Per T., my significant other, I drove my newly repaired automobile to our storage unit, H106B, in Chula Vista. Upon opening H106B, I saw a mini-barbecue teetering on top of a box tall enough to house wrapping paper, labeled "Christmas" in T.'s choppy hand. At this juncture, I craned my head ceiling-ward, realizing that T.'s storage beautification goal was going to be something of a joke. The 6'x10' unit was crammed with all manner of crap.
After schlepping boxes and rifling through the contents, I found items including but not limited to: poetry written by an old boyfriend (which was not as brilliant as I had remembered), poetry written by me (whose brilliance had been forgotten), a photograph of my grandfather as a lifeguard (McNeills: good looking people), dozens of CD cases with no CDs (where were those CDs?), books by great authors (that I will never read), camping gear (that we will never use), Peter Gabriel concert tickets (big date with T.), photos of me (when I was all that), a Christmas tree stand (Awww…), etc.
Some items made it into the Goodwill pile; some were trashed; some either went back into storage or were tagged to come home with me.
I finally unearthed one of the largest blue storage bins, one containing T.'s old clothes. Examining them, I realized that this was quite a find, as all the fashions were defunct and hopelessly over-sized for T.'s athletic physique. One pair of cargo shorts was worth two of T. at his present weight, and I was delighted. I would be able to dispose of a slew of junk in one fell swoop.
Muscling the blue bin into the car proved to be another matter, and I practiced some Fengshuification in order to position it in the backseat. I smiled, knowing that Goodwill, and maybe even God, would appreciate me for practicing such generosity.
On the way home, though, I eyed the blue bin in the backseat, and I felt a pang of uneasiness. After all, a storage unit was there to house all the things that one didn't really need but couldn't bear to part with, and I thought I ought to get a green light before I went and gave away T.’s stuff, even though he had initiated the cleaning project to begin with.
Upon returning home, it proved that my instincts were correct. When I mentioned to T. that I had the storage bin in my car, he flipped out. “Don’t get rid of it! Don’t get rid of it! I just put that in there three months ago!”
I countered, “But you’ll never wear those clothes again!”
T. didn’t try to disagree with me. He merely said, “I thought that storage was a good first step.”
“OK, OK…” I acquiesced.
At first.
After all, he was the one that wanted H106B cleaned out. A good first step? Not enough of a step for me. I figured that if I was sent all the way down to the storage unit to face the past and start dealing with crap, the least T. could do to participate was get rid of remnants of his past in the bargain.
As any good woman involved in the process of persuasion, I waited a while before bringing up the topic again. In this case, it was through flattery and an appeal to charity that I hoped to bring about the desired change. I waited for an appropriate window in the conversation when I opened my mouth, “You know, you’ll never fit into those clothes again, and somebody out there might need them.”
“They’re my clothes,” T. responded.
Now, T. is a firm believer in finishing what you start in a decent time frame, but me, not so much. I didn’t run back to the storage unit with the blue bin, and instead flatly procrastinated. While driving, the bin loomed in the backseat, reminding me of my inevitable, onerous return to H106B.
T. was acutely aware of the procrastination dynamic and offered irritably, “Do you want me to go to the storage unit?”
“No,” I replied, but I still harbored a shred of hope left that I could liberate the contents of the blue bin at Goodwill and that the old clothes would not be languishing in the unit with all the other outdated and sometimes unwanted memories.
At this point, my hope had become toxic. I was still attached to an idea that wasn’t going to happen, waiting for someone else, in this case T., to change his mind when it wasn’t going to change.
I also clung to the idea that if I waited around, the blue bin would magically take care of itself, that I would get what I wanted simply by willing the clothes out of existence instead of dealing with reality. Reality had developed hard edges, and I wasn’t ready to give up my shred of hope, hope that promised convenience, ease, and deliverance.
The blue bin still sits in the back of my car. But now that I’m extinguishing my hope, toxic hope, my will to deal with my blue bin is mounting. My to do list has another entry, and though beautification of H106B is no longer the goal, and least I feel ready—mostly ready—to deal with what in truth is my own mess.
H106B and I have another date tomorrow.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
AAA Angel
“Hey, Miss McNeill,” said the AAA guy.
It was D.
D. was sitting in his work truck with a Mona Lisa smile on his face, appropriate given that my Honda Accord, named Champ, was pulled over on the side of the road near the semi-local coffee shop, its bumper lodged under the front wheels. A small group from the coffee shop had assembled, some with advice, but mainly just to gawk at my mangled automobile.
The accident was a classic case of driver miscommunication (mainly mine): I thought the driver of the white Ford Explorer was waiting for me; she thought I was waiting for her. We both surged forward at the same time, and CRASH! The SUV escaped with a wee scratch. My bumper was ripped off almost completely, and in the process of pulling over, I pinned the bumper under my car.
After getting out of the car and circling it, and circling it, and circling it, I finally collected my wits and called AAA. The crowd murmured, “She has AAA…She has AAA…She has AAA…”
Yes, I had AAA, a gift from my mother.
And here he was.
Approaching the truck, I saw D.’s familiar face. He was Mexican, with black hair tinged with the grey of a 40-something, clean-shaven, and wearing a work shirt and a gold cross. His brown eyes had a twinkle, at odds with what I was experiencing a grave situation: the crashing of my car.
Now, D. and I had met a month or so before for another automobile problem. My car was on the side of the road outside my condo complex, its battery dead. Like most people, car trouble fell into the category of the most loathsome kind of life’s inconveniences. I was in a state of minor distress.
Consequently, I was kvetching to D. about the state of my car, which extended to extrapolating on the ironies of life. As he was testing my battery, I was missing work. Not only was I missing work, but I had dressed in my work-a-day best, intent on asking my boss to be a reference for additional employment. Now I was absent.
“That’s too bad. That’s really too bad for you.” He continued slyly, “You still going to ask her for a reference?”
Well, yes I was, and she would surely agree…but that wasn’t the point. My circumstances had been altered. My plans thwarted. My day ruined.
But D.’s humorous remark gave me pause. Were things really all that bad? After all, it was just a battery, and the reference was still there for the asking…
D. and I kept chatting when in the midst the conversation, we witnessed a little dog run out into the middle of the road. Immediately, the dog was hit by an SUV.
The dog's last moments of life passed quickly away, and I looked on in horror. D. went about his business, saying, "I almost got killed last week by a Prius while I was doing a job on the freeway." He continued philosophically, "These things happen. They happen all the time. You just have to be thankful for every day you're alive."
When he was done, D. gave me the paperwork to sign and I asked him on impulse, “Are you a Christian?” “Yes,” he replied. “I thought so” was all I could say. At any rate, he wasn’t someone I would forget.
Remembering my last episode with D., I asked tactlessly, "Is the only reason you remember me because of that dead dog?"
He replied, "No, that's not the only reason." This time he grinned in earnest and then got to work.
D. assessed the situation with my car and removed the broken parts without any fuss. "You're lucky no one was hurt. This isn't bad. It isn't bad at all. It's just the bumper. You can still drive the car."
I could not be consoled. My poor Champ! Now he had another injury to show for his many years of fine service. Not only was the accident a waste of time and money, but it was further evidence that my level of anxiety was impairing my ability to function. Could I even trust myself to drive again?
D. interrupted my catastrophic line of thinking by saying, "You know, you're very lucky. Nothing really serious happened. You lost your bumper. No one got hurt. Accidents happen all the time. I see them every day."
D. looked at me significantly. "You're going to be OK," he said, handing me a pen. I signed my name on the paperwork, and then he left.
Shortly thereafter, T., my significant other, appeared with his truck, put the pieces of my car in the bed, and followed me home. The next day I took Champ in to get the repairs done, at the cost of a few pretty pennies.
While thinking of the damage I inflicted on my car, I tried to keep D.'s words in mind. No one was hurt. The damage could have been worse. Accidents happen.
But my anxieties could still not be held completely at bay.
Once I picked up my car and got back in the driver's seat, however, I realized how grossly inflated my fears really were. I felt the familiar purr of the engine, played roulette with my radio, opened the sun roof, and smiled as I put the car into drive. I was good to go. I recalled D.'s words and took a moment to appreciate the present. More than anything, though, I realized that Daniel had something precious that I was sorely lacking: perspective.
I found myself relaxing, and once again, I pledged not to let my fears run my life, particularly when the D.'s of the world were there to remind me to be thankful. After all, who knew that the universe would send a grief counselor, a gentleman, and a sage in a AAA guy?
Twice!
It was D.
D. was sitting in his work truck with a Mona Lisa smile on his face, appropriate given that my Honda Accord, named Champ, was pulled over on the side of the road near the semi-local coffee shop, its bumper lodged under the front wheels. A small group from the coffee shop had assembled, some with advice, but mainly just to gawk at my mangled automobile.
The accident was a classic case of driver miscommunication (mainly mine): I thought the driver of the white Ford Explorer was waiting for me; she thought I was waiting for her. We both surged forward at the same time, and CRASH! The SUV escaped with a wee scratch. My bumper was ripped off almost completely, and in the process of pulling over, I pinned the bumper under my car.
After getting out of the car and circling it, and circling it, and circling it, I finally collected my wits and called AAA. The crowd murmured, “She has AAA…She has AAA…She has AAA…”
Yes, I had AAA, a gift from my mother.
And here he was.
Approaching the truck, I saw D.’s familiar face. He was Mexican, with black hair tinged with the grey of a 40-something, clean-shaven, and wearing a work shirt and a gold cross. His brown eyes had a twinkle, at odds with what I was experiencing a grave situation: the crashing of my car.
Now, D. and I had met a month or so before for another automobile problem. My car was on the side of the road outside my condo complex, its battery dead. Like most people, car trouble fell into the category of the most loathsome kind of life’s inconveniences. I was in a state of minor distress.
Consequently, I was kvetching to D. about the state of my car, which extended to extrapolating on the ironies of life. As he was testing my battery, I was missing work. Not only was I missing work, but I had dressed in my work-a-day best, intent on asking my boss to be a reference for additional employment. Now I was absent.
“That’s too bad. That’s really too bad for you.” He continued slyly, “You still going to ask her for a reference?”
Well, yes I was, and she would surely agree…but that wasn’t the point. My circumstances had been altered. My plans thwarted. My day ruined.
But D.’s humorous remark gave me pause. Were things really all that bad? After all, it was just a battery, and the reference was still there for the asking…
D. and I kept chatting when in the midst the conversation, we witnessed a little dog run out into the middle of the road. Immediately, the dog was hit by an SUV.
The dog's last moments of life passed quickly away, and I looked on in horror. D. went about his business, saying, "I almost got killed last week by a Prius while I was doing a job on the freeway." He continued philosophically, "These things happen. They happen all the time. You just have to be thankful for every day you're alive."
When he was done, D. gave me the paperwork to sign and I asked him on impulse, “Are you a Christian?” “Yes,” he replied. “I thought so” was all I could say. At any rate, he wasn’t someone I would forget.
Remembering my last episode with D., I asked tactlessly, "Is the only reason you remember me because of that dead dog?"
He replied, "No, that's not the only reason." This time he grinned in earnest and then got to work.
D. assessed the situation with my car and removed the broken parts without any fuss. "You're lucky no one was hurt. This isn't bad. It isn't bad at all. It's just the bumper. You can still drive the car."
I could not be consoled. My poor Champ! Now he had another injury to show for his many years of fine service. Not only was the accident a waste of time and money, but it was further evidence that my level of anxiety was impairing my ability to function. Could I even trust myself to drive again?
D. interrupted my catastrophic line of thinking by saying, "You know, you're very lucky. Nothing really serious happened. You lost your bumper. No one got hurt. Accidents happen all the time. I see them every day."
D. looked at me significantly. "You're going to be OK," he said, handing me a pen. I signed my name on the paperwork, and then he left.
Shortly thereafter, T., my significant other, appeared with his truck, put the pieces of my car in the bed, and followed me home. The next day I took Champ in to get the repairs done, at the cost of a few pretty pennies.
While thinking of the damage I inflicted on my car, I tried to keep D.'s words in mind. No one was hurt. The damage could have been worse. Accidents happen.
But my anxieties could still not be held completely at bay.
Once I picked up my car and got back in the driver's seat, however, I realized how grossly inflated my fears really were. I felt the familiar purr of the engine, played roulette with my radio, opened the sun roof, and smiled as I put the car into drive. I was good to go. I recalled D.'s words and took a moment to appreciate the present. More than anything, though, I realized that Daniel had something precious that I was sorely lacking: perspective.
I found myself relaxing, and once again, I pledged not to let my fears run my life, particularly when the D.'s of the world were there to remind me to be thankful. After all, who knew that the universe would send a grief counselor, a gentleman, and a sage in a AAA guy?
Twice!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
My Pre-Marathon Jitters
It is 5:30 a.m., and I just dropped off T. at the start of the Rock and Roll Marathon. Today is his first race; he is running "the half."
This morning over coffee, T. admitted to being like "Whirl of Swing"--my nickname-- meaning that he was nervous despite having any real cause, as he has run "the half" on his own many times before.
For my part, although I'm not running anywhere, I do have the jitters. See, it is my job to pick T. up. In order to complete this task, I have to get from point A (home) to point B (the finish line), which involves a battery of my phobias, including but not limited to the following:
1) sharing the road with thousands of people (crashophobia)
2) parking in a lot crowded with cars (lameparkingjobphobia)
3) figuring out a machine to get a trolley ticket (machinelamenessphobia)
4) making it to the right stop (Carlsbadophobia)
Seeing this laundry list on paper, a bit of anxiety may seem "normal," but I assure you that the level of my anxiety is not. It is intense and painful, a manifestation of illness.
But why? What is the deal?
I've determined that the difference on a psychological level between my "phobias" and other "healthy" people is that healthy people cut themselves and the world some slack. I know that every human being in the world does not like to drive in traffic, or have to squeeze into crowded parking lots, or to figure out how to buy a ticket. What do they do to cope? They breathe. They take their time. They don't think the world is going to end if they don't do something perfectly the first time around. In short, they expect themselves and others to behave like humans.
I don't know the precise moment when I decided that it wasn't OK to behave like a human. I think it has something to do with trying to control the bipolar disorder by being a perfect person. Somewhere along the line, I stopped letting myself breathe, stopped letting myself be an amateur, and stopped having fun with the little things. Not only did I stop enjoying little things, but then unpleasant things became magnified into obstacles. They became magnified into burdens.
So, today is T.'s first race, but in fact, it's a race for me, too. Not a race against the clock, but an opportunity to see if I can jump through a few logistical hoops, not only without incident, but with a sense of accomplishment.
Let's Rock n' Roll!
This morning over coffee, T. admitted to being like "Whirl of Swing"--my nickname-- meaning that he was nervous despite having any real cause, as he has run "the half" on his own many times before.
For my part, although I'm not running anywhere, I do have the jitters. See, it is my job to pick T. up. In order to complete this task, I have to get from point A (home) to point B (the finish line), which involves a battery of my phobias, including but not limited to the following:
1) sharing the road with thousands of people (crashophobia)
2) parking in a lot crowded with cars (lameparkingjobphobia)
3) figuring out a machine to get a trolley ticket (machinelamenessphobia)
4) making it to the right stop (Carlsbadophobia)
Seeing this laundry list on paper, a bit of anxiety may seem "normal," but I assure you that the level of my anxiety is not. It is intense and painful, a manifestation of illness.
But why? What is the deal?
I've determined that the difference on a psychological level between my "phobias" and other "healthy" people is that healthy people cut themselves and the world some slack. I know that every human being in the world does not like to drive in traffic, or have to squeeze into crowded parking lots, or to figure out how to buy a ticket. What do they do to cope? They breathe. They take their time. They don't think the world is going to end if they don't do something perfectly the first time around. In short, they expect themselves and others to behave like humans.
I don't know the precise moment when I decided that it wasn't OK to behave like a human. I think it has something to do with trying to control the bipolar disorder by being a perfect person. Somewhere along the line, I stopped letting myself breathe, stopped letting myself be an amateur, and stopped having fun with the little things. Not only did I stop enjoying little things, but then unpleasant things became magnified into obstacles. They became magnified into burdens.
So, today is T.'s first race, but in fact, it's a race for me, too. Not a race against the clock, but an opportunity to see if I can jump through a few logistical hoops, not only without incident, but with a sense of accomplishment.
Let's Rock n' Roll!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Doctor Gets a Break at Fantastic Sam's
Yesterday, I abandoned the traditional salon haircut experience and instead took a trip to Fantastic Sam's. This was not an original idea, I soon learned, as there were four people waiting when I arrived. All of them were concentrated on their phones, so I adopted the When In Rome pose and extracted my phone, pretending that I had pressing business at hand. (I did in fact have business, just none of it pressing.)
As I was minding my business, a 20-something kid walked in with a big, bushy head of hair and took the empty seat next to me. He wore a t-shirt that said, "Green is Uberkewl." He was listening to his iPhone and noodling around with it. I didn't know that people who looked like him really ever got their hair cut, so he was a bit of an anomaly.
Once I got in the stylist's chair, the anomalous guy ended up in the chair next to me. He immediately started giving directions to his stylist. He wanted his head shaved, "a number one." When the stylist showed some trepidation, the guy continued, "I just went through a break up. She always liked my hair long, so I want to shave it." The stylist asked repeatedly if that's what he wanted (he really had a lot of hair, I'm telling you), and he was adamant. I heard the buzz of the razor, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched as his extremely full head of hair fell to the floor in clumps.
"I need a fresh start," the young man continued. "I believe in clean break ups..." and he proceeded to share a laundry list of break up stories, but this one being the worst. "Besides," he added, "I don't have time for this. I'm a doctor. I work 70-80 hours a week."
A doctor? Did he just say "doctor"? Could this be true? And what if it was? Didn't doctors have the right to 1) wear "Green is Uberkewl" t-shirts, 2) have bushy hair, and 3) get heart-broken, and 4) shave their heads? Why do I assume that because someone is a medical professional they have an obligation to be a more "well-adjusted" person than anyone else, kind of a perpetual professional? Or just plain special?
More to the point: didn't this young man deserve my sympathy rather than my incredulity? More than my judgment?
The Head-Shaven Young Man reminded me to examine my stereotypes of others, as I am chock full. I know, though, that the very mechanism that causes judgment of others is also the one that judges the self. Maybe if I lighten up on the doctor in his quest to make a clean break, I can lighten up on myself when I need a break.
That is, without shaving my head.
As I was minding my business, a 20-something kid walked in with a big, bushy head of hair and took the empty seat next to me. He wore a t-shirt that said, "Green is Uberkewl." He was listening to his iPhone and noodling around with it. I didn't know that people who looked like him really ever got their hair cut, so he was a bit of an anomaly.
Once I got in the stylist's chair, the anomalous guy ended up in the chair next to me. He immediately started giving directions to his stylist. He wanted his head shaved, "a number one." When the stylist showed some trepidation, the guy continued, "I just went through a break up. She always liked my hair long, so I want to shave it." The stylist asked repeatedly if that's what he wanted (he really had a lot of hair, I'm telling you), and he was adamant. I heard the buzz of the razor, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched as his extremely full head of hair fell to the floor in clumps.
"I need a fresh start," the young man continued. "I believe in clean break ups..." and he proceeded to share a laundry list of break up stories, but this one being the worst. "Besides," he added, "I don't have time for this. I'm a doctor. I work 70-80 hours a week."
A doctor? Did he just say "doctor"? Could this be true? And what if it was? Didn't doctors have the right to 1) wear "Green is Uberkewl" t-shirts, 2) have bushy hair, and 3) get heart-broken, and 4) shave their heads? Why do I assume that because someone is a medical professional they have an obligation to be a more "well-adjusted" person than anyone else, kind of a perpetual professional? Or just plain special?
More to the point: didn't this young man deserve my sympathy rather than my incredulity? More than my judgment?
The Head-Shaven Young Man reminded me to examine my stereotypes of others, as I am chock full. I know, though, that the very mechanism that causes judgment of others is also the one that judges the self. Maybe if I lighten up on the doctor in his quest to make a clean break, I can lighten up on myself when I need a break.
That is, without shaving my head.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Vigil a Tribute to Nathan Manning
On Saturday night, I attended a candlelight vigil for a young man by the name of Nathan Manning. At the vigil, members of the community came together under the Normal Heights sign on Adams Avenue to celebrate Nathan's life and mourn his passing. Nathan, who was a resident of Normal Heights, was shot and killed on Thursday, May 20, 2010, by a police detective. When Nathan was killed, he was experiencing a psychotic manic episode as a result of bipolar disorder.
Although I did not know Nathan personally, I was able to feel the emotion of those assembled, about 50 strong. I learned that Nathan was an avid guitar player and songwriter and also taught guitar to his young friends. He was well liked and well loved.
When I first arrived, I saw my friend, A., who had been close friends with Nathan. I also met Nathan's father and connected with another gentleman, Mr. R., who is a member of NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) North Coastal, who serves on the County Mental Health Board. Mainly, I stood by myself and took it all in. I felt sadness for the family, his friends, and for the horrible nature of the tragedy.
Holding our candles, we walked in procession from the Normal Heights sign down Adams Avenue to the site where Nathan was killed. At this point, a few young men brought out their instruments and began to honor Nathan with their music. I saw a friend from a bipolar support group. He had known Nathan and had talked to him the Monday before he died. He said, "Nathan was a good listener. He was a good guy."
A hush fell, and the music stopped, and a few words were said. Nathan's father, brother, and A., all spoke, emphasizing their love for Nathan. Mr. R. spoke as well, conveying the message that Nathan's death not be in vain, but that some positive social change can occur as a result of the tragedy.
The hope is that Nathan's death, given the passion of the people at the vigil, may prove to be the catalyst for policy changes within law enforcement. With additional training and perhaps change in basic practices, the behavior of people with bipolar disorder can be better understood and their lives truly protected.
The evening continued, a peaceful and respectful tribute to the life of Nathan Manning.
For more information about how to get involved with bipolar support activities, visit bipolarhope.blogspot.com.
Although I did not know Nathan personally, I was able to feel the emotion of those assembled, about 50 strong. I learned that Nathan was an avid guitar player and songwriter and also taught guitar to his young friends. He was well liked and well loved.
When I first arrived, I saw my friend, A., who had been close friends with Nathan. I also met Nathan's father and connected with another gentleman, Mr. R., who is a member of NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) North Coastal, who serves on the County Mental Health Board. Mainly, I stood by myself and took it all in. I felt sadness for the family, his friends, and for the horrible nature of the tragedy.
Holding our candles, we walked in procession from the Normal Heights sign down Adams Avenue to the site where Nathan was killed. At this point, a few young men brought out their instruments and began to honor Nathan with their music. I saw a friend from a bipolar support group. He had known Nathan and had talked to him the Monday before he died. He said, "Nathan was a good listener. He was a good guy."
A hush fell, and the music stopped, and a few words were said. Nathan's father, brother, and A., all spoke, emphasizing their love for Nathan. Mr. R. spoke as well, conveying the message that Nathan's death not be in vain, but that some positive social change can occur as a result of the tragedy.
The hope is that Nathan's death, given the passion of the people at the vigil, may prove to be the catalyst for policy changes within law enforcement. With additional training and perhaps change in basic practices, the behavior of people with bipolar disorder can be better understood and their lives truly protected.
The evening continued, a peaceful and respectful tribute to the life of Nathan Manning.
For more information about how to get involved with bipolar support activities, visit bipolarhope.blogspot.com.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Normies Can Be Scary
Yesterday was my first and last day of jury duty. Beforehand, I had profound anxiety over the usual suspects, including the fear of 1) being inappropriately dressed, 2) getting lost, 3) getting dehydrated, 4) having to use restroom constantly 5) being restless and twitchy, and 6) seeming foolish in general or in specific. After all, there is nothing so ghastly in my mind as being obviously symptomatic or even slightly inappropriate in public, even while just doing one's civic duty with the mainstream of America. As one who has one foot in the bipolar fringe, the mainstream of America can be scary.
T. was kind enough to drop me off at the Hall of Justice, and so all that was required was the airport-esque security measures. I had to pull up my pants to show that I wasn't toting a knife. Then I got spewed into the Jurors Lounge, again, reminiscent of an airport, only much quieter. I took up residence at one of the few little round tables in the back, across from a young woman with a laptop. We were soon joined by two other women.
Over the course of the day, the four of us became "jury friends." To my left was the divorced mother of one, a charter school teacher now dating a Border Patrol agent, and across from me, an after school program administrator who moonlighted as a pet massage therapist, ran marathons in her spare time, and maintained a boyfriend in Orange County, and to my right, a graduate student in clinical psychiatry with attractive diamond facial piercings, single, with a cat named Carrie Bradshaw. In short: normies.
Two of the gals brought in some gossip and fashion magazines that became the centerpiece of the conversation. I was definitely the pop culture novice, and although I was responsible for the ice-breaking of the group in the first place, I began the slow spiritual retreat which so often accompanies the feeling that one is different. Yet I paged through "my" In Style magazine with feigned exuberance, until I found one advertisement that I genuinely found interesting. There was a nude model facing the viewer holding a ten foot long albino snake posed to cover her saucy bits. It was a fascinating photograph which I immediately shared with the group.
The girls recoiled in horror. Physically recoiled. Their responses resembled that of a cartoon. Conjecture ensued about how much money they would need to be paid to pose with said snake. The psychologist-to-be said she would need to be paid $500,000. The nudity part would not bother her, she said...and she paused ominously.
And this is a woman who is supposed to help people work on their inner selves and overcome their issues? My judgment reared its ugly head, and inwardly, I scoffed. I scoffed again.
In that moment, though, I realized that there are crucial difference between bizarre hangups like the fear of snakes, and the anxiety that is a manifestation of bipolar disorder, that is, fears that interrupt the daily acts of living. Once again, I became resentful of the illness. These other women seemed so...well-adjusted. After all, they didn't stress over getting here. All they are afraid of is a silly snake in a magazine.
After waiting, waiting, and waiting, the people waiting in the lounge were excused, so there was hooplah at our table as everyone packed their things. The pet massage therapist happily passed out her card. As she smiled her radiant smile, I realized that my feelings of alienation, about the whole day in general, had, as usual, been amplified and exaggerated. Nothing but positive things occurred. My feelings of anxiety were basically unfounded, and I emerged unscathed from the bureaucratic machine.
Not to mention, normies aren't so bad.
T. was kind enough to drop me off at the Hall of Justice, and so all that was required was the airport-esque security measures. I had to pull up my pants to show that I wasn't toting a knife. Then I got spewed into the Jurors Lounge, again, reminiscent of an airport, only much quieter. I took up residence at one of the few little round tables in the back, across from a young woman with a laptop. We were soon joined by two other women.
Over the course of the day, the four of us became "jury friends." To my left was the divorced mother of one, a charter school teacher now dating a Border Patrol agent, and across from me, an after school program administrator who moonlighted as a pet massage therapist, ran marathons in her spare time, and maintained a boyfriend in Orange County, and to my right, a graduate student in clinical psychiatry with attractive diamond facial piercings, single, with a cat named Carrie Bradshaw. In short: normies.
Two of the gals brought in some gossip and fashion magazines that became the centerpiece of the conversation. I was definitely the pop culture novice, and although I was responsible for the ice-breaking of the group in the first place, I began the slow spiritual retreat which so often accompanies the feeling that one is different. Yet I paged through "my" In Style magazine with feigned exuberance, until I found one advertisement that I genuinely found interesting. There was a nude model facing the viewer holding a ten foot long albino snake posed to cover her saucy bits. It was a fascinating photograph which I immediately shared with the group.
The girls recoiled in horror. Physically recoiled. Their responses resembled that of a cartoon. Conjecture ensued about how much money they would need to be paid to pose with said snake. The psychologist-to-be said she would need to be paid $500,000. The nudity part would not bother her, she said...and she paused ominously.
And this is a woman who is supposed to help people work on their inner selves and overcome their issues? My judgment reared its ugly head, and inwardly, I scoffed. I scoffed again.
In that moment, though, I realized that there are crucial difference between bizarre hangups like the fear of snakes, and the anxiety that is a manifestation of bipolar disorder, that is, fears that interrupt the daily acts of living. Once again, I became resentful of the illness. These other women seemed so...well-adjusted. After all, they didn't stress over getting here. All they are afraid of is a silly snake in a magazine.
After waiting, waiting, and waiting, the people waiting in the lounge were excused, so there was hooplah at our table as everyone packed their things. The pet massage therapist happily passed out her card. As she smiled her radiant smile, I realized that my feelings of alienation, about the whole day in general, had, as usual, been amplified and exaggerated. Nothing but positive things occurred. My feelings of anxiety were basically unfounded, and I emerged unscathed from the bureaucratic machine.
Not to mention, normies aren't so bad.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Dog & Pony Show No More
On Wednesday, I went to Barona Casino to speak for a crowd of their management and local law enforcement officers about what it is like to live with mental illness. There were four of us on a panel, representatives of NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), and about 25 in the audience. The purpose of the training, like the many I have done in the community, was to raise awareness of mental illness and to humanize thinking about psychiatric disorders.
Basically, the panel was there to show that someone with mental illness can look like anybody.
Now, I have some funny stories of bipolar incidents under my belt. I have rubbed elbows with many sketchy people, had visions, been in car chases with cops, masqueraded as a federal agent to get into some guy's house, destroyed my piano, and much, much more. In short, I have stories that are very funny after the fact. I can always get a few laughs with my tales of mania. After all, mental illness, like any of the other tragedies of life, can be funny given the delivery.
So, it used to be in these trainings that I used my "material" to entertain rather than to educate. It was easier for me, I think, to make light of my experience rather than to actually relate it on a sober and thoughtful level.
When I made a decision to change my comedic style, I often said that I was developing scar tissue on my tongue for the amount of times I had to bite down. After all, being dead honest with people and admitting the seriousness of mental illness in my own life at first was just plain hard. Over time, though, as I kept at it, my courage built up, and I found that the experience of educating, rather than entertaining, was profoundly gratifying and appreciated.
I still crack the occasional joke when I am presenting, but I don't feel the need to put on a dog and pony show. I know that by being real, I don't have to get caught in the trap of having to perform all the time, and I can just let my experience speak for itself rather than dressing it up. It's a huge relief, as the Old Wendy would say, to "be boring," knowing that the audience doesn't need to be laughing. Instead, they're learning a little bit more compassion.
Cheers to that!
Basically, the panel was there to show that someone with mental illness can look like anybody.
Now, I have some funny stories of bipolar incidents under my belt. I have rubbed elbows with many sketchy people, had visions, been in car chases with cops, masqueraded as a federal agent to get into some guy's house, destroyed my piano, and much, much more. In short, I have stories that are very funny after the fact. I can always get a few laughs with my tales of mania. After all, mental illness, like any of the other tragedies of life, can be funny given the delivery.
So, it used to be in these trainings that I used my "material" to entertain rather than to educate. It was easier for me, I think, to make light of my experience rather than to actually relate it on a sober and thoughtful level.
When I made a decision to change my comedic style, I often said that I was developing scar tissue on my tongue for the amount of times I had to bite down. After all, being dead honest with people and admitting the seriousness of mental illness in my own life at first was just plain hard. Over time, though, as I kept at it, my courage built up, and I found that the experience of educating, rather than entertaining, was profoundly gratifying and appreciated.
I still crack the occasional joke when I am presenting, but I don't feel the need to put on a dog and pony show. I know that by being real, I don't have to get caught in the trap of having to perform all the time, and I can just let my experience speak for itself rather than dressing it up. It's a huge relief, as the Old Wendy would say, to "be boring," knowing that the audience doesn't need to be laughing. Instead, they're learning a little bit more compassion.
Cheers to that!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)