Somebody searched “Everything’s not awesome I finally get Radiohead” and landed on my site.
What a rude awakening for that poor soul. Probably just looking for lyrics or something and falls into my pit of drivel and despair. Still — that’s okay, buddy. Plenty of room in the pit of despair for everybody.
I couldn’t quite remember where “the pit of despair” came from in the depths of the ol’ brainpan, so I googled it. Of course — it was The Princess Bride!
And if you don’t know The Princess Bride, what are you even doing with your life?
Interestingly enough, though, when I googled “the pit of despair”, The Princess Bride was only the second thing to come up on the search results. The first was this:
This Pit of Despair was designed and named by Harry Harlow, a man whose name you don’t need to remember except that it actually sounds like a billionaire villain, who studied things like the effects of maternal separation using this device, whose purpose, per Wikipedia, was “to produce an animal model of clinical depression.”
So, thanks Google! I certainly needed the images of monkeys suffering in cages first thing this morning — but I guess that’s what I get for googling the pit of despair.
I’ve been on antidepressants for months now. At the time, shortly after I was prescribed Lexapro, I wrote about the experience, and especially about the odd and slightly disconcerting feeling of not being able to tell if my general good feeling was a genuine good feeling or whether it was the result of the pills. And while that problem hasn’t gone away, I can say it hasn’t really bothered me in the intervening months. (Of course, that, too, falls into the “is it for real or is it the pills” trap, but that’s sort of the point of all this, so…)
I’m going today for an appointment with my doctor because my prescription’s out, and since we’re dealing with mental illness here, it ain’t the kind of thing they want to give you just for calling on the phone. No, they want to see you face-to-face, ask you questions, make sure you’re not contemplating purchasing guns or rope or Herbalife or converting to Scientology or some such crazy crap. Not that I’m afraid or nervous about speaking to them about what’s going on with me. I haven’t had any of the terrible feelings that sent me to the doctor in the first place at all in the time since then. Which is awesome. Life is good.
And because life is good, I’m bullish on thinking that things in general are good. So when I told my wife that my pills were almost out and I had to schedule an appointment and that I was keen to start tapering off the meds toward a goal of getting off them entirely, she gave me the skeptical eyes. And the skeptical eyes from my wife are usually a sign that I need to pump the brakes and think a little harder about what I’m charging into.
“You’re talking about mental illness,” she told me, “and that’s not a thing you just stop taking medication for.”
Which is absolutely right, of course. Intellectually, I know this. Because mental illness is about chemicals, and more importantly, chemical imbalances, and as a result, medication for mental illness is about rectifying chemical imbalance by creating new balance. Taking meds out of the equation, then, is like taking your thumb off the scales — it throws things out of whack again.
But I was doing the classic “crazy person” thing (and I know that crazy is a term that shouldn’t be bandied about when talking about the mentally ill, I use it here only as shorthand) of thinking, “well, I’m fine, so I don’t need those pills anymore.” Like a true red-blooded ‘Murican, my thinking was:
I have this malady.
I took these pills.
Malady appears to have passed.
No need to keep taking the pills.
Because that’s how medication tends to work in any other arena. Got a headache? Take a few Tylenol and lay down for a bit. You don’t take Tylenol for the rest of your life. Just came through surgery? Here, take these pills for the pain until the pills run out.
You get sick or injured or otherwise out of whack, you go to the doctor, they straighten you out, end of story. Close the book on that chapter.
Which is very much how my brain wants to view this issue.
Because that’s the insidious nature of pills that mess with brain chemistry: you can’t really feel them working. You feel “better”, but you don’t know why. Put another way: you have a headache, you take Tylenol, the pain tends to evaporate within a few hours. You have a cut on your arm, you put some ointment and a bandage on it, and a few days later, the cut is gone. Empirical signs of the efficacy of your treatment. With anti-depressants you don’t have that, because the symptoms fade out gradually, like an 80s rock ballad that just repeats the chorus again and again until you change the station. There’s no healed cut to behold, no relief of throbbing pain to point to, just general dread and unease that don’t seem to be hanging over every little thing so much anymore. But could that really be the result of the meds you’re taking? Seems hard to believe. And were things really that bad before? Probably not. Do I really need these pills, then? I should be fine without them.
The medication doesn’t make you feel differently, it makes you perceive differently, and when you alter your perception, you alter everything, including your ability to perceive that your perception has been altered.
In short, as is so often the case, I think my wife may be right, and I may be a bit overzealous about getting off the pills.
Here’s the heart of the struggle, though: I don’t want to need the pills. I sort of have this image of myself that’s, while certainly far from perfect, generally pretty solid. Reliable. Not broken, not malfunctioning, outside perhaps of a relatively benign proclivity for swearing and a running addiction. I shouldn’t, in other words, be the sort of person who has to gulp down a cocktail of pills, tablets, and capsules just to get through the day. I very specifically do not want to be that kind of person. Maybe it’s the tree-hugger I try to pretend doesn’t exist, or the anti-healthcare-monolith conspiracy theorist thinking I can’t quite put out of my head. But I don’t want to need these pills. I want to be normal without them. I should be normal without them.
But then I think about what normal was for the months before I admitted something was amiss and went to the doctor, and here I go into a spin cycle again. Because I don’t want to be that either — going to tears while heading to work in the morning, fighting just to get out of bed in the morning, drifting away from the activities that I once enjoyed (and have been enjoying again since!).
And the choice between becoming that again or popping a tiny little pill every night? That’s not a choice at all. “Wants” and “shoulds” are generally useless — we have to deal with the world we’re presented with, not the world we wish we lived in.
So I’m heading to the doctor in a few hours. I’m going to ask about scaling back on my dosage, because I want to see if I can be okay with less pills before I try to jump back to having no pills at all. But if they think I need to stay where I am, I guess I need to be okay with that, too.
I want to talk about my contributions here of late, partially to make excuses for myself, but also partially to justify myself. And I know, justifications are basically excuses, but I’m coming to understand that what I once thought of as excuses for myself are actually perfectly reasonable and acceptable justifications.
Here’s the critical worry in my mind over the last several months: I’m not writing enough. I’m not! For a guy who fancies himself a writer, I am decidedly not writing enough. A few years ago I was writing every day, bragging about it in more writing here on the blog, churning out short stories almost every weekend … I was capital-W WRITING. And then in the last several months here, not so much. My current novel project is stalled (I’ll circle back to that, but it’s totally mud-stuck and has been for a while), my blog posts have been rarer than Bigfoot sightings, and as for short stories, well, let’s just say I’ve come up short.
The obvious net result of all that is: I’m not writing enough. And I had something of a depressive episode several months ago — which I did write about — that I think must have been triggered, in part, by my feelings about not writing enough. It gets to me. It burns me up. Makes me question myself.
And I know I’m not the only one who thinks that way. Feelings of inadequacy, I wager to say, are rampant in the writing community, if not an understood part of the package. I wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking I’m special for going through it. But I did want to think that I might be special by dint of finding a way to overcome it. (Spoiler alert: I’m not over it yet.)
Which brings me back to those justifications.
I was at work the other day, taking a little break. We (my students and I) had just gotten finished hanging and focusing lights for our spring musical (I have an incredible group of students who always want to give up their time to come down to the theater and help out, and we were working during their lunch periods.) Hanging and focusing is tiresome and tedious work (up the ladder, down the ladder, forgot the wrench, find a burned-out bulb, up to the booth, up the ladder, remove the instrument, down the ladder, replace bulb, up the ladder, re-place instrument, focus, down the ladder, repeat). So they were on the stage listening to some music and I was parked on the backstage sofa just sort of watching and zoning out before heading up to write cues for the show.
And revelation struck, as revelation tends to do, while I was lying there not thinking too clearly or too intently about anything: that this is where my creative energy has been going.
I’m a fairly convinced believer in the school of “you only have so many Fargos to give in a day” (Fargos of course is a stand-in for another F-word I shouldn’t be using as a government employee paid to educate children), and I think that goes double for your Fargos related to creativity. Being creative is hard. At least, I should say, doing something with your creativity is hard (daydreaming is easy). Sitting down to write is hard! Laying down a blog post is hard. Working on a novel is hard. Editing a novel is … well, don’t start.
These things suck up all the creative Fargos. And, well, when I started this writing journey, I was an English teacher. There’s an element of creativity in that, but mostly my job then left my creative Fargos untouched, so I had a lot of them left over.
But my job now? Teaching theater? I’m tapping deep into my creative Fargos just to get through an ordinary day of class, let alone to do work on the musical, or help an actor find their motivation, or coax a design out of a scenic painter, or collaborate with my techs to find the right look for the lights, or work with my props crew to wrestle the bloody plant prop that we’ve fixed five times already but somehow, somehow keeps finding new ways to break. By the end of the day, my creative Fargos are tapped out — and I’m already overdrawn on tomorrow’s balance as well.
Which, here’s where I circle back (finally!) to the point of this post — leaves me utterly exhausted and unmotivated to write. Because I have no Fargos left.
And I was upset with myself about that. (Still am, actually, but I’m getting better.)
But the revelation I had, lying on that couch backstage, had another revelation hidden within it, like the gooey center of a Cadbury’s egg (the caramel kind, not the gross frosting kind, you monsters).
And that revelation is: It’s okay that my creative Fargos are going into my job. In fact, it’s good that I have a job where I get to use my creativity. That’s an enviable spot to be in.
After all, I get to work with young minds, helping them tap into their creativity, helping them find ways to express themselves, giving them the freedom and the safe spaces to explore who they are and how they experience and create art. And that’s pretty Fargoing awesome. And not to take anything away from how awesome that is, but I think it would be selfish of me if I continued to be uptight about spending my creative Fargos in that way.
So I think I have to be okay with maybe not writing as much as I was. Which is not to say that it won’t upset me — it surely will, as critiquing myself is one of my favorite pastimes. But I’ve now got what I feel is a perfectly legitimate excuse — no, a perfect justification for my slackitude, which isn’t slackitude at all.
It’s just a re-distribution of Fargos.
But here’s the other delicious secret: making this realization? Shedding light on this re-distrubition of Fargos? It’s a little like hacking the Matrix.
Because as soon as I made the connection that this is where my creative Fargos has been going, I started finding myself, shockingly, with more creative Fargos. I’m filled with desire to work on my current novel again, whereas for months I dreaded the prospect. I’ve been writing in the mornings again for the last two weeks, pages at a time — writing not fit for human consumption, mind you, but writing nonetheless. And that’s creating even more Fargos.
Overcoming and accepting my hangup with my own productivity has actually opened the gate to more productivity.
Or, viewed from another angle, the roadblock to my creativity was mostly just me thinking there was a roadblock.
The problem, as they say, seems to have been located almost entirely between the ears.
Luckily, that’s a space I seem to have plenty of access to.
We’re out of town and away from computers this week, but I can’t not share this, so I’m posting from my phone, of all things. Blasphemy! My typing speed is hamstrung, but that’s a testament to my shookenness.
I picked up a copy of Dale Carnegie’s How to Stop Worrying and Start Living on the recommendation of Tim Ferriss (thanks to my previous post) and 5 pages in I can already tell this one is a keeper. I’m sharing with you, then, an excerpt from the opening pages.
A few months before he spoke at Yale, Sir William Osler had crossed the Atlantic on a great ocean liner where the captain, standing on the bridge, could press a button and -presto! – there was a clanging of machinery and various parts of the ship were immediately shut off from one another – shut off into watertight compartments.
“Now each one of you,” Dr. Osler said to those Yale students, “is a much more marvelous organization than the great liner, and bound on a longer voyage. What I urge is that you so learn to control the machinery as to live with day-tight compartments as the most certain way to ensure safety on the voyage. Get on the bridge, and see that at least the great bulkheads are in working order. Touch a button and hear, at every level of your life, the iron doors shutting on the Past – the dead yesterdays. Touch another and shut off, with a metal curtain, the Future – the unborn tomorrows. Then you are safe – safe for today! Shut off the past! Let the past bury its dead … shut out the yesterdays which have lighted fools the way to dusty death … the load of tomorrow, added to that of yesterday, carried today, makes the strongest falter. Shut off the future as tightly as the past … the future is today … there is no tomorrow. The day of man’s salvation is now.
Waste of energy, mental distress, nervous worries dog the steps of a man who is anxious about the future … shut close, then, the great fore and aft bulkheads, and prepare to cultivate the habit of a life of ‘day-tight compartments’.”
We – and by we I mean I – carry so much of the weight of yesterday and tomorrow that it gets in the way of today. But the fact is, yesterday is over – whatever will come of it is out of my hands. And tomorrow will come, or it won’t – and very little of that is within my compass either.
Worry over the past or the future, therefore, is worry picked up for its own sake. Maybe think twice before picking up all that baggage.
By terrible, of course, I mean a sign that attempts to communicate a certain message but in practice communicates an entirely different or even antithetical message. The internet is full of them, and I’ll leave it to your own ingenuity to find the ones that tickle your fancy, but there’s nothing quite like coming across one in the wild.
And that’s what I did this week!
We took the sprouts on an overnight trip to Chattanooga for a visit to the aquarium and the discovery museum (weather was predicted to be too nasty for outdoor activities and … it wasn’t, but we had already arranged for indoor stuff so that’s life I guess). It was a great time! Not that I’m suddenly turning travel agent or anything, but I can safely say (and I take no pleasure in this) that these facilities have way more to offer the tourist than the comparable facilities in Atlanta.
More to the point, I also came across some delightfully confusing signage.
I’ve seen this one before, and maybe even commented on it here. (Which is testament both to how long I’ve had this site and how old I’m getting — there’s a vague sense that this thing may have happened, but the memory is so dim and far away it might as well be somebody else’s.) Anyway — this is a sign posted outside a bathroom advertising that there’s a changing table inside, but for all my efforts I can’t see it as anything other than a dude putting a baby on a grill.
“Keep the baby over the center of the coals,” it seems to say. “Check the heat of the grill often and turn the baby to ensure even cooking.”
This one, I … oi. It’s two days later and I’m still breaking my brain trying to properly understand it. First of all, it’s guilty of that perverse advertising oddity where the animal about to be eaten is serenely happy about the entire arrangement. Much like the cow at Milliways in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, our finny little friend here just can’t wait to be filleted. Then there’s the motto, which — I mean, isn’t that a law enforcement slogan? That being said, it’s a lovely double entendre. “We’re going to serve you some fish, but we’re also going to protect them.”
You know. So you can eat them. Happy fish!
A representative from the aquarium actually tweeted me back when I expressed this sentiment, which surprised and impressed me:
So I guess my attempt at twitter humor came up a bit short. On the subject, I won’t at all get into where my head went when I saw that the handle of the Tennessee Aquarium is @TNAquarium. Nope, won’t go there at all, and if your mind didn’t go there with me, then it’s a testament to your character.
Last but not least, there was also this exhibit plaque:
I don’t know what Julie did, but clearly the Aquarium is not having any of it.