Now it’s all the rage and there are books on how to be mindful in business, weight loss, parenting, and even extreme kiteboarding.
Basically it boils down to just paying goddamn attention to what’s going on inside.
As someone that has ADD and former addictions I know little about being present for what’s going on inside. I’ve written about this ad nauseum, but other than occasionally, I haven’t really put it into practice. One of the challenges with mindfulness is that it’s usually wrapped around meditation. I’m not flexible enough for the lotus position and I don’t have any patchouli oil to burn. Plus, new age music gives me the creeps.
I read a story from a Harvard prof, Ellen Langer, who’s been studying mindfulness since the 1970s. Nobody paid much attention to her until recently even though she wrote the preeminent text on it back in the 80s.
Anyway, she says meditation isn’t necessary for mindfulness. Her research confirm this.
So, I’ve been carving out a few minutes every day while traveling to and from work on the train where I turn off Sirius or replays of my own podcast (yes, I sadly listen to my own stuff) or the best of The Lemonheads (which I must admit I stole online to check it out – didn’t like it, so I deleted the album. Is that wrong?).
I literally just sit and not think and see what happens internally.
The first few days, nothing came up. After a few minutes I got bored and went to my scorpion solitaire game, which is the most awesome solitaire game this side of mahjong.
Then on day three of my mindfulness practice sadness FLOODED me. I always stand up on the train, always, but I nearly needed to sit down.
And I couldn’t figure out what was happening.
I got curious about it and tried to source the pain, but it didn’t connect with any life events. I have a good job, wonderful relationship, fun parents, I pay my bills, and get to take my dog to work. Nothing particularly stressful or difficult is going on in my life.
Then it hit me – I’ve been avoiding sadness my whole life. Now it’s racing toward me like a tidal.
“Yes, I think you have a lot of sadness on the way,” agreed my therapist. Then she shrugged.
She’s right. And that’s the message I have received from paying attention. I’m so out of it I don’t even know what the sadness is all about. I just know I have a fartload of it.
This is surprisingly healthy and I intrinsically know it. That’s why the pain doesn’t concern me. It’s difficult to stay in sadness when it happens, that’s for sure. I want to escape in any way possible and with a smartphone I can get myself out with one tap. I’m trying to force myself to remain present for the pain until it processes. Which is the best course of action.
And it does pass. I’m usually only bummed out for maybe an hour at a time.
It’s tough for people to understand. If you say you’re sad they’ll ask you, “What about?” When you answer, “I have no idea,” they flash back to that Zoloft commercial with the cartoon egg. They think you’re in big trouble.
Ironically, not knowing what I’m sad about actually makes it easier to deal with. Because I don’t have to analyze it or judge it. It just is. So, if I can muster up the courage and patience to dive into the pain, my body will figure out what to do with it and I’ll be fine.
Now, if I ever can’t get out of bed or something, then I’ll start experimenting with mind-blowing psychoactives purchased on seedy overseas online pharmacies. I’m not above that.
Well, in Chicago we don’t call it the subway. It’s the “el” which is short for “elevated train” because it does, in fact, go above ground. The trains also go below ground, too. I’m sticking with “subway,” although this incident technically happened at an elevated structure.
It wasn’t supposed to be snowing or cold yesterday morning. 18 ° was projected but 3 ° with strong flurries was what happened. I prepared for the weather with a heavy jacket and gloves. Since I take the dog to work, I covered her in three layers of clothes and then stuffed her into a backpack. Out we went.
In single degree temperatures at 8am standing on the train platform I could sense an overall depression among the commuters. There’s no sun and the cold hurts your skin, eyes, and ears. I boarded the train after a few minutes of waiting.
Immediately after I enter a subway car I lean against the wall partition perpendicular to the door. I take off my backpack and carefully place it between my legs which are shoulder length apart. This protects the dog should anyone accidentally kick her while walking in or out.
I have a policy where I only stand while on the subway. This is for one reason – I don’t want to be the douche who sits when women, old people, and children are standing. Also, I’d have to put the backpack on my lap and that would draw more attention to the fact that I have a dog on a train that explicitly doesn’t allow dogs.
I make sure that because I stand by the door, if it’s crowded when people are getting off or on I exit momentarily to allow for more space. Usually I don’t have to as I’m not blocking the entryway. I make sure people don’t have to strain to get around me.
At the first stop I was in my usual spot and the train was empty. There were plenty of open seats and I was one of three people standing. The entryway was clear when the door opened. A few people lumbered on.
At the tail of the group was a tall man bundled up. Instead of entering the train he stopped short of the door. He looked me in the eye and started yelling. I had my headphones on so I didn’t catch his first few sentences. Not wanting to miss anything further I took off my headphones as fast as I could.
He was angry and shouting something about me blocking the door. I wasn’t blocking the door as evidenced by the group that just entered the train. His face was beet red. A huge laugh welled up in me and I exploded. I laughed right in his face. We were approximately three feet apart.
Stunned, his face went blank for a moment while he processed my reaction. I’m sure he was expecting me to move or get angry or stay silent while he unloaded on me. But I couldn’t take it seriously. While laughing I said to him, “Wow! You’re really fired up!” He kept yelling and was so into it that he let the door close without entering the train. I watched the door shut while he was still bellowing at me. He pounded on the window to keep my attention. Then he flipped me the middle finger.
There’s nothing funnier than receiving the middle finger. I can’t remember the last time it happened. Probably ten years.
I lost it at this point. I started laughing harder and pointed at his middle finger as if to say, “That was a great one! Good joke!” Plus, I knew that the more I laughed the more incensed he’d feel.
Laughing at someone when they’re angry is dehumanizing. You’re invalidating their existence and reducing their passion to novelty. It’s also the reaction least expected and cuts deep into one’s insecurity. I recommend it highly in situations like this.
As the train pulled away I realized that I had single-handedly ruined this person’s morning. My guess is that he’s a bully-type and it’s probably not the first time he mixed it up with someone on the train. I’m sure he goes around all the time yelling at people who stand near the entrance.
I’ve learned to not let crazy people bother me. They can’t help it. It’s just how they are.
But I refuse to give up my power to bullies. You shouldn’t either.
Laugh at them.
There’s nothing I own that is appropriate for negative temperatures. If I dug deep into my closet I could find a pair of long underwear. But then what? Put them on under my suit pants? I’d get to work where the temperature is a 72. Then I’d be hot for the day.
Plus, I’m only outside for between five and twenty minutes depending on how fast the train and bus arrive. Yes, I ride both the train and the bus. I own a car but I’m too cheap to put the miles on it. I live close to the train and my work is near the station.
When I climb the train platform I have to wait only three minutes before one arrives. The train is never full and I stand against an interior window. The backpack which houses my dog is removed and placed between my legs. I pull out my phone and start thinking of things to tweet.
Today the train took five minutes to appear. Then it zoomed past. This is bad for three reasons. One, the obvious temperature discomfort. I’m exposed outside on an elevated platform with no heater. Two, the train not stopping means that something is wrong. It’s skipping stops to fix whatever goof-up happened earlier. Third, when the next train does stop it’s going to be jam-packed.
While waiting for the train I stared directly into the sun to feel a bit of warmth on my face. I’m sure I looked like a weirdo. Next time you’re in that kind of weather, try it. It works.
The next train stopped. Jam-packed. Normally this doesn’t bother me. I can be squished and I don’t freak out. But I have a backpack with a dog inside. This means I have to hold the backpack down near my legs for about thirty minutes. I’m not exactly crushing the weights these days – this is no easy task. Also, I have to be constantly thinking of the dog’s safety to make sure some jerk doesn’t knee her in the skull.
The train ride was uncomfortable but without incident.
After emerging from the station I looked for a bus parked outside. Once in a blue moon there’s no bus and it might take five or ten minutes before one arrives. Today, blue moon. When I looked down the street there was no bus in sight. I’d have to walk.
Distance to work from bus stop – one mile.
The sidewalks were barely plowed and there was slush everywhere. I couldn’t move as fast as I wanted and kept slipping. Every time I passed another bus stop I looked back – no bus.
I was halfway to work and crossing a bridge when I remembered I was carrying a dog. Meepers never makes a sound and I had forgotten she was back there. I felt terror. The backpack has a mesh covering around most of it. This allows the dog to breath. Also, it allows cold air to come in. I had dressed her in three layers of clothes, but I was nervous. What if she had frozen to death? I was too afraid to take off the backpack and look so I tried to walk faster. I didn’t know how long a seven pound Chihuahua could survive in that weather. I whispered a foxhole prayer and started to cry.
A few minutes later I arrived at the office doorstep and turned the key. Stepping inside I felt heat. I ran to my office, tore off the backpack and opened the zipper. The dog jumped out as usual and went to her bed under my desk.
After the euphoria of her being alive wore down I was saddled with a tough reality. I had placed my dog in danger.
Guilt and shame flooded my core. I tried to start the morning but couldn’t shake the weight of those feelings. A coworker snapped me to reality with a meeting we had scheduled. I buried the feelings.
I’m not sure I’ve yet forgiven myself for this mistake. I will, but I need to sit with it a for a while longer.
photo credit: ChaoticMind75 via photopin cc
]]>I spent about 6 or 7 weeks of my life, just recently, mired so deep in melancholia it was difficult to even get out of bed in the morning. Such a cliché, but in this case it was the literal truth. I shied away from consciousness and all it brought with it. In the deepest parts of the trough, it was not possible to even think of troubling myself to write about it, the necessary cohesion, energy, clarity, coherency was just not available. I was barely able to manage text messages to assuage the concerns of friends.
When I am no longer depressed it is hard to remember exactly what went on in my inner landscape during that time, it’s like a really nasty dream, one of those that linger on waking, leaving you feeling a bit sour all day. Snippets and sounds come back to me, but it is impossible to really reproduce the feelings. This particular session was brought on by years, literally, of stress and anxiety. But the cause is irrelevant. When the vase is already broken, it is never strong again, the glue is always in danger of dissolving. Any series of events that I find stressful might set me off again. And those are not, necessarily, events that other people would find stressful.
I have been very fortunate, it has been a very long time since I was this bad. So long, in fact, that friends who have known me for several years were confused and unsure how to deal with me.
Right now, I am on the boundary line. A couple of nights ago, I actually physically felt a switch flipping on in my head, it felt like the very centre of my brain made some connection (I can point to it for you if you like, next time we are chatting about my lunacy), and some lights, shaky and dull, started to power up in the damaged regions of my mind. I immediately put shoes and clothes on and went for a walk in a desperate attempt to get whatever the hell passes for chemical uppers in my broken brain, swooshing around in there.
It was pleasant, out walking around the estate, but I was out there for one reason only, to cling on to this possible life preserver because things had been really, really bad. So bad that I had actually been researching (in the moments where I could convince myself to do more than just stare at a DVD) electro-convulsive therapy, and had been giving it serious thought.
The thought of all that this would entail though was exhausting in itself. Having to get a psychiatrist to evaluate me first, all the weeks of crap that would bring, not to mention convincing said psychiatrist (before they would even consider shock treatment) that I am NOT going down the road of medication again. Plus, obviously, you have to be pretty irretrievable to agree to let someone zap your brain with electricity.
With regard to medication, just too many side effects. Yes forgive me but I do require a sex drive thanks awfully, it’s one of the few pluses in my life! Or there was the drug that woke me screaming each night, bashing myself off walls while I wandered the house in a confused state. To a greater, or lesser extent every anti depressant of the MANY I have tried has just not been worth what comes with it. I have tried at least ten different drugs from three different families, and the doctor’s insistence that I keep getting liver and kidney function tests whenever on anti-depressants frankly creeps me out – what, exactly are these pills doing to my insides?! In addition, I am ok (usually) for 11 (ok, maybe 10) months out of 12 – not all at once, perhaps, but still it’s a hell of a thing to have to take drugs EVERY SINGLE DAY with horrible side effects that fuck up my internal organs to cover myself for the 1-2 months each year where I may, or may not, actually need them.
I am not anti-medication, I have given them a bloody good try – and that’s all she wrote for anti-depressants.
Already I can find my recall getting a little hazy, and my “normal†self reasserting herself and telling me that there is no way those days could have been that bad, surely….
So here, while I am still in the gloaming, in the borderlands, are my recollections of what it feels like to be in that terrible, grey place they call clinical depression. This is how it felt, not how it feels now. If this was how it felt, right now, I would not be typing, coherent or rational enough to care about sharing.
My first thought on waking each morning is dread. My last thought before going to sleep at night is dread too, because although I am greatly relieved at the prospect of bed and sleep and not having to deal with anything for a few more hours, I am already trying hard not to think about wakening up in the morning to have to deal with the all the daily garbage. Guilt, decisions, responsibilities of another day. Sleep is my saviour. I sleep as much as possible. Sometimes I comfort eat, chocolate and sugary things, this time that was intermittent, I had lost the energy to even care much about comfort foods. Xanax has been my friend this time around, on the days I just could NOT cope at least I was able to drug myself to sleep again with one or two Xanax. Though I doubt my doctor would have prescribed it for me had he known my mental processes more intimately.
The worst times were when, conversely, I couldn’t sleep at all. The constant inner monologue was turned up full volume at those times, so I would listen to loud music on earphones and try to keep my mind as occupied as possible with videos and other miscellaneous nonsense. Sometimes this would happen because I had just been sleeping too bloody much. Other times, it would just, simply, happen and I would be awake for two days regardless of futile attempts to drug myself to sleep. Mental illness – it’s the gift that keeps on giving.
I was asked, at one point in the last futile and wasted month and a half, if I had considered self harming or suicide. Considered it? Some days, some hours, it was ALL I really thought about, a constant undercurrent to my surface thoughts. There was even a beat I could use to go with the words, when my footsteps would sound out a sort of rhythm in my head and I could hear the words “I wish I was dead, I wish I was dead†going around and around like the lyrics to a song, or the metre of a train when you are safely inside the carriage. Why? Because it would stop this fucking nightmare train wreck from happening, of course, but also just because. Because when you are depressed as I was you just don’t want to be alive any more, it is part and parcel of it.
The one constant thorn in my side over the last 6 or so weeks has been having to look after my children. They are both my saviour and my curse at times like these. Saviour because I am fairly certain I would have attempted – and perhaps succeeded – in actually killing myself if it weren’t for them, at various points over the last 15 years. But who comes back from that? Well, obviously, not the dead person, I mean what child could ever recover from such a thing?
I reckon if your mother kills herself you are pretty much doomed to a shite life, whatever way you look at it. No matter how many letters the mater leaves, how much explaining she tries to do. So, my heart keeps beating on behalf of my hostages to fortune. Turns out there is one thing I love more than myself and it’s them. There are days I have resented that, and days I have been glad for it. Today is a glad day.
I have also lost two friends to suicide. And you never (Never) get over the guilt, no matter how close, or otherwise, you were to them – even if they were living in another country at the time. I admit though, that wouldn’t have stopped me, the sorrow of my friends, husband, brothers was not a genuine consideration for me, not in the deepest troughs. Only Jacob and Ruth were enough to halt me at the brink on several occasions.
And they are a curse because having to worry, or even show the slightest concern about another human being is an exhausting ache in my head. I don’t want to get out of bed at all, let alone make breakfast, lunch, iron, wash, do all the things normal mothers do. “Don’t want to†– such easy words but in reality every single part of me rebels against these chores, if I had the energy I would scream. I can always manage to hug them, smile, give them a word of love – for some reason those feats are not so difficult. But the day to day drudgery that I don’t much like at the best of times is absolutely gruelling when I feel like this. If you asked me to strap a weight to my back and climb a mountain, it would be easier than doing the school run when my head is in this place.
I feel such resentment, added to the general swirling guilt, misery, sadness and hate, that I am forced to care for two other human beings. If I had known how hard motherhood was going to be, I would genuinely never have done it. On the other hand, I have never, not once, been able to wish them out of existence. Love is the rope that binds me to them.
When I am still in the dark place I do know, vaguely, that somewhere there are people out there who have real actual feelings and they aren’t like mine, that this grimy bubble around me will pop one day and I will feel things the way they do again, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I know this intellectually, even though I cannot remember it emotionally, and I hang on to that thought for grim life. The fact that I feel almost entirely disconnected from the rest of the human race, that their beliefs and feelings seem irrelevant, irrational, unreal to me will pass, I know this from past experience.
But oh, this was a bad one, a real doozy. After a few weeks, it started to feel like I was swimming through freezing cold soup, maybe a broth of some kind, filled with spinach. Just enough light and space to see a few feet ahead maybe. Or like snorkelling, if the snorkel was half clogged up and you couldn’t really get a breath, and the sea was muddy and full of seaweed. Or like trudging through a heavy fog, a fog that has real weight, in a wet parka, wearing a faulty gas mask, in front of me a few patches of light that I make my weary way towards.
I could go on all day with analogies, it is impossible to describe how bleak everything looks and how heavy the weight of life is. There is not one word, not one action that can make anything seem better. Imagine the love of your life had just died in your arms and then someone trying to cheer you up, telling you to count your blessings and look on the bright side while the blood was still warm on your hands. Impossible. Ludicrous.
Another reason to avoid people, they think they can cheer you up. Shudder.
Isolation is what I crave. Just having to think about listening to well meaning conversation makes me want to rake the skin off my face with my stumpy little nails. Isolation is the most dangerous thing for me, and it is the one thing I want. To. Be. Left. Alone. Stop ASKING me for things, don’t ask for my opinion, my help, my input in any way, don’t ask me one single question, you are tormenting me with your NEED. This goes for absolutely everyone, everything – so if you are reading this and thinking oh no, that’s aimed at me, believe me, it’s not, it’s aimed at every living person in the world, and in particular the ones I live with, poor bastards. Luckily for them I am too listless and fatigued to present as much more than groggy and miserable.
In that soup, that foggy mire, I look at people I know and I wonder what they would do if they could read my thoughts just at that point. I look at them and the idea of trying to communicate my thoughts is unappealing, completely so. Too hard, oh far too hard, too far away, you stretch out your arm and it takes forever to reach someone and even if you could reach them, it is probably impossible anyway. How do you tell a person blind from birth what a colour looks like? You don’t ask for help because you don’t want help, you have forgotten what wanting help feels like. You forget how it feels to be happy. You know that you were, once – but again it is an intellectual exercise. You hang on to the knowledge that eventually, this too shall pass.
On the days people see me, or in some way interact with me, it is a given that I am not at rock bottom – because when I am at rock bottom I just refuse to see or interact with anybody, however many times the phone rings, or texts come in, unanswered. So people do not see my rock bottom. My children are only aware that I am absent. Sleeping or hidden away, a ghost figure hardly seen. Again, I am very grateful this is usually only a few weeks out of every year, for their sake as well as my own.
On the days I do manage to go out, people ask me questions and I feel unsure of what answers to give them. It is hard to make a decision. Should I tell the truth, part of the truth, a total lie, say nothing, smile awkwardly? Social skills were a learned behaviour on my part anyway, so they drop away fast when I am living inside the bubble. I feel like a marionette acting out a play, badly. I am always amazed that I can fool anybody at all.
There is little sense of humour when you’re lost in the fog. My sense of humour is normally really keen, I can find something funny about losing a toenail on most days (particularly if it is someone else’s). If I can hang on to humour then I might be on the jagged edge but I am not in the dark place entirely, not yet, even if one foot is over the finish line.
I am physically often really tired in this place. My energy drained out of me, and that makes it easier to sleep, which I am glad about in as much as I can be glad of anything at this point. All I want to do is close my eyes and not be awake any more. When I cannot sleep I watch videos, read books, almost constantly, it is a way of distracting my grieving mind from the guilt, panic, fear, misery.
One by one, things get whittled away. Fresh clothes? Oh this T shirt will do it was only worn once. Shower? Only if going out, or when I started to feel actually sticky, and I avoided going out as much as I could. Grocery shopping? Shift that to the husband whenever possible. Housework? Bare minimum, with help from the kids, and again only out of concern for them. I could have slept in a pile of maggots and barely noticed at that point, but couldn’t let them live in grot and filth (memories of my own childhood). Not because I didn’t prefer, even in that state, to be clean and have a pantry full of food, but because it was just too hard to do the chores that lead to that. Can’t explain it any better than that.
Not every single day was this bad, obviously, or I would have done nothing at all for the last month and a half. There were a few crests – well not crests exactly but a bit of a climb out of the trough at least. In a way this was worse, because the half a dozen times I almost made it up out of the valley only to tumble back down again were very disheartening. And it didn’t happen all at once, there are hills and contours in the valleys of melancholia, some days you go up a little, other days speeding downwards. It took weeks to really get to the bottom. I have been chiselling my way through the strata for years and I suspect I came quite close to the very deepest parts this time.
Disconnection, flattened emotions (all the positive ones anyway), raw misery, grief, sorrow, guilt, fear, panic, shame, and an attempt to shy away from all responsibility for the simple reason that I just cannot deal with it. Any responsibility feels like a physical weight. Worse, it feels like an attack, like being slapped, I cringe beneath the thought of it. Mentally and sometimes even physically. And by responsibility I mean making a phone call, ironing a shirt, answering a text. These feel like the tasks of Hercules when I am living in the dark lands. You know how stressed you are right before an important exam? Amplify by at least ten and you might start to get the anxiety that even having to talk to someone on the phone can bring. And a constant drumbeat in my head that if I could just go to sleep and not wake up things would be so much easier.
On one of my better days, a day I had managed to get out and drive, I sat in the car for 10 minutes convincing myself that I could walk into Australia Post and make some photocopies. I did go in, but it was touch and go for a while.
What can I say, it was a trip, for sure 🙂
There is nothing whatsoever friends can do for me in this place. I am aware of your attempts to reach me and of your concern, perhaps it helps somehow, perhaps not it is hard to say. It is appreciated once I am capable once again of appreciation. Sometimes I can fake normality briefly, or even surface briefly to a nearly normal state and usually when that happens I make an attempt to see at least one of you, or talk to you, to reconnect to reality because when I am sane friendship is something incredibly important to me. All the worse then that it gets damaged too by the poison leaking from my brain.
There is nothing anybody can do differently if it ever happens again. Just don’t take it personally is probably the only advice I could give you, if I am lost and far away. I seem to have managed to have dragged myself out of this one, or at least be on the upward path. Hopefully it will be many more years, if ever, before another black depression as vast as this last one settles on me.
Well, there you have it. I thought you all deserved a few words of apology for my being so selfish – because there is no doubt about it, melancholia makes me absolutely selfish and almost impervious to all other concerns but my own grinding sadness (apart from, as I say, that tiny part of me that manages still to care about my children). And a few words of explanation because I know depression must seem like a foreign country to people who inhabit the world of sane.
You have my permission to leave now and not return. Coping with this sort of information is not for everyone. No hard feelings. Just remember, I am only ever a danger to myself, not to others.
Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, I have nothing up my sleeves. Pay close attention. Because this next trick is impossible.
Hey, I’m flying to the Chicago. I’m in the air – doing a commercial for WalMart. Let’s hang out!
I was thrilled. I hadn’t seen her in over a year yet we talk every week. During my divorce and other hard times, she’s been there. And I was introduced to her through my blog. She was a reader and now we’re very close. Had I not started this blog I wouldn’t have met her.
She was flying into Midway airport and I work near the train that goes out there. I loaded up my dog in the backpack and railroaded it to the airport. As I got there I reached into my jacket for my phone. It flew out of my hands and into the air. The phone landed with a thud on the ground. No big deal – it’s happened before. The battery went flying and the case came off.
I examined the glass and the phone. Everything looked okay. Then I went to turn it on. The screen wouldn’t come on. It was black. I looked closer. The screen (on the inside) was smashed to bits. The phone turned on just fine but I couldn’t see poop. I farked the phone.
This was a problem as now I couldn’t make phone calls and I had no idea where Michelle was hanging out. I knew she had to get her car at Enterprise so I headed there. I was really in a panic because I didn’t know her number. I began to think and realized if I could get to a computer I could look up her number in my Google contacts, then borrow a phone, call her, and have her come meet me. This was getting complicated.
Thankfully, just as I approached a man to borrow his tablet, she rounded the corner. We embraced and I told her how bummed I was to have just broken my phone.
At the Enterprise window the clerk hustled us upstairs where they do special check-ins for people with entertainment accounts. I borrowed Michelle’s phone and began looking up the closest AT&T store as I now needed a new phone. When we got to the counter and the car was ready to go, they asked for Michelle’s ID. She couldn’t find it.
This wasn’t an issue as I saw her pull it out at the first Enterprise window. All we had done was walk fifty yards and take an elevator up. Nope. Couldn’t find it. I backtracked several times searching the ground just in case it had fallen out of a pocket. Surely it must be in a pocket or her computer bag. We just had it moments ago. It was gone.
She has to fly out in a few days so that isn’t going to be fun. Apparently you can do it without a license or ID but the TSA really busts your balls. She has no choice.
So, me with a broken phone, her with no ID, you’d think it was a shitty night. And that part of it was. But to spend time with one of my favorite people on the planet, that’s special.
I have a crappy phone now, as my contract isn’t up for another month and they couldn’t advance me the discount. I’m not happy about it, but at least I have my ID. And at least Michelle has her phone.
Never shoplifted as a teenager. Didn’t get drunk and vomit all over my parents while they were sleeping. Wasn’t courageous enough to light up a square in the high school bathroom.
Ooh, just remembered. Once as a freshman nature during my civics class. I was having stomach problems and needed to do very bad things. Excused to the bathroom I commenced to do what I do when I do how I do. Also, I’d like to mention that the sick screwballs at my private, Catholic high school didn’t bother to put doors on the stalls. There’s no way that would be allowed today what will all that religion’s shenanigans.
So, anyway, I’m doing what I do worst and the goddamned fire alarm goes off. Fine, except I’m only a third of the way through this movie. I hear the students run down the halls and outside onto the lawn. I was stuck. Since I’m not a pussy it never occurred to me to be afraid of a fire. No, I was afraid of being caught by a fireman and then marched outside in from of the student body. That would be more humiliated than I already was on a regular basis.
It’s not like I could do that super cool move where you pick up your feet and put them on the bowl so that nobody sees you during a routine sweep. I’m still shocked that we didn’t have doors. I’m not sure I can write that sentence enough times without it blowing my mind.
Okay, so I’d finish up and join the other frosh out on the quad. No, can’t do that. Same outcome. They’d think I either started the fire or something. Either way I’d have to answer for my deeds. Plus, I wasn’t done yet. Wait – couldn’t I just complete my business and go back to class after the fire drill was over? No – then all the students would know I was in the bathroom dropping toads and missed the big to-do. The objective was to draw the least amount of attention to myself as possible.
Shockingly nobody checked the boys’ bathroom. This is amazing because there were only two bathrooms in the whole school. And again, no doors on the stalls. Would have taken only three seconds.
Now I was starting to sweat. I wasn’t done. They’d be filing back in soon after realizing this was some junior’s prank. Dammit, this had to be timed just perfectly. I needed to be coming out of the bathroom at just the same time as people were filing in.
Well, not unlike a Joffrey dancer, I landed right on point. The only wrinkle was that I still had the bathroom hall pass. I stuffed it into my Dockers until the end of class and then casually dropped it off on the chalkboard. Nobody knew nothing.
Coda – it’s not like I was able to run off with the homecoming queen since I averted this embarrassment. I’m not sure why I gave a shit. Pun intended.
Wait, wasn’t this post supposed to be about how I’m a rebel in certain ways? I totally lost my train of thought there. Oh well. There’s always tomorrow.
This is an accurate statement as today I spent time with two children for approximately ninety minutes.
My friend Justin and his wife have a girl and a boy ages three and a half and one and half. I have been out to see them five times in the last year.
Oooh… before I get started let me tell you about an accidental scam I discovered. When my friends started having babies I thought that a really nice thing to do would be to offer that I go over, watch their children, and give the parents a night out for movies or necking or whatever. I’ve offered this at least a dozen times and not once has anyone taken me up on it. But they always comment on how nice the gesture is. Maybe they think I’d be blogging from the porch ignoring the children who are chasing rabid squirrels in the front yard.
Let me first give you my own personal musings on having children. I’ve always thought it seemed like the thing to do. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever had the longing to be a parent but I didn’t grow up around babies and my sister doesn’t have any yet, either. I guest I just haven’t given it much thought other than at some point I’ll remarry and make a few. But it’s never occurred to me to hang out with some to see what it’s like.
Today, I went over to visit Justin and his wife. I was excited to see his kids because they’re really sweet. I suspect if he had jerk children I wouldn’t want anything to do with it. When I got there it was just me and Justin. The kids were at the gym with mom. That’s one more trip to the gym than I made this week. A one year old is beating me on discipline. Awesome.
When the kids got home the oldest one (who I’m sure didn’t remember my name) came running over for a hug. Well, truth be told I asked for one. I sort of just needed a hug, even if it was from a three year old. It felt really good. Then I sat down and watched them play. I took the one year old into the dining room and had this big balloon thing that we batted back and forth. Each time he did he giggled like a moron. I’ve never seen anything so pure and authentic. He was as happy as a clam just batting a balloon around. Which made me giggle like a moron.
Then an hour went by as if it were minutes. I was in a trance hanging out with these little ones. I realized something – it felt like the outside world stopped while I was playing with them. In it were just us and it was blissful. My peripheral vision went away. All I could do was focus on them and play.
I was even dragged to one of those children’s restaurants. I knew they existed and I wasn’t looking forward to going. I was for sure that it would be a large room of screaming and doody smells. This place had a train that ran around the whole restaurant which dropped off your food right to the table. It was great. Once again, even though it was filled with other people’s kids, only my booth actually existed.
Towards the end the bloom started coming off the rose. The kids wouldn’t eat their food and were occasionally becoming stinkers. I looked at my watch and mentally noted my break-even was ninety minutes. I’ve found that after ninety minutes with children they do at least one uncool move.
But, I did walk away from the experience feeling sad. When I examined what was the cause it was clear – I want children. Right now I’m good with a dog and a cat, but in the future it will be time to upgrade. But what if he doesn’t come out cool? Then I’m stuck with a lame one. That would suck eggs.
I ride the subway to and from work during the winter months. Lately I’ve noticed that I’m one of the older people. It’s mostly kids in their twenties. At thirty-six I don’t feel too old to take the train. In NYC you have people in walkers dropping dead on the D line. But here in Chicago the “L” (short for “elevated train”) is a young man’s game. Even the pretty women look too young. They’re twenty-five but look like children. I’m getting older.
Most of my friends who are married with children have moved to the suburbs for some yard and quiet. I don’t blame them. The suburbs are a place where you can focus on family. Who wants to navigate a stroller through Wrigleyville streets during the hour after a Cubs victory? Dudes with painted chests are heaving into sewer grates. It’s funny, for sure. But maybe not ideal for a lactating mother.
Oh, by the way in eighth grade our school hired this performance artist to work with us to do a show. I was chosen along with about ten others and we created a live piece to go along with some dopey Shel Silverstein poems. The artist was this woman that wore this spandex uni and at the end of each practice her front was soaked at the nips. I didn’t understand what was going on at the time. I just assumed she had a sweat thing going on. Anyway, artists are weird.
I’ve written about not being one of those dicks who takes a seat on the train. Stand up if you’re a guy. I ride forty-five minutes each way and have sat down maybe ten times in twelve years. But, as manly and rugged as I am for standing, I am carrying two bags. One is the backpack that I stuff my dog. Technically she’s not allowed on the train but technically she’s not allowed in the grocery store either and I violate that rule weekly. But because I only want to seem like half a weirdo, I don’t wear the backpack when on the train.
There’s a few reasons for this. First, it takes up space. We’re usually crammed in pretty tight and I don’t want to be banging my dog’s skull against some dude’s iPad. Yes we’re all impressed he have the WSJ app loaded up for all to see. The second reason is I wear a suit to work. Nothing looks dorkier than a guy in a suit with a backpack. Lastly, I don’t want to be the guy who’s like, “Hey look at my cute tiny dog in the backpack!” I’ll let iPad guy with the Beats Audio headphones get all the attention.
Also I carry, and I’m not exaggerating or joking, a blue tote bag. This houses my lunch, my keys, a to-do notebook, and some random papers.
There’s no pockets, zippers, or anything resembling masculinity. I had a steak knife in there up until yesterday when I saw the blade poking out of the side. I stuffed it in there a few weeks ago to cut a sandwich at work and forgot to take it out. I’d say the odds are good I nicked a few passengers without noticing.
So, between the blue tote bag and the dog backpack I have some cargo. Still I stand. I put these both between my legs. They’re just a little too wide for a normal stance, so I end up wider than I’d like. It’s like I’m starting to go into a groin stretch. I’m sure it looks real normal.
Once again this post totally got away from me. My intention was to write about the cute girl with the nose piercing that I see almost every day. She gets on my train and has been doing so for a good year now. We’ve never spoken and I’m not interested in talking with her, but I’d love it if we gave each other a tip of the cap each morning. In my fantasy world I pull her aside and say, “Hey, nose-stud, every time you get on the train, wink at me and nod your head knowingly. In return I’ll make room over by me for you to stand so you never again have to feel a stranger’s erection against your back. I take care of my own.”
Note – “my own” meant “my friends and family” not “my privates.”
But these things never go well. The moment I say, “Hey, I’m going to talk to you now which nobody else does to each other on the train! Don’t be weirded out that seventeen other people are hearing our conversation,” she’d think I was hitting on her and then it would be awkward every morning. Or maybe she’s start going to a different car – the ultimate rejection.
So, I’m just going to keep standing with a dog between my legs, a tote next the that, and a spread eagle stance on a crowded train. I’ll keep my mouth shut and my “Hey, I know you!” smiles to myself. Or maybe I’ll talk to her if for no other reason that to report back to you guys. If my next post is, “Pepper Spray Doesn’t Do Dick” than you know I tried.
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I had a dream a few nights ago where I was in charge of looking after a baby’s well-being. I don’t have any children currently, and have only physically held a baby a few times in my life. They’re nice and all, but, you know. They smell and stuff. Anyway, in this dream somebody gave me a baby to look after. So, then I was tasked with finding a sitter, so my wife and I could enjoy an evening out.
I ran into a guy who attempted to convince me that you can train a wild alligator to look after a baby while you’re away. Now, I don’t mean an alligator that has human traits, like the ability to speak, self-reflect, stand upright, change a diaper, or read The Hungry Caterpillar while rocking one of those cradle things with the hanging thing above that is supposed to do whatever the hell it does.
I’m talking about a good old-fashioned swamp-dwelling alligator. Like the kind you saw Steve Irwin wrestling. They’re mean. In fact, one of the most dangerous mammals to man. Am I right? I’m right.
And, I’ll tell you, at first I said, “No, you absolutely cannot leave an alligator in charge of a baby. This will not end well.” But then, whoever was trying to convince me said a second time that alligators are good with babies, and I was like, “Well, he said it twice. It MUST be true.” And off I went with my wife to dinner.
So, did the alligator eat the baby? I’m not sure, as the dream than morphed to us eating dinner at a rib joint. Not like a regular barbeque house, though. This restaurant was unique in that everybody in the restaurant was a transvestite. The servers, the patrons, even the wine steward. All transvestites. I was the only man not wearing women’s clothing. My wife thought this place totally fine. Didn’t bother her at all. I was uncomfortable. Then, at the end of the meal, I realized I didn’t have my wallet. The staff suggested I could work off my debt in the kitchen. No, not in that way. Washing dishes.
The good news is, my dreams rarely match up with my reality. Even my most repeated dreams don’t seem to ever happen in real life. I don’t have a problem with my teeth falling out, and I’m really not unprepared for a college exam because I missed class all semester. Lastly, I never had to go receive communion in front of a congregation with a boner. In fact, I’m not even Catholic. That was a weird one. Really.
Not even sure what to make about the transvestites. Probably best to not think about that.
But still, I wonder. Do I actually fear making really bad decisions for a child that I will have in the future? Probably. That’s normal, I would guess. That’s why Dr. Spock wrote books on child-rearing. So did Jenny McCarthy. I’ll read both.
]]>I had a dream a few nights ago where I was in charge of looking after a baby’s well-being. I don’t have any children currently, and have only physically held a baby a few times in my life. They’re nice and all, but, you know. They smell and stuff. Anyway, in this dream somebody gave me a baby to look after. So, then I was tasked with finding a sitter, so my wife and I could enjoy an evening out.
I ran into a guy who attempted to convince me that you can train a wild alligator to look after a baby while you’re away. Now, I don’t mean an alligator that has human traits, like the ability to speak, self-reflect, stand upright, change a diaper, or read The Hungry Caterpillar while rocking one of those cradle things with the hanging thing above that is supposed to do whatever the hell it does.
I’m talking about a good old-fashioned swamp-dwelling alligator. Like the kind you saw Steve Irwin wrestling. They’re mean. In fact, one of the most dangerous mammals to man. Am I right? I’m right.
And, I’ll tell you, at first I said, “No, you absolutely cannot leave an alligator in charge of a baby. This will not end well.” But then, whoever was trying to convince me said a second time that alligators are good with babies, and I was like, “Well, he said it twice. It MUST be true.” And off I went with my wife to dinner.
So, did the alligator eat the baby? I’m not sure, as the dream than morphed to us eating dinner at a rib joint. Not like a regular barbeque house, though. This restaurant was unique in that everybody in the restaurant was a transvestite. The servers, the patrons, even the wine steward. All transvestites. I was the only man not wearing women’s clothing. My wife thought this place totally fine. Didn’t bother her at all. I was uncomfortable. Then, at the end of the meal, I realized I didn’t have my wallet. The staff suggested I could work off my debt in the kitchen. No, not in that way. Washing dishes.
The good news is, my dreams rarely match up with my reality. Even my most repeated dreams don’t seem to ever happen in real life. I don’t have a problem with my teeth falling out, and I’m really not unprepared for a college exam because I missed class all semester. Lastly, I never had to go receive communion in front of a congregation with a boner. In fact, I’m not even Catholic. That was a weird one. Really.
Not even sure what to make about the transvestites. Probably best to not think about that.
But still, I wonder. Do I actually fear making really bad decisions for a child that I will have in the future? Probably. That’s normal, I would guess. That’s why Dr. Spock wrote books on child-rearing. So did Jenny McCarthy. I’ll read both.
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