William Styron, in my opinion one of the most gorgeous voices in the world of American fiction, wrote an equally captivating non fiction account of his profound struggle with Depression in a painful memoir entitled Darkness Unveiled. It is not light reading, but as only he could do, he designed a piece of art through words attempting to illustrate an abstract malady in terms that those who have not suffered could grasp, while at the same time trying to grapple with it himself. And he does it with beauty, force, and an almost incomprehensible ability at self reflection. It's easier not to reflect, but William Styron had no choice.
I don't have Styron's cerebral cortex, or his incredible gift with words, but I do share the illness that consumed his life. I entitled this piece "Indulgence" because while emotionally I know what Styron was feeling, intellectually it's embarrassing and almost shameful to focus so much on my "feelings." In fact, I will always default to the intellectual...until the feelings begin to consume my very essence. That push and pull has become a hallmark of my life, in fact.
Being Depressed is not a state that anyone would choose. Why would they? I use a capital "D" when I write about Depression because it's real. I'm somewhat smart. I understand that people cannot quite understand an illness they cannot identify easily...any illness that manifests itself in behavior is always suspect. But I'm the type of person who needs to know. I can and have tried to dismiss it. But it's bigger than me.
Imagine trying to run through a pile of mud, with the wind blowing directly against your body. That's what Depression feels like. Simple tasks become Olympic feats. You have to congratulate yourself for accomplishing the most basic, normal day to day routines. And sometimes you cannot even manage those.
I'm writing this piece because I understand how invisible this illness is. I refer to it as "Psychic Pain," because there's nothing physically broken. And as a result, it's not real to so many. I hate the term "Mental Illness," because it is so loaded with judgement, as if ones brain is disconnected from their physical body. No one would tell a person with two broken legs to run a Marathon, but when it comes to Depression we are supposed to just snap out of it.
So I indulged. We are way behind the curve on this issue. I've taught Psychology for over two decades and I KNOW there is more that we can do. I KNOW that research has shown that there are doctors who can do better, if they choose to do better. And I hope that if some stray person reads this post and is profoundly sad, know that it's not your fault. You have an illness, and one you should never be ashamed about. Styron grappled with it, and he paid a heavy price. But at least he tried.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Monday, December 23, 2013
Lethal Eye Contact
Here's the scenario...You're doing a really important presentation. Like one that determines, say, the future of your entire life. And one of your siblings decides to support you by showing up. In normal families this gesture would be actually appreciated. But I don't come from a normal family.
I come from the crack-up family. Weddings, funerals, business meetings...nothing is sacred. We just remember the crack ups...those moments when you try so desperately not to, but happen to catch a siblings' eye at time that is so inappropriate, and you start to laugh.It just happens. It's actually embarrassing to admit that we rate our crap ups....Joey, Julie and I have done a lot of Def Com III's.Serious crack-ups.
Which brings me to my dilemma. My youngest Annie has to present her Senior Research Project. It's a big deal....lots of research, preparation, and a public presentation. But she invited her SISTER to watch her. Hello Annie??? As if you're going to stand up on a stage and present your project with MADELINE sitting there watching you? And you two aren't going to dissolve into a major crack up as soon as you even GLANCE at each other?
Maybe they'll pull it off without a crack up. But I doubt it.They're Nicolazzo girls...and a major crack up is in their immediate future.
I come from the crack-up family. Weddings, funerals, business meetings...nothing is sacred. We just remember the crack ups...those moments when you try so desperately not to, but happen to catch a siblings' eye at time that is so inappropriate, and you start to laugh.It just happens. It's actually embarrassing to admit that we rate our crap ups....Joey, Julie and I have done a lot of Def Com III's.Serious crack-ups.
Which brings me to my dilemma. My youngest Annie has to present her Senior Research Project. It's a big deal....lots of research, preparation, and a public presentation. But she invited her SISTER to watch her. Hello Annie??? As if you're going to stand up on a stage and present your project with MADELINE sitting there watching you? And you two aren't going to dissolve into a major crack up as soon as you even GLANCE at each other?
Maybe they'll pull it off without a crack up. But I doubt it.They're Nicolazzo girls...and a major crack up is in their immediate future.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
And The Award Goes To....
It's politically incorrect to use the word "retarded. " I get it. As a technical diagnosis it's been retired, and for many good reasons. But as a lifetime Massachusetts resident, I will not apologize for using the term for people who actually deserve it. I'm referring to people who are not developmentally delayed, but whose stupidity is so mind bending that nothing but head scratching, incredulous, "REALLY?" dumbness earns them the title of "Wicked Retarded."
Since no one is actually reading this, I am announcing an annual Wicked Retarded award. It will be a very important award as soon as my family starts reading my blog. And this very special inaugural Wicked Retarded Award goes to Dennis Rodman.
Why Dennis, you ask? There are so many contenders! But even the most cerebrally challenged, slightly aware person wouldn't purposefully visit.a fat loser kid murderer Stalin Wannabe dictator of a country where people are literally starving to death, sit next to him at a basketball game, and then try to explain to the world press that the chubby sociopath dictator is actually just a really good guy who cares about his family and his people.
So Dennis gets the Wicked Retarded award this year. And his prize? A lifetime stay at one of Kim Jong Ummmmm's Gulag Retreats.
Since no one is actually reading this, I am announcing an annual Wicked Retarded award. It will be a very important award as soon as my family starts reading my blog. And this very special inaugural Wicked Retarded Award goes to Dennis Rodman.
Why Dennis, you ask? There are so many contenders! But even the most cerebrally challenged, slightly aware person wouldn't purposefully visit.a fat loser kid murderer Stalin Wannabe dictator of a country where people are literally starving to death, sit next to him at a basketball game, and then try to explain to the world press that the chubby sociopath dictator is actually just a really good guy who cares about his family and his people.
So Dennis gets the Wicked Retarded award this year. And his prize? A lifetime stay at one of Kim Jong Ummmmm's Gulag Retreats.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Alice's Restaurant and TMI
Global Warning....I spell for shit. I don't know why, but I'm sure it was my third grade teacher Mrs. Jackson's fault, but I'll get to her later. Everything's her fault. But since Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead, I get to say whatever I want about her.
I was driving south on 495 with my daughter Annie on Thanksgiving day. We hit the road fighting at around 11:15, and then I remembered that Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant gets played on the radio every Thanksgiving at noon. I told Annie I wanted her to hear it, but she was pissed at me about something and wanted Radio Control so she could hear the same five songs that they play over and over again and frantically changed the station just in case she missed one of those songs, but I stood firm. I was going to hear Alice's Restaurant whether she liked it or not. But she showed ME, and put her ear plugs in to listen to one of the five songs she might have missed because I wanted to share an experience with her.
I'm an historian...it's in my DNA. I am fundamentally incapable of experiencing anything without attempting to figure out its roots. I'm not PROUD of this fact..it's just the way I'm designed. Alice's Restaurant is a classic....very funny and at the same time very profound. And I would have loved to listen to it with my daughter, but hey, there might have been a Rhianna song on at the same moment.
Despite what the stats say, I'm not a Boomer. But my older siblings are Boomers. I was just a kid who managed to walk directly into moving traffic, drank Drano, and ran through glass doors while my older siblings were busy being Boomers. I was just a witness to their anti-war hippie antics. I worshiped them (my parents made me) and learned a lot on the sidelines.
My brother Michael was just at that age during the Vietnam War where he had a number. Ask any man in their sixties about their number, and about the experience that Arlo Guthrie talked about in Alice's Restaurant, being called up by the military to check if they were fit to fight, walking around some compound with dozens of other men naked, scared shitless, and examined by military doctors. My parents' ardent fight against the Vietnam War might have been personal-their son was not going to go there-but they were actually right. And every person who was responsible for engineering that war hopefully is rotting in Hell.
But I will tell you, as a wide eyed young bystander, what those years were like for me. I was a kid, but I remember seeing a young John Kerry at an Anti-War Rally in Boston Common. I have a weird memory snapshot of him. I remember an Anti-War Rally at my own house, where our livingroom was packed with teenagers wearing black armbands, and my father had to take a phone call from some angry adult who called him a Communist. Yikes! A Communist! That was worse than being called a pedophile at that time! And Mrs. Jackson yelled at me in front of my Third Grade peers, and told me my brothers were "hippies,' who wore "Love Beads." And I couldn't even do a cursive "S" to her satisfaction. Bitch.
I wanted so much for my daughter to listen to Alice's Restaurant. It's twenty five minutes of a guy, with a guitar, so funny, telling his story about the still unresolved irony of young people being asked to fight wars that old people create (SO not my words!) I got a really awesome education growing up (despite Mrs. Jackson). My parents fought for what was right....my other friends' parents were never as brave....and I got to listen to The Who and Joni Mitchell, when everyone else was listening to Donny Osmond..
And as an historian, I will tell you that not much has changed. We need to listen to Arlo Guthrie a whole lot more.
I was driving south on 495 with my daughter Annie on Thanksgiving day. We hit the road fighting at around 11:15, and then I remembered that Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant gets played on the radio every Thanksgiving at noon. I told Annie I wanted her to hear it, but she was pissed at me about something and wanted Radio Control so she could hear the same five songs that they play over and over again and frantically changed the station just in case she missed one of those songs, but I stood firm. I was going to hear Alice's Restaurant whether she liked it or not. But she showed ME, and put her ear plugs in to listen to one of the five songs she might have missed because I wanted to share an experience with her.
I'm an historian...it's in my DNA. I am fundamentally incapable of experiencing anything without attempting to figure out its roots. I'm not PROUD of this fact..it's just the way I'm designed. Alice's Restaurant is a classic....very funny and at the same time very profound. And I would have loved to listen to it with my daughter, but hey, there might have been a Rhianna song on at the same moment.
Despite what the stats say, I'm not a Boomer. But my older siblings are Boomers. I was just a kid who managed to walk directly into moving traffic, drank Drano, and ran through glass doors while my older siblings were busy being Boomers. I was just a witness to their anti-war hippie antics. I worshiped them (my parents made me) and learned a lot on the sidelines.
My brother Michael was just at that age during the Vietnam War where he had a number. Ask any man in their sixties about their number, and about the experience that Arlo Guthrie talked about in Alice's Restaurant, being called up by the military to check if they were fit to fight, walking around some compound with dozens of other men naked, scared shitless, and examined by military doctors. My parents' ardent fight against the Vietnam War might have been personal-their son was not going to go there-but they were actually right. And every person who was responsible for engineering that war hopefully is rotting in Hell.
But I will tell you, as a wide eyed young bystander, what those years were like for me. I was a kid, but I remember seeing a young John Kerry at an Anti-War Rally in Boston Common. I have a weird memory snapshot of him. I remember an Anti-War Rally at my own house, where our livingroom was packed with teenagers wearing black armbands, and my father had to take a phone call from some angry adult who called him a Communist. Yikes! A Communist! That was worse than being called a pedophile at that time! And Mrs. Jackson yelled at me in front of my Third Grade peers, and told me my brothers were "hippies,' who wore "Love Beads." And I couldn't even do a cursive "S" to her satisfaction. Bitch.
I wanted so much for my daughter to listen to Alice's Restaurant. It's twenty five minutes of a guy, with a guitar, so funny, telling his story about the still unresolved irony of young people being asked to fight wars that old people create (SO not my words!) I got a really awesome education growing up (despite Mrs. Jackson). My parents fought for what was right....my other friends' parents were never as brave....and I got to listen to The Who and Joni Mitchell, when everyone else was listening to Donny Osmond..
And as an historian, I will tell you that not much has changed. We need to listen to Arlo Guthrie a whole lot more.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Bemis and the J's
My parents had way too many kids. Eight because they were Catholic in the 1960's...they might have had more until my mother finally discovered that we had a living room couch.
Of the eight, I was one of the "Four Girls." Because my parents thought it would be wicked cute to give all of us girls names that began with the letter "J.", this is how my dad would refer to us when he needed to speak to anyone of us individually if we might have POSSIBLY done something wrong: "JoanneJanetJoyceJulie...Or whatever the Hell your name is! My sister Jean was exempt, because she was close in age and thus a kindred spirit to the Holy Patron Saint Michael of The Sacred Church Of Five Howard Road. Or so she was told until she said "Huh? What's so fucking great about Michael? I had to tell HIM there was no such thing as Santa Clause!"
Not that any of us Four Girls JoanneJanetJoyceJulie did anything WRONG, by the way. No sireeee. When SOMEONE sprayed my dad Bemis's shaving cream all over the closet and he was so pissed and we were scared and we were never scared of him, it wasn't ME. It was Richard. It was always Richard. But if it wasn't Richard, it was Joanne. Because who can get mad at Joanne?
Virtually all of my friends grew up in big families, and we all have the same advice to anyone getting all Brady Bunch or Kennedy nostalgic on us. Birth control is awesome. And if that doesn't happen and someone in your undoes something really stupid to piss your parents' off, just blame it on my brother Richard. Because he probably did it. I know it wasn't ME.
Of the eight, I was one of the "Four Girls." Because my parents thought it would be wicked cute to give all of us girls names that began with the letter "J.", this is how my dad would refer to us when he needed to speak to anyone of us individually if we might have POSSIBLY done something wrong: "JoanneJanetJoyceJulie...Or whatever the Hell your name is! My sister Jean was exempt, because she was close in age and thus a kindred spirit to the Holy Patron Saint Michael of The Sacred Church Of Five Howard Road. Or so she was told until she said "Huh? What's so fucking great about Michael? I had to tell HIM there was no such thing as Santa Clause!"
Not that any of us Four Girls JoanneJanetJoyceJulie did anything WRONG, by the way. No sireeee. When SOMEONE sprayed my dad Bemis's shaving cream all over the closet and he was so pissed and we were scared and we were never scared of him, it wasn't ME. It was Richard. It was always Richard. But if it wasn't Richard, it was Joanne. Because who can get mad at Joanne?
Virtually all of my friends grew up in big families, and we all have the same advice to anyone getting all Brady Bunch or Kennedy nostalgic on us. Birth control is awesome. And if that doesn't happen and someone in your undoes something really stupid to piss your parents' off, just blame it on my brother Richard. Because he probably did it. I know it wasn't ME.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
A Wicked Wonderful Life
We all know the movie. George Bailey (The terminally sexy Jimmy Stewart) gets into financial trouble during the Great Depression, because no one except George Bailey had money problems during the Great Depression, and he just decided that everything would be better if he had never been born etc... (My daughter recently told me that the "theme" for the Junior Prom at her school this year would be the 1930's....and I said "Cool. I guess everyone will save money on their dresses and tuxes since they'll be showing up in ragged overcoats with tin cups begging for money...and the meal will be like a soup kitchen! Buffet style! And she said "Oh...I meant the 1920's" But my daughter is REALLY pretty!)
So George leaves Mary and the kids and ends up getting drunk and crashing his car and meets the angel Clarence and the pristine haven that was Bedford Falls becomes the Sodom and Gomorrah "Pottersville" where everyone is hanging out at bars and going to brothels on Christmas Eve and George is running around not being recognized with a bloody gash on his head acting all weird because he's never been born.
Allow me to confess that I've been watching way too many Hallmark Channel Christmas movies. Even Lifetime has them. I'm sort of obsessed. They have titles like "The Christmas Miracle," or "A Bride For Christmas." My daughter is concerned about me. When she walks into the house and sees me watching them, she just rolls her eyes. Recently she said I had "A Problem." Oh yeah Missy? "You just wait until YOUR Christmas Miracle happens and the angel on the tree becomes magical and I find the perfect man of my dreams who was actually right in front of me the entire time to make our Christmas perfect and magical and the best Christmas ever ever ever!" And she said "Good luck with that mom. I'm gonna go get my belly button pierced."
Now, let me just give you a synopsis of the classic "On Strike For Christmas" Lifetime movie. Perfect woman with a perfect family and a perfect house is just so darn TIRED of being taken for granted when she does Christmas all by herself while still running the amazingly successful "Black Friday at Wal Mart" Yarn Store. She put her heart and soul into that place, or at least five minutes during the movie when there was a whole crowd of people in her store, buying YARN. .So by God, enough was enough. When she saw the local supermarket employees on strike, she decided to go on strike too! And after her husband and sons TRIED to make her homemade cookies and only managed to make a mess of the kitchen, By God, they realized how important she was! And then they all sang at the end, realizing that Christmas was all about being together. Sigh.
But my favorite Christmas message comes from It's A Wonderful Life. Clarence did an awesome job teaching George how important he was, so when they got to the cemetery and Clarence told George how his brother died because he wasn't there to save him from drowning so then a crapload of OTHER people died because his brother wasn't there to save them during The War, George asked "Where's Mary?" (or something like that.) At that point angel Clarence lost it. He could barely choke out the words.
"Mary is a spinster. She never married George." OMG! And where did George find Mary? At the LIBRARY!!!!!!! Wearing glasses!!!!!!! And a grey suit, clutching books. No wonder George finally came to. It was a Christmas Miracle...Mary got to ditch the books and take care of George and a pile of kids again!
Allow me to confess that I've been watching way too many Hallmark Channel Christmas movies. Even Lifetime has them. I'm sort of obsessed. They have titles like "The Christmas Miracle," or "A Bride For Christmas." My daughter is concerned about me. When she walks into the house and sees me watching them, she just rolls her eyes. Recently she said I had "A Problem." Oh yeah Missy? "You just wait until YOUR Christmas Miracle happens and the angel on the tree becomes magical and I find the perfect man of my dreams who was actually right in front of me the entire time to make our Christmas perfect and magical and the best Christmas ever ever ever!" And she said "Good luck with that mom. I'm gonna go get my belly button pierced."
Now, let me just give you a synopsis of the classic "On Strike For Christmas" Lifetime movie. Perfect woman with a perfect family and a perfect house is just so darn TIRED of being taken for granted when she does Christmas all by herself while still running the amazingly successful "Black Friday at Wal Mart" Yarn Store. She put her heart and soul into that place, or at least five minutes during the movie when there was a whole crowd of people in her store, buying YARN. .So by God, enough was enough. When she saw the local supermarket employees on strike, she decided to go on strike too! And after her husband and sons TRIED to make her homemade cookies and only managed to make a mess of the kitchen, By God, they realized how important she was! And then they all sang at the end, realizing that Christmas was all about being together. Sigh.
But my favorite Christmas message comes from It's A Wonderful Life. Clarence did an awesome job teaching George how important he was, so when they got to the cemetery and Clarence told George how his brother died because he wasn't there to save him from drowning so then a crapload of OTHER people died because his brother wasn't there to save them during The War, George asked "Where's Mary?" (or something like that.) At that point angel Clarence lost it. He could barely choke out the words.
"Mary is a spinster. She never married George." OMG! And where did George find Mary? At the LIBRARY!!!!!!! Wearing glasses!!!!!!! And a grey suit, clutching books. No wonder George finally came to. It was a Christmas Miracle...Mary got to ditch the books and take care of George and a pile of kids again!
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