The Big Meh

The clearest visual representation I can give you of my life at the moment.

I am at once a skeptic and a soft touch.

It's all fake.

I am a skeptic in that it is very, very difficult to truly convince me of something. I am deeply wary of virtually everything -- every person I meet, every philosophy I encounter, every emotion I experience. 

When faced with a new concept or ideology, I'm always suspicious there's a catch to it or that the whole thing is merely a false front, like those sets built for movies or plays. From the front, a structure may look like an authentic Old West saloon. But if you simply walk around to the back, you see it's just a two-dimensional facade being propped up by wooden beams. That's how I approach life -- always looking for the seams along the edges, always scanning for the fine print. So there is very little in which I truly believe. I have the information relayed to me by my senses, and I have no guarantee that this information is truly accurate. It is only "meaningful" if I choose to assign it meaning.

On the other hand, I am a soft touch, an easy mark, a pushover. I fear and dread confrontation, and I long for the approval of others. Because of these tendencies, I am usually complacent and compliant. I am almost always the first to surrender. I am accommodating past the point of all reason. I will go out of my way to do something for someone else, but I will feel awful about doing it. I am far too nice, and I let other people take advantage of that fact. I find myself frequently apologizing to others, even when there is no need to do so. Sometimes, I feel I was put on this earth to absorb the negativity of my fellow human beings. I figure, all that negative energy has to go somewhere, right? Why not into me? Let me take one for the team, humanity!

Even though I am on "happy pills" now and attending therapy weekly, I am far from sold on the inherent worth of human existence. I am not angry, nor am I particularly sad. Currently, there is little in my life to anger or sadden me. My days tend to be gray and interchangeable, marked by dull routine and dominated by trivia. I suppose most people's days are like this... if they're lucky. We must never forget that many people live in absolute misery (due to illness, poverty, or political injustice) and do not even have the luxury of leading a boring, repetitive life like mine. They might well envy my monotony. What right do I have to yearn for more when others have less than nothing?

A metaphor approved by the ADA

Today, readers, was not a great day. Nor was it a particularly bad one. It was a day. Oh, I suppose work went fine, though I had to make more of an effort than usual to cope with the stress and to suppress the anger and resentment which I often feel inside when haggling with coworkers over topics which ultimately do not matter. Sometimes, when I am especially weary, I feel like a tube of toothpaste which has been flattened and spindled to the point that it has nothing left within it. But somehow, through a combination of stubbornness and medication, I am functioning and functional. Is that enough? I don't know. I sometimes feel like life is one great big exhibit at a museum. There comes a point at which the spectator has seen all he or she cares to see. Why can't I simply say that I am finished, that my curiosity has run its natural course? What is immoral about that?

This has not been a very inspiring post, and I am fine with that. Who says that the narrative of my recovery has to be an infinite incline or a never-ending crescendo? There are bound to be plateaus along the way. Today was one of them. That's all.

Goddamnit, I just want to go out and have a little fun. Maybe that's all I need. But I don't know how to do that. I'm 37 years old, and I don't know how to have fun. I don't know what fun even is. I don't have a concept for fun. Maybe I should get out to a public place. But I'd have to do so alone, and there is no experience quite so lonely as being unaccompanied in a crowd of strangers.

Right now, there is an episode of Glee in my DVR, waiting to be watched and reviewed. Based on past experience, I am fairly certain it will be mediocre-to-terrible, like most recent episodes of that ironically-named series. In all likelihood, my Friday night will consist of watching that episode, composing some e-mail feedback about it, and then going to bed. I have been awake for a long, long time now.

Tomorrow, I will rise again and confront the Big Meh. Wish me luck. Or don't. I don't believe in luck. The confrontation will happen tomorrow -- and every subsequent day of my life -- no matter what.

There's a fine line between breakdown and breakthrough

A scene from last night's episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Did you catch It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia last night?

The Marx Brothers: Terrible people

I did, and I might have laughed harder than anyone in America at it. For the uninitiated, the show revolves around "the gang," a group of five horrible human beings who somehow remain friends. The main characters are bratty, unduly confident siblings Dennis and Dee Reynolds; their stepfather, Frank, a lecherous lowlife; and two other companions: musclebound lunkhead Mac and twitchy neurotic Charlie, easily the show's most complex character. In each episode, the members of "the gang" make reckless, terrible life choices and end up hurting themselves, each other, and innocent bystanders. The characters are largely defined by their negative traits, including vanity, stupidity, and selfishness. 

Without being too pretentious, I see Sunny as the modern-day equivalent of the Marx Brothers, because those classic comedians of the 1930s also portrayed deeply flawed, often aggravating individuals who treated each other badly and yet maintained a curious camaraderie. These people are loyal and disloyal simultaneously. Like the Marx Brothers,  the members of "the gang" on Sunny never learn anything from their experiences. They simply act upon their instincts, consequences be damned, for their own amusement and ours.

Like most episodes of the series, last night's installment of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia had a self-explanatory title: "The Gang Gets Analyzed." That's exactly what happens in it. The entire episode takes place in the office of Dee's therapist, beautifully played by guest star Kerri Kenney-Silver of The State and Reno 911. The office depicted on the show was very much like the one I visit each week, right down to the soothing artwork and the various knickknacks, and the demeanor of Kenney-Silver's character was very much like that of my own therapist. This was incredible serendipity: one of my favorite shows was depicting events currently unfolding in my own life!

Of course, Sunny turned the entire experience into a grotesque farce. The plot had Dee inviting her four companions along with her to therapy so that the therapist could settle a petty dispute: who should wash the dishes from one of the gang's recent dinners? Frank had actually brought the dishes with him and dumped them on the floor of the stunned, yet admirably composed therapist's office. Kenney-Silver then proceeded to analyze "the gang" one by one. Inadvertently, each one ended up revealing a great deal to this woman. Mac is gullible and delusional. Dee is a liar. Dennis is egotistical and condescending. Frank has deep psychological scars from his past. And Charlie? Well, Charlie carries a dead pigeon around with him, which may offer some clue to his mental and emotional state. 

As per usual for Sunny, nothing is "solved" during the episode. The characters reveal themselves at their worst and then just carry on with their lives. I like that a lot. Too many TV shows offer trite homilies and facile speeches to their viewers. Sunny is just about venting negativity and letting that negativity stand, untouched and unfixed.

All Day by Girl Talk

Meanwhile, I had something of an emotional breakthrough yesterday. In brief, I can feel sadness again! For me, that's remarkable. I've spent the last few weeks not feeling much of anything. It was so gratifying to have an actual strong emotion after such a long period of evenness. And it was the damnedest thing which brought it on, too. I was running to the commuter train station from my office in downtown Chicago. It was a few minutes after 5:00, and I'd just worked a very long, stressful shift. 

I decided I needed a little music to pep me up, so I listened to my iPod as I ran. The song which came up was a track called "Jump on Stage" by Girl Talk, which is the pseudonym of a DJ named Gregg Gillis who creates long, elaborate audio collages by combining snippets of various pop, rock, hip-hop and soul records in a number of unorthodox ways. It is not uncommon, for instance, for Gillis to mix the vocals of a song from one genre with the musical backing of a song from a completely different genre. "Jump on Stage" is a track from his most recent album, 2010's  All Day, and for a few glorious moments, Gillis combines the vocals from "Hey Ladies" by the Beastie Boys with the music from Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life." 

As you probably know, one of the Beasties, Adam Yauch, died of cancer earlier this year. But in the sample from "Jump on Stage," he sounds young and vibrant and alive again, even though all he really says is "hey." Add to this the fact that "Lust for Life," which Pop co-wrote with David Bowie, is about the singer's recovery from heroin addiction. I can't exactly explain why, but the combination of these two songs -- both jubilant, by the way -- had a seismic emotional impact on me. By the time I reached the train, I had tears in my eyes. I thought about trying to fight it, but then said to myself, "Fuck it. Just let it out." It was great to be so sad. Paradoxically, my desire to live was incredibly strong at that moment.

Then, as will happen in a city the size of Chicago, a man dressed like Indiana Jones boarded the train and somehow snapped me back to reality. This was not a costume. You could tell it was his regular, everyday look. I immediately stopped crying and spent the rest of the 40-minute train ride in contemplative silence. If you're curious, here is the track which provoked such a strong response from me. The relevant portion begins at roughly the 5:18 mark.


HEALTH NEWS & NOTES: For those who live with depression and anxiety, sleep can be an issue. Cheap over-the-counter sleep aids usually work for me, but these are relatively weak and may take a couple of hours to work. While I was in the behavioral health center, my doctor prescribed Restoril for me and told me to take it at my discretion as necessary. 

Let me tell you, this is some serious shit. Restoril will kick your ass. At least it did mine. I was used to taking sleep aids well before bedtime, and I thought I could do that with Restoril, too. But that drug has me sound asleep within an hour. The problem with this is that I might wake up fully rested at 2:00 in the morning, which screws up the rest of my day. So I'm trying to avoid using it unless the "nuclear option" is mandatory. 

Meanwhile, I'm a little concerned about my lack of physical exercise. I got a lot of exercise over the summer months, but this was almost entirely based around running and walking at a nearby park. When the temperatures dropped, my long walks stopped. I don't think it's coincidental that my depression spiked when the chilly weather arrived. I have to think of an alternate exercise routine. My psychiatrist just told me to join a gym, but I'm not really a "gym" guy. For one thing, I'm very self-conscious about my body and appearance. Plus, frankly, gyms cost money, and I'm a cheapskate. If you have suggestions in this regard, please leave them in the comments section.

On psychopharmacology and Walt Disney's "Dumbo"

Dumbo with both Timothy Q. Mouse and the magic feather in tow

We've all seen Dumbo, right? It's a 1941 Disney animated film in which a circus elephant is mocked and shunned for his oversize ears but eventually becomes a great star because those ears act as wings, making him the world's only "flying elephant." The late (and sorely missed) cartoon historian Donald J. Markstein adroitly compared this narrative to that of the song "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," in that both characters are ostracized for physical "deformities" but both eventually earn success for those very same deformities. Like Rudolph, who is redeemed by Santa Claus, Dumbo needs another character to make him recognize his own greatness. In this case, it is a fast-talking, uniform-wearing rodent named Timothy Q. Mouse, who convinces the elephant that it is a "magic feather" which allows the large creature to defy gravity. By the end of the movie, Dumbo has ditched the feather and is flying solo

Here's a relevant clip from the movie. Try your best to ignore the possibly-racist depiction of the crows in the film. I'm trying to make an analogy here.



Dumbo's famous magic feather has become a symbol over the ensuing decades for any crutch we think we require in order to succeed, when all along the success has been residing within ourselves. If an athlete has a pair of "lucky socks," for instance, that's one kind of magic feather.

This issue is on my mind because today's a big day for me. I'm attending both an appointment with my MD and a session with my therapist. The last couple of weeks since I've been home have been relatively incident-free. Work remains hectic and stressful -- and, yes, I was secretly freaking out about the election all the while -- but I've gotten through it with only a few minor crises of conscience. Not that the people around me have noticed, but I've been on my best behavior lately.

How much of that is due to me and how much is due to Xanax and Celexa? At what point do these pills become magic feathers? I guess we'll find out as time passes. Meanwhile, wish me luck on getting to these appointments on time and in one piece.
 

Let's all wallow in my sub-mediocrity, shall we?

A more-or-less typical episode of Trolleytown Frolics

The Toonerville Trolley

In yesterday's post about my fear of mediocrity, I mentioned that for a while in the mid-2000s, I drew a crude homemade comic strip called Trolleytown Frolics. Going through the images on my computer, I managed to find at least one strip that I'd bothered to scan. It's pretty representative of what Trolleytown was like. 

If you're wondering about the name, by the way, it came from my interest in comic strips of the past. There was a famous one called Toonerville Folks by Fontaine Fox which ran from 1908 to 1955, and it featured a vehicle called the Toonerville Trolley. The "frolics" part also comes from old movies and cartoons. The IMDb has listings for Frisky Frolics (1932), Frozen Frolics (1933), Barnyard Frolics (1917), Vitaphone Frolics (1937), and many others. It seems like a lot of these titles are from the 1930s, and at the time I was sort of "into" '30s culture. I still like the music of that era very much.

This particular Trolleytown Frolics features the luckless antihero, Thirsty Lad (my cartoon avatar), locked in a debate with a disembodied narrator. Don't judge the artwork too harshly. I can draw better than this, but it was scribbled in a tiny notebook while riding a commuter train. The handwriting can be tough to read, so here's a transcription:

NARRATOR: How ya doin', Thirsty?

THIRSTY: Me? Swell! Perfect!

NARRATOR: Perfect? 

THIRSTY: Well, uh, maybe not "perfect" exactly, but...

NARRATOR: So what's wrong? 

THIRSTY: Nothing's wrong!

NARRATOR: If nothing were wrong, you'd be perfect!

THIRSTY: Then I guess I am perfect! La-di-da! I'm perfect!

NARRATOR: You seem upset. I'll go.

THIRSTY: I am not upset! Please stay so that we can continue this delightful chat!

NARRATOR: Yeah. I'm gonna go now.

THIRSTY: seriously i'm fine... great, in fact.

{END}

 As you can see, I had a panel left over, so I filled it with "Random Evil Guys." This would have been written on the way home from work on an average weekday, so you gain some idea of my mindset in that situation. In this scenario, both the Narrator and Thirsty are manifestations of me. So now you have an even better idea of how my mind works. You can also see how influenced I was by the psychodrama of the '90s Nickelodeon cartoon The Ren & Stimpy Show. Thirsty's pose in the fourth panel is taken directly from an R&S episode called "Space Madness."

A comparison: Stimpy in "Space Madness" vs. Thirsty in Trolleytown Frolics

I cannot let this topic of mediocrity pass without mentioning a great skit from Mr. Show with Bob and David, a parody of Amadeus set in turn-of-the-century America and centered around marching band music.  You're not meant to identify with David Cross' character, frustrated would-be march composer Salini, but I do anyway. And then there's Jay Johnston's legitimately disturbing "Mediocrity" character. I'm so glad my specter of adequacy looks like the cartoon character Gossamer and not this ghoulish monstrosity. Both Bob and David are great in this sketch. The emotional burden here is on David, but Bob gives such great, off-kilter line readings to dialogue like: "For I have work to do!" As a former marching band member myself, I love the way he wears the hat everywhere and chews on the chinstrap occasionally.

HEALTH NEWS 'N' NOTES: Still feeling fine. The demonic-possession-like fear I once experienced has been replaced with just plain old ordinary "jitters." The appetite continues to improve, though the libido remains dormant. I realize now that my exercise routine revolves around walking, which takes place outdoors. That's going to be a problem as the temperatures drop. I'll have to find another solution. 

True story: during my last full year as a teacher, I lived in a very small, isolated town in an apartment that was actually part of a roadside motel. The place was tiny, as you might guess, but the rent was so cheap! Best of all, I had access to the motel's indoor swimming pool and spent hours swimming laps. I mean, I'm no Mark Spitz, but I got pretty good... for me. When I left my job at that high school, I stayed on in the motel for a few more months while I planned my next move and used the pool more than ever. 

My current apartment complex used to have a pool, a rather nasty outdoor one which was home to ducks and geese, but the owners filled it in several years ago. Today, you'd never know there was a pool there except for the lonely changing room which still stands as a sad monument to its former existence. Anyway, I realize how important exercise is to maintaining good emotional health, so I'll have to figure something else out. So far, though, the meds are robbing me of my ambition. (Damn. That's a paraphrase of something Samuel L. Jackson said in Jackie Brown. Can't I get away from pop culture references? I read books. Honestly, I do.)

My horror

Speaking of which, I somehow got into a position in which my MD appointment and therapist appointment were scheduled for the same day. Now there are going to be phone calls and me writing down numbers on pieces of paper while I sort this out. Meanwhile, I've neglected to schedule a dental checkup or an oil change for an embarrassingly long time. How I wish I had someone who'd sort out all these practicalities for me so that I could just focus on getting better. 

My MD's office is in someplace called "Elgin," which I've heard of but have never visited. If I were to list my Top 5 phobias, "driving to someplace new" would be right up there, perhaps #1. I hate driving. I hate cars. I hate the whole thing. I didn't choose this doctor, by the way. He was assigned to me in the behavioral health center, and I said something pithy and intelligent like, "Duhhhhh, okay." I don't want to cancel this appointment, though, because there are some side effects which I want to address ASAP. The libido thing is becoming a problem, especially. I want to be a lustful, chauvinist, patriarchal pig again. Kidding, of course. But I do want to be interested again.

I Want Everyone To Like Me, Just Like Randy Newman Says

Randy Newman: He knows the score, folks.

Randy Newman gets a lot criticism. He's an easy target sometimes, I admit. Mention his name on any just about any pop-culture-savvy Internet forum and see what happens. People ridicule his often hacky, repetitive, strictly-for-the-money work on children's animated films. Comedians do snide impersonations of the deep Southern drawl in which he sings (or, more often, talk-sings). And critics mercilessly lampoon the often extremely plain, literal lyrics of his songs. We've all seen the spoofs on MAD-TV and Family Guy, right? ("Left foot/Right foot/Left foot/Right foot.") I wonder what ol' Rand thinks of all this. After all, he's one of his own more accurate and unforgiving critics, with a deeply cynical sense of humor about himself and his career.

All these people have their points to make, but I'm still a (mostly) unabashed Randy Newman fan. Hell, as long as I'm coming clean about everything else in my life, I might as well own up to that, too. When the guy nails it as a songwriter, he really nails it. As a perfect example, take the song "I Want Everyone to Like Me" from his 1999 album Bad Love. The lyrics so precisely capture my state of mind that I feel obligated to print them in their entirety here:

I want everyone to like me.
I want everyone to like me real bad.
I want everyone to approve of me.
Because when they disapprove of me, it makes me feel so sad.

I wanna earn the respect of my peers.
If it takes a hundred years.
I'd like to find out where they are by the way.
I would run to embrace them.

I'm only kiddin'.
I'm really very modest once you get to know me.

A house and a little land.
Little someone to lend a hand.
Little money set aside.
God, then I would be satisfied.

Want someone to tell me, one time: Honey you don't look well.
Why doncha lie down for a couple years. 
I'll look after things.
A grown up woman would be nice.
I'd like to flip over once or twice.
Find out what makes her tick.

Some friends to call my own, God knows.
A family and a home.
A couple kiddies at my side.
Keep me fat, and satisfied.

I want everyone to like me.
That's one thing I know for sure.
I want everyone to like me.
'Cause I'm a little insecure.

That's me, folks. That's how I think. That song lists a lot of what I want. That part about someone who'll look after things for a year or two? Boy, did I want that last week!

Frustratingly, there are are no good YouTube clips for this song that I could find, just a couple of blurry live videos. But here's a charming cover version. This fellow, dwditty, customizes the lyrics a little, but you get the general idea of the song anyway.



Health news 'n' notes: Still in that calm, even place from the medication. Work was tough today, but I got through it. I think I've decided that this place is not where I want to spend the rest of my career, though. It'll do for now. The appetite is not all the way back. I can (and do) eat. As much as normal, really. But there's no pleasure in it. And in the interest of being very honest about my condition, let me say that my libido is basically dormant. That's something I'll discuss with my MD when I meet with him next week. (Yes, I see a therapist and an MD now.)

Weakened Update (get it? it's a pun)

Sorry, no Stefon monologue here. Just me.

A very busy day today, so not a lot of time to write on the blog, but I thought I'd give you a brief update on this very pivotal and (potentially) scary day of my life:

I went back to work for the first time since my hospitalization. I cannot express how nervous I was about this moment. But as it turns out, everyone was very nice in a low-key, nonchalant way. I'm not exactly sure how much everyone knows about what went on last week. Because I work so closely with my immediate supervisor and have known her for nine years, I decided to tell her everything. She was very understanding, and this put me at ease. It looks like there are some extra hours coming my way, which is a good thing since I want to stay busy and may have some nasty medical bills coming my way soon.

The whole bill thing has me freaked out, honestly. I'm phobic about spending money because I never want to feel like I owe anybody anything. But I'm trying to not concentrate on it and get on with my life. I have some money squirreled away, and if spending a little of it is what it takes to get well, so be it.

My body is still adjusting to the meds. Personally, I think I'm being over-medicated and that one or maybe two of them could be eliminated. We'll see. Of course, I won't do anything without medical approval. The pills haven't exactly killed my appetite, but they leave kind of a dry, vaguely unpleasant taste in my mouth all day and they've killed my usual cravings for junk food and candy. I now have to remind myself to eat, which is new for me. I'm perfectly capable of eating, and it's not nauseating or anything, but I no longer derive pleasure from the act of consuming food. I'd like to reverse that, if possible.

Tomorrow afternoon is my first appointment with a therapist. I've tried therapy a couple of times in the past, and it's never really worked for me. But maybe this time will be different. Who knows? In the past, I've always felt obligated to please the therapist by pretending I'm making more progress than I really am.

Wow. None of what I just wrote is remotely funny. Sorry about that. As Edith Massey once said, "You can't be a winner every time, hon."

But now it's off to band rehearsal. It's the first time for that since my hospitalization, too, of course. I think it should go fine. We're probably rehearsing Christmas music by now. Oh, god, Christmas. Another whole set of neuroses!