the medication I’m presently prescribed, by supplementing it with various natural treatments, an open and honest lifestyle, and stability. Everyone close knows of my illness, so if I get a little manic, they don’t over react. I simply up my meds for a few weeks and I’m fine. Same if I slip down. Then, once balanced, I return to the maintenance dosage

(NOTE: I took a year to reduce my dose and did so with the support of my family. Don’t try this alone!).

My niece stopped taking it altogether (again, over time), preferring to deal with her illness with the loving support of her family, and my sister manages her own dosage like me, according to her moods. She couldn’t function as a mother and university student on her full dosage.

My sister with OCD takes no medication, but she has everything under control! J

SOAP BOX ALERT: I think teaching sufferers to manage their our own medications, and encouraging sufferers to talk and not hide in shame, will empower us to feel strength in reaching out, instead of fear. Of course, we should all spread awareness too, so that society in general turns their backs on the prejudices and ignorance’s of old.

Okay, so there was little in the way of humour. Gotchya! Is your family riddled with mental illness? Do you love someone who suffers form a mental illness?

For weeks I’ve kept my head down. “Eyes on the prize” so to speak. Chris and the kids kept me laughing and well distracted in anticipation for the surgery. I had projects I was working on and fun plans I was making for summer trips. I had lots and lots of support from family and friends. When the day of the surgery came I was ready. I was scared out of my mind, but ready.

It happened. It was over. I was home and recovering. I was thankful. Things went well. My husband and kids were the best caregivers ever. I got a gold star for my post-op check-up. I was fine. Mostly. Mostly is better than most, right?

Then it was finally here! What Chris and I have been waiting for. Our “big kid” trip away. We’ve been having a fantastic time talking, laughing, and being goofballs. But today it hit. Everything hit. I don’t know what it was. I was restless. Chris even pointed it out.

“You okay, Babe?”

We were on the beach for heaven’s sake without any worries or cares. Of course I was okay, but I didn’t FEEL it. I felt edgy. I tried to lay down, go to the water, read a book, snack on some watermelon, drink something delicious, but the nagging feeling was overwhelming. Then the storm clouds rolled in behind us. When the clouds let go, so did I. We rushed to gather the towels, coolers, chairs and hurried off the sand as the rain poured down on us (again). That’s when I noticed it. I was crying. And it felt good. As we walked back to the condo, Chris and I were able to talk through my tears. He made me laugh…to which I ended up doing a “laughcry”. I love that man.

I’ve made such a huge leap in my healing by being here the past four days. I’ve been feeling much stronger physically and mentally (phew, I was worried about this one especially!). I think I needed to let go emotionally. After a solid cry in the rain, the skies look a lot brighter. I knew it was coming. The storm.