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It started with the perfect night, with the kind of setting that can't help but inspire the imagination. It happened on my porch on Friday, as thunderheads rolled in from the west - and the trees in my old neighborhood rustled ominously in the wind, making that steady Shhhhhhhh sound. Radar - my roommate - had just said goodbye to two British guests who had been staying with us since the previous Saturday. One of the visitors was James - a middle age Londoner, Radar's lifelong friend - and seeing James leave after such a long visit was so sad, it hurt. After watching the Brits drive away, Radar & I ended up sitting on the porch and smoking. My 112-year-old home has a high wraparound porch, so our vantage point was perfect to watch the rapidly-approaching storm. A few minutes before the sky opened up, Heath - a young buddy of mine - ran up to join us from his car. He was carrying his guitar, the sight of which was enough to make Radar forget about his missing friends. As the sky went black - and the rain fell in torrents - my porch began to smell like beer, cigarettes, marijuana, wet wood, and mud. And then the guitar came out...
I've never taken time to learn any instruments, so I admire anyone with that ability. Radar, a New Orleans native, is more than just a guitar player; he's one of those freaky-talented musicians who can play any instrument put in front of him. After a few quick strums to familiarize himself with Heath's guitar, Radar burst into an impromptu set of Bayou guitar favorites - blasting acoustics against the thunder, rain, and lightning. Over the next two hours, the instrument was passed back and forth between Radar & Heath, as I watched in amazement as two relatively unfamiliar men found commonality within music. At one point, Heath made a comment...something about writing lyrics while stoned. Shortly before that, Radar had played a melody he'd written himself...and when the two offhand comments joined in my head, I suddenly found a way to contribute to the creativity: "If You Write the Music, I'll Write the Lyrics." In the magic of the moment, while watching two men share both sadness & joy through music, I'd heard the voice of inspiration...and it gave me the title of my next book.
It made me feel small, but in the biggest and best way possible.
I've never taken time to learn any instruments, so I admire anyone with that ability. Radar, a New Orleans native, is more than just a guitar player; he's one of those freaky-talented musicians who can play any instrument put in front of him. After a few quick strums to familiarize himself with Heath's guitar, Radar burst into an impromptu set of Bayou guitar favorites - blasting acoustics against the thunder, rain, and lightning. Over the next two hours, the instrument was passed back and forth between Radar & Heath, as I watched in amazement as two relatively unfamiliar men found commonality within music. At one point, Heath made a comment...something about writing lyrics while stoned. Shortly before that, Radar had played a melody he'd written himself...and when the two offhand comments joined in my head, I suddenly found a way to contribute to the creativity: "If You Write the Music, I'll Write the Lyrics." In the magic of the moment, while watching two men share both sadness & joy through music, I'd heard the voice of inspiration...and it gave me the title of my next book.
It made me feel small, but in the biggest and best way possible.
Radar, Heath, Myself, John, and James You know, this blog is approaching three years old now - and I've learned a lot while writing it. When I first started this forum, I made an effort to keep topics light & silly - and I also posted far more often than I've been doing lately. My original pattern was two fun blogs and one serious blog, the serious typically covering depression, social anxiety, and alcoholism. But I stopped that approach as I watched my readership plummet on "heavy" posts; readers, I've learned - and through no fault of their own - shy away from topics that hit too close to home. I'm not complaining about that...but I'm also not going to hide what I'm thinking anymore.
Going forward, as I begin the 3-6 month process of writing a novel, I'll be using this forum to share my creative process. I get crazy when I write. I scare the hell out of people when the process is in full-force...and at times, I'm completely unapproachable. I wake up early - 3-4am - and type, pace, smoke, talk to myself...hopelessly lost in my head. I pride myself in the fact that most every part of my life is in order, but when I write that all goes out the window. I become, for all practical purposes, a crazy person. And I'm not going to hide that anymore, either :)
There are many things happening right now that I suspect are being caused by the emergence of thirty-plus years of depression. I've learned that depression has a specific name - dysthymia - a type of chronic depression that often lasts for decades, and becomes such a part of a person's life, sadness actually "becomes" happiness...that is, the person only feels "normal" when sad. Chronic depression is very similar to drug addiction in that addicts only feel normal when using - and depressed people only feel normal when sad. When Prozac hit the market in the 90s, there were many stories about this topic. People who spent a lifetime being quiet & reserved would suddenly come out of their shells while on the drug, sometimes becoming a completely different person.
My old psychiatrist - who helped put this all into perspective a few years back - told me of a woman whose life took an unexpected turn while taking modern antidepressants. The patient had clearly been suffering from dysthymia when marrying her husband, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with their relationship. The husband fell in love with what he thought had been a quiet, private partner, but after a few months on Prozac, her personality did a 180. She started exercising. She went back to school. For the first time in her life, the woman was experiencing the excitement that coincides with happiness - but that enthusiasm caused problems because her husband had married a depressed person. I don't know how their story ended - if they stayed together or got divorced - but the important thing to take from the case is that the real woman had always been energetic; it had just taken the right antidepressant for her to realize that. Emerging from depression is, quite literally, a life-changing experience. Or, as I've taken to calling it lately, "coming back to life."
Going forward, as I begin the 3-6 month process of writing a novel, I'll be using this forum to share my creative process. I get crazy when I write. I scare the hell out of people when the process is in full-force...and at times, I'm completely unapproachable. I wake up early - 3-4am - and type, pace, smoke, talk to myself...hopelessly lost in my head. I pride myself in the fact that most every part of my life is in order, but when I write that all goes out the window. I become, for all practical purposes, a crazy person. And I'm not going to hide that anymore, either :)
There are many things happening right now that I suspect are being caused by the emergence of thirty-plus years of depression. I've learned that depression has a specific name - dysthymia - a type of chronic depression that often lasts for decades, and becomes such a part of a person's life, sadness actually "becomes" happiness...that is, the person only feels "normal" when sad. Chronic depression is very similar to drug addiction in that addicts only feel normal when using - and depressed people only feel normal when sad. When Prozac hit the market in the 90s, there were many stories about this topic. People who spent a lifetime being quiet & reserved would suddenly come out of their shells while on the drug, sometimes becoming a completely different person.
My old psychiatrist - who helped put this all into perspective a few years back - told me of a woman whose life took an unexpected turn while taking modern antidepressants. The patient had clearly been suffering from dysthymia when marrying her husband, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with their relationship. The husband fell in love with what he thought had been a quiet, private partner, but after a few months on Prozac, her personality did a 180. She started exercising. She went back to school. For the first time in her life, the woman was experiencing the excitement that coincides with happiness - but that enthusiasm caused problems because her husband had married a depressed person. I don't know how their story ended - if they stayed together or got divorced - but the important thing to take from the case is that the real woman had always been energetic; it had just taken the right antidepressant for her to realize that. Emerging from depression is, quite literally, a life-changing experience. Or, as I've taken to calling it lately, "coming back to life."
The Community of Christ church, Lombard IL Despite avoiding heavy themes, I have written - albeit a little comedically - about my struggle with spirituality as I've gotten older. A recovering Catholic, I've been searching for lost faith within several different church denominations...most recently within The Community of Christ Church, with a woman named Cheryl - a friend of mine from work. Cheryl was in her late 60s when I met her, during an interview for employment at Barnes & Noble. She was surprisingly tech-savvy - at the time, she ran a website called "Books Kansas" - and I recommended her hire because I thought she'd be a good fit for the increasingly-digital atmosphere of the bookstore. For her first few years of employment, I'd considered Cheryl a good work acquaintance. We had a solid boss/employee relationship, though because of her age I could talk to her more honestly than I could with younger booksellers. But we never crossed the friendship boundary until a few years later, when Cheryl went through a tragedy.
Three years ago, after a sudden leave of absence, Cheryl returned to work one morning, looking beaten and frail. Her son - a man she'd never really talked about before - had taken his own life after years of fighting depression. In an effort to find some normalcy in her life, Cheryl resumed her bookselling duties without the twinkle she'd had for years. We all knew what happened. But as mental illness is poorly understood by most, the topic was avoided in leu of the polite pleasantries that likely made her feel worse: It's good to have you back, Cheryl. You're in our thoughts and prayers.
A few weeks had passed when Cheryl came up to me for no apparent reason and asked, "Are you okay?" My heart hit the floor. I knew exactly what she meant. Having gone through the death of her son - and no doubt reflected on the signs she had missed - she recognized my own depression, and broke my silence. I remember telling her "No," but not going further. In the weeks and months that followed, the two of us shared our stories and eventually became good friends. As mentioned in earlier blogs, I started going to church with Cheryl - a batshit-crazy offshoot of Mormonism whose first encounter offered a transexual speaker. And I say that with love. The services I attended in the time that followed were always a blast - both funny and spiritual - a strange combination of Catholic ritual and uncomfortable scenes from Big Love. I liked to go on potluck days, not because of the food, but more to watch the congregation's social interaction after the formality of church service was dropped. These people were delightful. They genuinely cared about each other. It was during these Sundays when I saw Cheryl as she really was - happy, playful, a young woman in an older woman's body. Happiness, I realized, could be found without drugs. A few antidepressants maybe, but alas, the elephant in the room, holding a Manhattan in its trunk...
Three years ago, after a sudden leave of absence, Cheryl returned to work one morning, looking beaten and frail. Her son - a man she'd never really talked about before - had taken his own life after years of fighting depression. In an effort to find some normalcy in her life, Cheryl resumed her bookselling duties without the twinkle she'd had for years. We all knew what happened. But as mental illness is poorly understood by most, the topic was avoided in leu of the polite pleasantries that likely made her feel worse: It's good to have you back, Cheryl. You're in our thoughts and prayers.
A few weeks had passed when Cheryl came up to me for no apparent reason and asked, "Are you okay?" My heart hit the floor. I knew exactly what she meant. Having gone through the death of her son - and no doubt reflected on the signs she had missed - she recognized my own depression, and broke my silence. I remember telling her "No," but not going further. In the weeks and months that followed, the two of us shared our stories and eventually became good friends. As mentioned in earlier blogs, I started going to church with Cheryl - a batshit-crazy offshoot of Mormonism whose first encounter offered a transexual speaker. And I say that with love. The services I attended in the time that followed were always a blast - both funny and spiritual - a strange combination of Catholic ritual and uncomfortable scenes from Big Love. I liked to go on potluck days, not because of the food, but more to watch the congregation's social interaction after the formality of church service was dropped. These people were delightful. They genuinely cared about each other. It was during these Sundays when I saw Cheryl as she really was - happy, playful, a young woman in an older woman's body. Happiness, I realized, could be found without drugs. A few antidepressants maybe, but alas, the elephant in the room, holding a Manhattan in its trunk...
John, Me, and James I recently told a friend about my terrifying experience of getting an HIV test in 2008. I'll spare the lurid details, though I will say that I had good reason for concern; I'd done something dangerous during a night of heavy drinking in 2005, and it had taken three solid years to overcome the anxiety surrounding it. Denial is a powerful force, made stronger when both addiction and depression intertwine like yin & yang. I completely fell apart during the 24 hours it took to learn my test results, but in true writer's fashion I channeled that terror into a brilliant query letter. It's opening sentence was, "So, I'm sitting here shaking...waiting for the results of my HIV test." That query succeeded in getting me read by a publisher, but even that success was in itself, a wicked example of denial.
Denial is a chilling defense-mechanism, especially when it evolves into its own form of dysthymia. I genuinely believe that denial is the root of addiction - whether addiction to substance, or addiction to depression - and it grows beneath the surface like a cancer of the subconscious, making behavior that would scare the hell out of most seem normal to an addict. Again, I'll spare the details...the blackouts, the hangovers, the waking up on an unfamiliar floor in an unfamiliar place. But what I will share is that after spending 14 years writing a book that I thought was a study in depression & mental illness, what I ended up doing was putting my denial system on paper...begging the reader to read between the lines, and to say out loud the words I couldn't say myself: Please help me. Ultimately, when those words finally came, it was as magical of a moment as a stormy night on the porch.
Denial is a chilling defense-mechanism, especially when it evolves into its own form of dysthymia. I genuinely believe that denial is the root of addiction - whether addiction to substance, or addiction to depression - and it grows beneath the surface like a cancer of the subconscious, making behavior that would scare the hell out of most seem normal to an addict. Again, I'll spare the details...the blackouts, the hangovers, the waking up on an unfamiliar floor in an unfamiliar place. But what I will share is that after spending 14 years writing a book that I thought was a study in depression & mental illness, what I ended up doing was putting my denial system on paper...begging the reader to read between the lines, and to say out loud the words I couldn't say myself: Please help me. Ultimately, when those words finally came, it was as magical of a moment as a stormy night on the porch.
John, Radar, and James After four months of being roommates, Radar & I hit the "best friend" mark this past weekend. We're both middle aged oddballs, gay men with pasts, freaky-creative in our own individual ways, and it's hard not to think that we each needed to meet the other at exactly the moment we did. Back in April, after an exhaustive 6-month roommate search on my part, Radar pulled up on his motorcycle to sign the lease and get a set of keys. What would normally have been an exciting moment for me was overshadowed by news I had gotten barely 20 minutes earlier: Cheryl had passed away, just three days after we'd spent the evening together. I was so lost in my head, I barely remember Radar's visit; I had been drinking the night before, and was on the verge of a bender with the news of Cheryl's death.
After Radar left (he didn't move in formally until a few days later), I sat alone on my living room couch, my mind as fuzzy as television static. I couldn't move. I couldn't cry. I couldn't even drink. My denial system - normally effortless - had absolutely no way to rationalize what I was feeling at that moment. There was grief, for sure - but also something bigger than that. The madness of drinking, the madness of depression, the madness of doing the same thing over and over and over again...something inside me snapped. I knew in my heart that if I didn't make the right decision at that very moment, I'd never write another book - and my life would have been for nothing.
So many alcoholics have gut-wrenching stories about how addiction ruined their lives, alienating friends & family. I have those stories myself, and I'll likely share them as appropriate; for now, I'm just putting the topic on the table...and formally changing the direction of this blog.
I'm not one of those dry-drunks who inflicts his recovery like a zealot witnessing Jesus. I'll share if asked - and my experience and thoughts in/post rehab are definitely incorporated into the plot of my next book - but I'll never be a man who wears recovery like a badge, or finds a way to work sobriety into every conversation. What I do want to share however, is the key to success in my own recovery has been the dogged, relentless pursuit of joy. In my 25 years of drinking, on the countless nights spent drowning in an ocean of Canadian Club, I was searching for a "human connection" - for the joy I saw within the lives of others. "Why is everyone else so damn happy?" I'd wondered. "What's the secret? Why does happiness come so easy for most people?" Social anxiety I've since learned was a big reason for my own struggle, but it wasn't the only reason...and drinking - itself a life-threatening issue - wasn't the only reason, either.
I've come to the conclusion that many of us are afraid of happiness, and showing our "real selves" to others. Society has trained us to doubt nearly everything we do, and it shouldn't take a Trump to call the obvious to our attention. We hide our insecurities behind our work faces, our friend faces, and our puffy, red intoxicated faces. It seems like we do everything possible to avoid connecting with other people - as mentioned in the documentary: Steve Jobs: The Man in the Machine. But avoiding others is where we screw up - and people prone to substance abuse screw up badly.
Joy is what matters, what really, really matters...and the pursuit of joy is how I've chosen to live the rest of my life.
After Radar left (he didn't move in formally until a few days later), I sat alone on my living room couch, my mind as fuzzy as television static. I couldn't move. I couldn't cry. I couldn't even drink. My denial system - normally effortless - had absolutely no way to rationalize what I was feeling at that moment. There was grief, for sure - but also something bigger than that. The madness of drinking, the madness of depression, the madness of doing the same thing over and over and over again...something inside me snapped. I knew in my heart that if I didn't make the right decision at that very moment, I'd never write another book - and my life would have been for nothing.
So many alcoholics have gut-wrenching stories about how addiction ruined their lives, alienating friends & family. I have those stories myself, and I'll likely share them as appropriate; for now, I'm just putting the topic on the table...and formally changing the direction of this blog.
I'm not one of those dry-drunks who inflicts his recovery like a zealot witnessing Jesus. I'll share if asked - and my experience and thoughts in/post rehab are definitely incorporated into the plot of my next book - but I'll never be a man who wears recovery like a badge, or finds a way to work sobriety into every conversation. What I do want to share however, is the key to success in my own recovery has been the dogged, relentless pursuit of joy. In my 25 years of drinking, on the countless nights spent drowning in an ocean of Canadian Club, I was searching for a "human connection" - for the joy I saw within the lives of others. "Why is everyone else so damn happy?" I'd wondered. "What's the secret? Why does happiness come so easy for most people?" Social anxiety I've since learned was a big reason for my own struggle, but it wasn't the only reason...and drinking - itself a life-threatening issue - wasn't the only reason, either.
I've come to the conclusion that many of us are afraid of happiness, and showing our "real selves" to others. Society has trained us to doubt nearly everything we do, and it shouldn't take a Trump to call the obvious to our attention. We hide our insecurities behind our work faces, our friend faces, and our puffy, red intoxicated faces. It seems like we do everything possible to avoid connecting with other people - as mentioned in the documentary: Steve Jobs: The Man in the Machine. But avoiding others is where we screw up - and people prone to substance abuse screw up badly.
Joy is what matters, what really, really matters...and the pursuit of joy is how I've chosen to live the rest of my life.
Chuckling...on a completely unrelated note, on their last full day in Chicago, the Brits went to a gun range, in an effort to experience "real America."
I'm pleased they found some joy in their visit.
I'm pleased they found some joy in their visit.