• Piles of life

    Like many of my posts, I wrote the lion’s share of this one some time ago. I was inspired to polish and post it by a friend’s recent, much better post.

    Let me tell you a little something you may not know about sinusitis.

    I do not like sinusitis. I do not like it with a nose. I do not like it when it blows. I do not like it in my head. I do not like it lying in a bed.

    It’s been one of those… oh hell, I can’t think of what to call it. “Three month stretch” doesn’t roll off the tongue the way I’d like. I’ve been negotiating a cease-fire with a series of colds/infections since November, but talks have stalled. They’re tricky bastards, I’ll give them that.

    Plus, they have a superior negotiating position. Sudafed doesn’t strike fear in the heart of the common cold… or the uncommon for that matter. As far as they’re concerned, they can just sit back and let the good times roll… until my battered and bruised white blood cells finally catch up. Even then their retreat is more like leisurely packing up after a long vacation, having arranged a late check-out time with the front desk.

    There’s something about being able to feel my heartbeat in my head that keeps me from tickling the keys on my MacBook. Worse, depression has taken something from me it rarely does: the desire to write. The depression has been on more than off the last couple of months. For those of you keeping track, you’ll recognize this as my latest excuse for silence – the disappearance of my words from the internets. For those of you keeping score, I’m afraid I don’t keep track anymore.

    The sleep thing may play a roll too. I better not downplay its role. If you disrespect the sleep thing it’ll come back and bite you in the ass.

    What is the sleep thing?

    The first rule of sleep thing is you don’t talk about sleep thing.

    I’m willing to risk it for you though.

    It turns out my fidgety nature can be explained by a disorder. It’s not just any disorder, but a full blown syndrome. (Yep, another specialist is in business now!) It’s the syndrome with the funny name. It follows a pattern in my life. I have the stupidest sounding form of leukemia (Hairy Cell), and the syndrome least likely to be taken seriously… Restless Leg Syndrome. I feel like my IQ drops 100 points every time I say one of them.

    I know what you’re thinking. “But John, you don’t have 100 points to spare. You do know it’s not possible to have an IQ less than zero, right?”

    Fair enough, but let’s leave the irrelevant or irreverent sidebars to the professionals, ok?

    If Restless Leg Syndrome drew a picture in my mind, it would be a little boy in desperate need of a urinal.

    A funny sounding syndrome is worth at least half a dozen pictures, courtesy of my imagination.

    O.K., I do look like a little boy who has to pee. Laugh it up, fuzz ball.

    My knees bounce so much during the day I think I’ve developed a repetitive motion injury in my foot. I can’t stand or walk for more than twenty minutes before my feet are killing me. Not long after, the pain starts to travel up my legs to my knees and eventually my hips. You should see me after I’ve soldiered through a day at an Orlando theme park (for no one but my kids). If your name isn’t Adam or Beth, it’s best you don’t talk to me. Throw in some sloth (which I’d like to explain away with a lot of things not under my control – making it something not sloth), and you’ve got a dude with little endurance and bad joints.

    I get all of this thirty or so years before I can retire. That’s assuming I’ll ever get to retire, or I aspire to retire. Send this one out on the wire: John don’t mind living his whole life in government quagmire. Admit it: it’s something you admire. But enough of this, I’m beginning to tire.

    I used to drive Cheryl crazy when we were first married. In fact, she’d probably tell you I was a little late with the punctuation in the last sentence (to say nothing of the verb tense). “Would you please stop shaking your foot?!?” I used to hear it all the time. I can but it takes effort. Sometimes effort and sleep don’t mix. You ever notice sometimes trying something makes it less likely you’ll do something. Sometimes I sleep in another room.

    I did a sleep study and they told me I could go early if I wanted to, they had enough data. I was shaking myself out of the normal sleep cycle (without quite waking up all the way) more than once every two minutes. This wasn’t a little leg twitch. This was full body involvement.

    There are folks in New England who shake less taking a dip in the pool during a winter nor’easter (assuming they’ve salted the pool, of course).

    It turns out the medications used to treat depression tend to make RLS worse. But that’s o.k. because the medications they use to treat RLS make my depression worse too. So I don’t take the RLS drugs. I tried anti-convulsants but they did nothing. I tried supplements with varying degrees of success – but nothing I’d consider acceptable. I take several drugs for their off-label works of wonder, but they don’t work entirely either – or at least all night. As an added bonus, they can make you drowsy. I think every medication I take made someone drowsy during a clinical trial.

    I didn’t know this before, but it turns out one of the side effects of poor sleep is also drowsiness.

    Predictably, I’m a bundle of energy.

    I sleep more than I should (sort of), making up for the quality with quantity. However, sometimes depression, anxiety, or the fracking sinusitis keep me awake, or yank me fully awake prematurely. The result is I’m the guy who looks like a lazy slacker, spending his lunch in the car asleep. The next thing you know, our new Tea Party Governor will be holding a press conference at my front bumper, feeling giddy with vindication – exposing the typical government employee for what he is. The anchor person for one of the local newstainment shows will come on next promising snoring at eleven.

    For the last year I’ve been spending a lot of time working from home, more than I meant to when I asked my boss if I could. My concentration has been staggeringly fragile, and the cubicle farm at the “office” feeds the tension headache fairy nicely. In fact, I hear she’s put on a lot of weight recently.

    I’ll bet you thought fairies always brought you good stuff.

    Over the last few years I’ve done the Family Medical Leave Act drill a couple of times, more for the protection than actually taking leave – and definitely NOT for taking unpaid leave. (We proud American liberals had to work really hard to gain the right to take unpaid leave when we’re really sick or pregnant.) I often wonder if I’ve worked myself right out of folks’ respect. There was a time when I was a bit of a golden boy, the fair haired child. Now I’m the guy who can’t be troubled to stay in the office for eight hours in a day. I’ve become the guy you can’t rely on for meetings, work groups, or special projects. Occasionally I overhear conversations… folks wondering why someone who can’t work in the office can work at home.

    Please excuse me for feeling sorry for myself, but a part of me mourns what feels like a terrible loss: my credibility.

    Then I got sick for a few months this year.

    I try to set all of it aside. “I am relatively lucky,” is my mantra. I have a job, one that accommodates my quirks. That itself is a HUGE blessing. I have a wife who puts up with me, most of the time. I have an idea what it’s like to be in her position… worse even. I grew up with my mother. I know it’s not easy. Somehow I’ve managed to help raise a special needs child to the brink of adulthood, though folks often say the brink is the most challenging part. I have a brilliant son who seems to make fast friends with almost everyone. I just wish he’d use less of his brilliance trying to manipulate his parents and playing the angles. Sometimes it feels like we’re raising the world’s best grifter.

    And I have you, who ever you are. I can’t fathom why you’d ever come back, but I appreciate it more than you know. You care enough to come, time after time, subjecting yourself to this. It’s a heart warming thought.

    One of my biggest fears growing up was I’d be alone. I don’t think it was an unreasonable fear – being an aloof, shy kid. Sometimes I think expectations are the biggest threat to good mental health, but in this one case I think it’s worked out quite nicely. I’m not surrounded by a throng of admirers everywhere I go. I don’t even have a lot of friends. But most importantly, I know I’m not alone. I may be a lot of things, but I’m definitely not alone.

    As for the day to day, mundane things in life, I try to embrace them, to treat them like they are not mundane. I say try because I often fail. It wasn’t always like this. That’s what I cling to: memories of enjoying a chore like laundry with my kids. Not every minute can be Christmas morning opening presents, but you can find a little joy in little things done well.

    As for the small problems in life, I try to keep them small. It’s an issue of perception, right?

    What ever it is, I’m doing something wrong. Maybe it’s a matter of focus. I do some things right. Somethings I even do well.

    I’d like to remember what it feels like to appreciate those things.

  • Don’t mess with time

    The clock is cruel.

    3:41 a.m.

    Apparently it’s never heard of the saying, “if you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all.”

    I am awake, craving a protein bar of all things.

    However, just when I think I’m too alert to sleep, I look at the screen and find three pages of the letter n. Why n? It’s not even on the home row of keys. I fear the world will never know.

    A protein bar waits.

  • Success or failure?

    It may seem I’ve been gone for a while, but it’s not true. I’ve been here and there. I’ve just been invisible for a while. You would think I was agonizing over a feature article for the newspaper. I have two or three posts in the queue (not counting countless, abandoned ones) that are “mostly done” but I can’t bring myself to finish/post. You’ve already heard me moan about one of them so I’ll move on.

    It brings me to another subject I think about from time to time: what is success? I’m thinking in terms of a whole life lived rather than individual events, a single aspect of someone’s life, or a few blog posts sitting unfinished.

    How much of success (so far as it can be defined, measured, or evaluated) is subjective? If we assume much of it is subjective – and I would posit it most assuredly is, how much can we attribute other people’s perceptions placed upon us and our own, independent conclusions? Like most things, I think it’s a combination. We have the capacity to think for ourselves, but our values and beliefs are inevitably shaped by those close to us, particularly when we’re young.

    There’s a problem lurking in there, preying on the joy in our lives, and part of it is the concept of potential. You know the equation: if life minus potential is greater then zero then you’re a success! Congratulations! Potential is a quality we’re sure exists, in varying quantities, pertaining to multiple qualities, but is it really only a guess? I don’t mean to argue there’s no such thing, or it’s a creation of someone’s imagination or wishful thinking. Sometimes part of it is based on measurable attributes. Sometimes it’s an educated guess based on a great deal of experience. However, sometimes a guess is still just a guess. If the perception of our potential is propped up my such a guess, it’s a guess that has a profound impact on our perception of success, our feelings of self-worth, and often our mental health.

    We live our lives, some of us meeting or exceeding these expectations created by the perception of potential, and some of us not. But either way, do we feel successful? If we merely meet our potential aren’t we just meeting expectations? We’re a culture of “more.” Enough never is. Excess is our culture’s idea of enough. If we merely meet, or heaven forbid – fall short of these expectations – is it possible we sometimes (perhaps even often) suffer disappointment at the hands of a guess that was wrong?

    We can’t forget the 800 pound gorilla in the room – the one I left behind the closed door of potential a while back: what is success? Hell, what goes in the recipe? Money, marriage, fertility, social status, professional status… they all weigh heavily on the scale. But what of happiness? Where does happiness go on the shopping list? Can we use a substitute, as if we’re swapping margarine for butter?

    Happiness is at the top of my list. I accept no substitutes. I was brought up that way and it stuck (damn nurture). For a long time potential was not part of the equation. I saw myself as an average student, if not a bit slow during my early years in school. I didn’t see potential in myself (which I’ll admit is a sorry state), and a couple fourth grade teachers agreed with me. Eventually standardized testing, my mother’s advocacy, a guidance counselor, other teachers, grades – and the grand-daddy of them all: other people’s perceptions and expectations, tried to cure me of my feelings of inferiority.

    But an odd thing happened on the road to having potential: rather than feeling liberated, believing the world truly was my oyster, I felt burdened by a yoke. I tried to hang on to happiness but I put pressure on myself. How exactly was I going to use this potential? Where did I start, let alone end up? What would be my major in college? What would I do for a career? Would it earn me a living? I thought about all of the financial responsibilities my father had, about the day to day expenses: food, shelter, the various forms of insurance, auto loans, and on and on. I though about the huge responsibilities of being a parent, both social and financial. Potential brought possibilities, but those possibilities also brought responsibilities. I felt crushed by it all, and with the benefit of hindsight I see it was the impetus for one of my early bouts with major depression.

    I was in seventh grade. I was a fucked up, lazy seventh grader. Some might even say I’m still a little lazy, if not fucked up.

    My buddy potential drifted down with me into depression a few times before I graduated from college. However, it turned out potential wasn’t an imaginary friend, and instead of being a burden it was a blessing. I found a job after three months of looking in a bad economy and only two serious interviews (plus one follow-up interview with the director where I was hired). I didn’t look back. My boss told me I was the best counselor or case manager she’d ever hired when I left. She was the kind of boss who never praised anyone for anything the entire time I was there. Of course it could have been inconsequential BS as I was heading out the door, but she did give me a REALLY good reference.

    Since then I’ve worked in government, where I’ve received several awards sponsored by a conservative, government watch-dog group (Florida Tax Watch), for things I’ve done which have increased productivity in my department statewide. I’ve been actively recruited to work in the state capital. I’ve been encouraged to go to law school by various folks (including some in the court system) because my knowledge, arguments, and attention to details were superior to some seasoned attorneys. I’ve been asked countless times to apply* for promotions to management. Several times I’ve given them serious consideration, but they didn’t pass my test. Will I be happy, and by extension, will it make my family happier?

    (*Many promotions are not selected by management or human resources personnel in Florida government like other organizations. They’re applied for like a new hire off the street, in a process not unlike a standardized test, where the people doing the “picking” don’t always get who they want. However, I’ve gotten every promotion I’ve applied/competed for.)

    Some would say I turned them down because I fear change. I can’t deny it without reservation, but I do know my job has changed radically several times without causing any fear or anxiety. In fact, I’ve usually been the calm, reassuring member of the group.

    In many ways, including the one most important to me, I’ve been a success on the career front. You rarely hear me complain about work. You may hear me complain about politics, and decisions made by politicians regarding government in general, and my department in particular at times, but almost never about my job or its effect on me. I like what I do. It gives me a sense of purpose, and I’m pretty good at it and all of its nuances. I have a drawer and an overhead cabinet full of awards and certificates that tell me so.

    You know there HAS to be a but in here. I don’t usually discuss psychology without a little personal application, and I certainly don’t promote myself without reservation. One might even say all of this sounds a little like I’m compensating.

    Here’s where it all boils down. Finally, you’re saying to yourself.

    I feel like I made a deal with Cheryl when we were married. It wasn’t explicit like a marriage vow, or even something we discussed. She knew me as a senior in high school, coasting through my last year with an acceptance letter from UF. She dated me as a college student, the guy who she never saw studying, who always had time to ride his bike across north-central Florida… who always got straight As. If there was a measure for potential, some of my measurements looked pretty good. This was the guy she married.

    I was by no means perfect. I was still spectacularly shy. I took all of those long bike rides alone. She nurtured me through one of those bouts of major depression. She also knew what gene pool I swam in: really sharp father (perhaps brilliant and at the top of his field), and really odd mother (to put it politely). Still, she married a guy with potential.

    This is where my guilt resides. I feel like I didn’t hold up my end of the deal. If you compare potential with the current product, I’ve failed by many (if not most) tangible measures. She makes more money than me, but she deserves it – though I’d argue at least part of it’s because society values law enforcement more than social services. What does that say about us? We value punishment and retribution thinly veiled as “justice” over helping those less fortunate than ourselves.

    But I digress.

    So here I am. Success or failure? Is the distinction important? Is happiness enough? I’ve been depressed so often the last few years I’m not even especially happy, though it may not have anything to do with success or failure in life. It may be a heaping helping of nature dragging me down to depression’s door. You know what? It’s not fair. Things I do at work bring me genuine joy. (As if there’s another kind.) My kids and my family do the same. At times my heart overflows with the rewards of the life I’ve made for myself. At other times it feels like a heavy cloak masking everything that brings joy, more like something heavy inflicting blunt trauma. However, then it feels more generalized, without a specific cause. No, that’s not completely true. There is one common thread – one specific cause for turmoil. I feel like I’ve failed my wife. I feel like my wife deserves better, like I tricked her by dangling potential in front of her eyes, pulling a bait and switch.

    If success is subjective and tailored to our own specific needs and wants, then maybe I’m asking the wrong question or concentrating on the wrong pattern of facts. Maybe all of this suggests the real problem lies in the fact that I feel the need to ask a question at all. No, that can’t be it. Shouldn’t there always be room for questions?

    God, I wish I knew. If you’re listening, I don’t even really need to know. If I could just step off the merry-go-round of dumb questions I think I might be able to figure the rest out.