All in One Post: Therapy, "Losers," Sports Fans, General Health, The Oscars and Some People Don't Like Movies?

Chase Infiniti one of the possible Oscar nominees

One of the great things about therapy is that you get to ramble on for most of fifty minutes. You’ve got things on your mind? You need to let off steam? Go for it. At a twelve step meeting you’ve got a few minutes then you have to listen to other people babble on. My recent return to therapy has been healing in part because I‘ve been able to get so much of my chest. Talking or writing about what’s going on in your life allows you to gain a clearer picture of what’s happening inside your head. You can see the forest for the trees.

Don’t compare your lives to others unless the person in question is a total loser.

Speaking of “losers” our idiot of a president has frequently referred to individuals and groups as “losers.” It makes him sound like a thirteen-year-old but it also raises the question: what exactly is a loser? Is it simply someone who has a different worldview as you? Is it someone who has failed professionally or whose personal life is a mess? Is it someone who was or is demonstrably wrong about some central tenet? Maybe — and hear me out on this — the real losers are the people who use the word as a blanket term for people they disagree with. Ya know, like Trumpy.

Here’s a tip for you sports fan: if you get angry at the result of a sports event you’re doing it wrong. Are you really going to let what a twenty-two—year-old does on an athletic field ruin your day? Your team losing is really something to throw a hissy fit over? You really want to spend time assigning blame? I realize that you’ve put a significant emotional investment in your team’s success. You derive great joy and even pride in your team’s success, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take defeat with equanimity. It really honestly truly is “only a game” a much as it may feel like the most important thing in the world. Save your anger for the really important stuff like what Trumpy is doing to the country and the world. I speak on this topic as an expert having a couple of teams that I “live and die by.” I also watched my usually mellow father blow a gasket when his team would lose. Always confounded me. Sports should relieve stress, not compound it. 

As I write this it’s Friday morning. Always loved Fridays, last day of the work week. Plus on Friday’s I stop at the Coffee Hut across the street from work and get a decaf latte. Delicious. How my life has changed. Decaf coffee and non-alcoholic beer. A far cry from my younger days when I fueled my mornings with regular coffee then by the evening was drinking scotch or martinis or alcoholic beers. On some occasions I’d fortify myself with cocaine. I'd have laughed at the notion of decaf or non alcoholic beverages. 

In my twenties I was drinking and using, had an erratic diet, often got little sleep, sometimes went months without exercise. Yet I usually felt great. Today I miss an hour of sleep and I’m a wreck. Have ice cream after tacos and my tummy is in an uproar. Miss a few turns at the gym and I feel like a fat tub. So I’ve learned to take care of myself. Physical health is easier to maintain — barring serious illness or injury — than mental health. You have the proper diet, get enough sleep and have some form of exercise and you should be physically fine. But to maintain mental health can be a tough one. It’s so damn easy to fall into bad habits. Unconsciously. Stinkin’ thinkin’ it’s called in AA. Here’s a definition: “Coined by Alcoholics Anonymous to describe reverting to old habits, it's now used more broadly in therapy to identify thinking errors such as catastrophizing, overgeneralization, and black-and-white thinking, which can be managed by challenging and reframing these thoughts.” Maintaining mental health is not easy, especially if you have some condition like anxiety, depression, addiction or PTSD. I have them all!

A reminder that Oscar nominations will be announced in the coming weeks and you should — and I can’t stress this enough — by no means take them seriously. Many people watch the Oscars despite having seen only a few movies all year. Many watch without having seen a single film. Remember what George C Scott said about the Oscars:  "(it's a) two-hour meat parade, a public display with contrived suspense for economic reasons." Amen. Better to see a lot of films and skip the stupid show. That is if you love cinema. Speaking of cinema, have you ever met someone who doesn’t watch movies at all? I have too. Very strange. There’s a lot of things I can understand: not following sports, or not going to museums or eschewing nature, even not reading books, but movies? That seems such a universal art form. Between art films, blockbusters, musicals, romcoms, sci-fi, classics, noir, you can’t find anything you like? Strange. Like I said in my last post: it takes all kinds. 

There's Always Another Day -- I Take Another Plunge Into the Murky Waters of Therapy

Did my intake at the Wright Institute. I’m going to be talking to a therapist regularly again. Spent most of the ninety minutes talking about my life. Mentally ill mother, great dad, sports, addiction, happy marriage, children, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, writing, film, books, big mistakes, big laughs, friends who died, pain and joy and confusion and certainty. 

I don’t mind yakking about myself. I’ve been seeing shrinks of various kinds since high school so I’m quite used to it. Good for me. Good for anybody — assuming you’re honest about it. No use bullshitting someone who’s trying to help you. Imagine going to a doctor because of severe pain then omitting information or embellishing. Maybe I’m on the wrong track, maybe 99% of people are perfectly honest with therapists. How the hell would I know? First of all you’ve got to be honest with yourself. Failure to do so will negatively effect the ability of anyone to help you and badly curb your ability to help yourself.

It’s weird recounting my childhood again. I mean the parts about my mother yelling, cursing, stomping her foot, angry at people who aren’t there. Raving like a loon. Okay so weird was the wrong word, it’s exhausting. You live through something like that then you have to spend the rest of your life recounting it. You can never shake the memory and worst of all you can never forget how it made you feel or in some respects how it DIDN’T make you feel. In some ways I was anesthetized to what was going on. It was at once horrifying but also part of the white noise of my misery. It was ever present.

The worst part was coming home. Just before opening the front door Id be wondering if mom was going to be like a regulation mother or a raving lunatic. And if she was doing the whole June Cleaver bit, how long would it last? You never knew when she was going to go off into the deep end again and swim in the murky waters of batshit crazy.

No kid should go through that feeling. For crying out loud this was happening when I was five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, a teenager. 

So I was the ultimate helpless victim. That’s a messed up thing to realize that you had no power in the situation, helpless, like being in the jaws of a huge and powerful beast. 

To my credit I carried on. I made the most of my childhood despite the secret horror that I lived with. Plenty of friends, a loving dad, a vivid imagination (boy did I do a lot of hiding in that) great extended family. Running like hell through fields, being enthralled by books, laughing at stupid TV shows, making up games with my friends. Marveling at sports and the exploits of athletes. Later there were The Beatles and music and girls (what an amazing discovery!). Life was so rich. There was so much to do, so many experiences to have, so much to learn. School actually seemed to get in the way of my education. Feeding me what they wanted me to learn rather than what I craved, what I needed. But school was a great place to meet friends, to get to know people, to understand my fellow travelers. Sometimes teachers would expose us to things worth knowing. They mostly had good hearts. 

But the pain of my childhood followed me when I went off to college. But boy did I have a way to cope. Booze and drugs cured all. The pain was gone and I was sociable and giddy. Yes, of course the cure became nearly as bad as the disease. Problems, complications. My life ended up going in a wide array of destinations all at once. I didn’t know what I had when I had it and I didn’t know where to go, where I’d been or where I was. 

Mental illness, the consequence of my childhood or a nasty combination of both?

Anyway I’ve struggled through. Loving wife, AA, great children. Good friends. Medical professionals. 

Still have nasty scars and horrible reminders of what was but I’ve spent a lifetime drowning that pain in good times, worthy endeavors and exploring the endless variety of fascinating questions and mysteries that make up our world.

Depression is still an unwelcome companion, as are obsessive thoughts that do me no good. I’m hoping another stab at therapy will help me feel better. There’s always the next day.

An Unwelcome Review, Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Cigar and On the Waterfront Evokes My Childhood and as a Bonus a Poetry Book is Recommended

From On the Waterfront

I was asked today what I thought of the film 1917. I replied that I had found it entertaining and a technically outstanding film but was not at all moved by the movie which I thought had no emotional impact and too many cliches. (I set a maximum of one cliche per film). The questioner seemed surprised and hastened to point out that the film had garnered a number of awards and was nominated for several others including the Oscar for best picture. “I’m well aware of that,” I responded, perhaps a bit impatiently, “I’m just giving you my opinion, which is what you asked for.” If he wanted me to rhapsodize about 1917 he should have told me so in advance. Or he could have qualified his question by saying, “please, nothing negative.” Maybe when he told me the film was an award-winner he reckoned I’d say, “well damn it, I must be wrong, I guess it’s a fine picture after all.”

Oh well.
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As I’ve discussed at great length on a number of occasions on this blog, I have had life-long struggles with mental illness (mostly my own). I bear no shame in sharing my experiences especially as I am able to proudly point out that I’ve managed to lead not only a normal life, but a rich one that includes a successful marriage and two children. I have been seeing psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors since I was a teenager (and dinosaurs roamed the earth). Last September I terminated my relationship with my latest shrink. This was, as I explained to him, no reflection on him, I thought he was an excellent doctor, but more a result of my belief that I’d gone as far as I could in the process. I occasionally reflect on some of my sessions with this doctor and others and contemplate some of the insights gained and lessons learned. But I recently remembered an occasion that was all too typical of my sessions with this and other members of the psychiatric community. It happened when I discussed my love of running. (Up until last Spring I used to run regularly but had to quit due to irreversible ligament damage. I now rely on other forms of aerobic exercise such as fast walking, the stair master and the elliptical machine.) The doctor speculated that perhaps I was “running away from something.”

Sounds great doesn’t it? Profound even. I’m running physically because I’m mentally — deep in my subconscious — trying to escape something, perhaps a hard truth about my life. But when you break it down it’s a rather sizable load of crap. I ran to stay in good physical condition, I ran to keep the excess pounds off, I ran because it was meditative, I ran for the endorphins. And what might I be running away from? I was in analysis for chrissakes, you don’’t show up once a week and talk about yourself if you’re trying to avoid facing something. You don’t look your past and all the demons that lurk there square in the eye if you don’t want to face something. It was a ridiculous statement, further given the lie by my continuing to vigorously work out even when I couldn’t run. (Maybe when I’m on the stair master I’m trying to climb away from something.) But it is the easy sort of thing that psychiatrists do in order to justify all the time they spend sitting across from you nodding in stoic silence. Head shrinkers are always trying to conjure up connections where they don’t exist. Perhaps, my doctor once suggested, I had a panic attack because of the particular street I was on, never mind that I’ve had panic attacks on many different streets and that I always have them in the early afternoon when facing a bright sun.

I would not discourage anyone from going to a psychiatrist, but I would caution anyone going to a shrink not to let sessions get bogged down by their doctor looking for false equivalencies. It can be a bad misdirection of time. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
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Earlier in the week on this very blog I wrote about watching A Face in the Crowd (1957) directed by that notorious squealer, Elia Kazan. Though I’m no fan of the man I do admire some of his films, none more than On the Waterfront (1954) which I watched that evening. On the Waterfront serves as social commentary and yet has a film noir quality to it. It is also a vehicle for some of the finest acting performances you’ll see in a film, most notably Marlon Brando as Terry Malloy whose character, unlike Kazan in real life, snitches against bad guys to good guys in a good cause.

Because it depicted working class stiffs, the film got me to thinking about my roots. My father was a skilled blue collar worker and a proud member of the carpenter’s union. My nearby uncles included another carpenter and a machinist. My maternal grandfather was a carpenter and in fact virtually every adult I grew up around was in the working class (the women were almost all housewives including my mom). In my house the union was sacrosanct. Unlike the corrupt union that Malloy helped expose, it was always on the level and took care of its members. My dad made enough to support a family of four, own a home and invest. We were never without.

It was a big deal in our world when someone bought a new house or had one built. It was a big deal when someone bought a car or a boat or took a long-distance vacation. These were important events that everyone shared. Of course it was especially significant in my family, extended family and family friends because, like my dad, everyone came from Finland and a hard knock early life (the times they have changed and indeed practically reversed). Great books were not discussed. (Newspaper were thoroughly read, as were a few magazines such as Life and National Geographic). No one went to plays, few adults took in movies and when they did it was never to see an art house film. Philosophical discussions were limited and on a pretty basic level and while everyone was a Christian and many went to church (at least the women did) religion was not discussed. Political issues were bandied about, usually as they directly related to lives. Most everyone was a Democrat and voted the straight ticket though not a lot of our circle went into much depth on most issues. The status quo was not challenged or questioned (excepting Republican presidents, governors etc.) and the Civil Rights Movement was looked at askance as it seemed to be questioning the very systems that had made these immigrants so successful. The Vietnam War was accepted as a necessity since the government said it was.

Most of my contemporaries among the Finnish working class families were good lads and lasses who said “yes sir” did their chores, got passing grades and went into conventional lines of work, eschewing entirely or only having a dalliance with a college education. Then there was me. I was an ingrate and a loud mouth. I loved my dad and all my other relatives but I was not going to toe the line. I not only listened to that crazy new music coming out of England, I believed in it and reveled in it. I embraced the Civil Rights Movement, protested long and loud against the Vietnam War, grew my hair long and didn’t settle for getting drunk, I experimented with drugs. As much as I loved my dad and other older relatives I thought that they were all hopelessly square and unenlightened. They were relics of a dying age and I was the latest and the greatest. I was tolerated first because I was cute, later because I was funny and finally because I was a soccer superstar. It didn't hurt that I was whip smart and despite my bohemian views and ways could still turn on the charm.

I didn’t know how good I had it. I never fully appreciated how my dad let me be who I wanted to be. He may have fought with me over my long hair, he may have bristled at my radical politics, he may have winced at my rock music, but he loved me unconditionally and never denied me anything. I was a spoiled brat.

The working class had it good back then, unions were strong and there was no question but that while the government would take its fair share of taxes said taxes would be invested back into communities and for the general welfare and that the economy would remain robust for everyone. No one needs to tell me -- life long student of history that I am -- that there was vast corruption in those days, the government was supporting heinous actions by the military and the CIA all over the world, that while legal discrimination was being dismantled it was still being practiced — and not just in the South. But there was then a respect for unions and workers and both were proud of themselves and their country and grateful for the well-paid work and benefits packages. The gap between the poor and the obscenely rich was nowhere near what it has become today.

I looked at my dad and other working class stiffs as simple people. I never realized that there can be beauty in simplicity and these hard-working souls were happy — really happy. Their parties, their barbecues, their picnics, their camping trips, fishing trips, hunting trips, frequent visits to all manner of sporting events, their family gatherings and holiday celebrations were a testimony to how greedily they supped from life. They were happy and knew why. That’s plenty right there.
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I've recently been reading -- for the first time -- the poetry of Robert Pinsky. The preceding sentence compels me to add: what the hell took me so long? I'd like to recommend his works and since the particular book I'm reading is Robert Pinsky Selected Poems, I'll recommend it. You can thank me later.
A sample:
When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined
A second sample:
The forgetting I notice most as I get older is really a form of memory
The undergrowth of things unknown to young, that I have forgotten
A Final Sample:
Air an instrument of the tongue,
The tongue an instrument
Of the body, the body
An instrument of spirit
The spirit a being of the air

I Conduct a Second Interview With My Depression and it Goes Well

I got a homework assignment from my psychiatrist. I know, seems presumptuous to me to but then again he is trying to prevent my descent into total madness and I am an obliging fellow so….The assignment is not terribly daunting, I’m to conduct a second interview with my depression. The first, which is here linked, led to some discussion betwixt doctor and I and more such discussion may help stop depression from running rough shod over me as it is want to do. Worth a shot.

Me: Thanks for sitting down with me, again.
D: Not a problem, I’m always around.
Me: I’m going to start with the big question, what do you want out of me?
D: I want you to acknowledge my power. I want you to know and to feel….
Me: For the first time your voice seems to be quavering, as if —
D: It is the magnitude of what I’m saying that —
Me: I don’t think so. You’re bluffing. You don’t know what you want or maybe even what you are.
D: I’m you! I’m in you and I am pervasive!
Me: I've struck a nerve. You’re actually quite vulnerable because you have no purpose, no soul. You’ve got no more intellect than a shark.
D: Do you really think this can work? Do you honestly believe that by putting me down you can weaken me in any way? You’re just throwing words and nonsense at me.
Me: But you’re clearly shaken.
D: That is merely your perception —
Me: Horseshit! You’re scared, your beatable. You’re not the mighty monolithic beast I’ve made you out to be.
D: Tell me something then. Are you feeling any less depressed right now?
Me: Yeah okay I’m still a little depressed, but I also feel hope. You’ve clearly been rattled and I believe you can be taken down.
D: Here’s another question: aren’t you a little bit nervous about what would replace me were you somehow able to banish me?
Me: Happiness or at least contentment….
D: You don’t seem so sure of that.
Me: I’m really just confused by the question. Why should anything replace you, you’ll just be gone.
D: Can I ever really leave?
Me: Now you’re clearly just trying to mess with me, you’ve cleverly changed the tenor of this discussion, besides, I'm supposed to be interviewing you.
D: I’m a formidable opponent.
Me: Let’s get back to the fact that you can’t answer the question regarding your purpose. I think because you’re hollow at the core, you have no self.
D: Nonsense.
Me: No, I don’t think it is. You’re a big bully who goes about trying to intimidate. There’s really nothing to you.
D: Oh there’s something to me, there’s all your pain, all those memories of your mother screaming at you, every mistake you’ve ever made lurks within me. All your dashed hopes, all the roads not taken. I’ve got plenty.
Me: That’s all true but you serve no purpose, you have no end game. There’s nothing for you, nothing for you to gain. You’ve got no destination. No meaning. Yeah, that's it, that's what you lack, meaning.
D: Oh and you do have meaning?
Me: Yes, I’ve got a family, friends, work, writing and many more experiences yet to come. You can make me suffer but you can’t have any of those things. You’re envious, you’ve got nothing.
D: You forget, my dear boy, I’ve got you.
Me: We’ll see for how much longer. I can beat you, I can rid myself of you. I don’t have to put up with you forever. You’re not as powerful as I’d thought because ultimately you have no soul.
D: Tell yourself what you want, but I aim to be here for quite some time and all your bold words can’t change that.
Me: No, but I can change that.
D: I don't think you can.
Me: I certainly aim to try and I've got a powerful new weapon to use against your emptiness. You're going down. I'm sure of it.

A Interview With My Depression

At the suggestion of my psychiatrist I decided to interview my depression to see if I could understand it better. The arrangements were not difficult to make. My depression is never far away and is delighted for any opportunity to visit. What follows is a verbatim transcript of that interview.

Me: First of all depression, thank you for sitting down with me for this conversation.
D: My pleasure.
Me: I’d like to start off by saying, “fuck you!”
D: I understand that and am unfazed by your harshness and vulgarity. Indeed, I rather enjoy it.
Me: So what brings you here, time and time again?
D: I can see where that could be a bit of a poser. Sometimes I feel invited and other times, well frankly I just barge in.
Me: Let’s look those one at a time. How on earth do you ever feel “invited”?
D: It genuinely seems like you want me. I’m not suggesting that you’ve ever said: “come on over” no, it’s much more subtle than that.
Me: Please elaborate.
D: Sometimes there’s an unsettling event in your life such as an argument or confrontation or a disappointment or perhaps bad news, in those cases you open yourself up to me. Your guard is down so its a simple matter to enter.
Me: But why enter at all? Why not just leave me alone?
D: But you’re feeling bad about something, it’s only natural that I show up.
Me: I may be hurt by something, or disappointed or whatever but that does not mean I want or need to go into a full fledged depression.
D: But you’re prone to depression. You’re a vulnerable chap. You take a lot of things in stride but other things knock you off your stride. You’re just waiting to wallow in the pain.
 You may think you don't want me, but part of you does, I believe that.
Me: You do realize that your taking advantage of my pain serves no purpose. It would make far more sense if you just left me alone so that I can work through whatever is bothering me, then get on with being happy.
D: That’s not how I work. I like to plant myself in a host who’s -- like I said before — vulnerable. I revel in your pain. I'm sorry, that may seem harsh but that's just what I am.
Me: You’re just a mean son of a bitch, aren’t you?
D: You don’t really think name-calling is going to have the slightest effect on me? Perhaps I should amend that, I rather like it. The more vitriol you spew my way the more empowered I feel. I live off conflict, animus, discord and failure.
Me: I still don’t get what your motive is, what you get out of this.
D: Come now, I’m depression it is my raison d’être. What the hell did you think? You might as well ask why the wind blows. We do what we do.
Me: This conversation has gotten depressing.
D: Thank you.
Me: Okay, earlier you mentioned barging in when I’m not depressed --
D: Yeah that is fun. I just step right in and bring your mood right on down and sit on it.
Me: That’s especially cruel.
D: You flatter me.
Me: How is it you leave it all? Why don’t you become a permanent fixture if you’re so powerful?
D:  I’ve got my weaknesses too, just like everyone else. For example when you run, those endorphins are toxic to me, I have to get the hell out. Also you sometimes get distracted, -- like when you’re teaching or enjoying a film -- and pay no attention to me. That’s frustrating. Then there’s those meds you take, it’s not easy to ignore them. Oh and those sudden upswings in mood you experience -- my bane -- that can turn into a God awful fight. When you’re mood gets elevated I have to bide my time before returning. There are a lot of complications to keeping a person good and depressed. Some folks are easier than others. Some I can’t get to at all, like your wife.
Me: But aren’t there reasons for depression? Like biological ones?
D: Oh absolutely, that biological weakness is what gives an opening. Some people, such as yourself, are prone to depression. It's no use wasting time on others unless some sort of tragedy befalls them.
Me: What about other factors? My psychiatrist and I have talked about some of the issues that might be plaguing me like age and whether I’ve made good use of my life and my childhood.
D: Those all help. Anything that can get you down I can work with. I can even put thoughts into your head such as the fact you’re still an unpublished novelist. And at your age.
Me: Not funny! So you can send bad thoughts to my brain?
D: Sometimes directly to your subconscious.
Me: Aren’t you afraid that the right meds are going to spell your doom? Or successful work in therapy?
D: That kind of stuff is always a threat. I’d appreciate it if you stopped seeing your doctor and went off all medications.
Me: Like I’d do you a favor.
D: Think of it as a challenge.
Me: It’s challenge enough just living with you. You’re like an uninvited, unwanted roommate who’s only ever away for short periods.
D: That’s a lovely way of putting it.
Me: If you were me, what would you do?
D: You really think I’d help you out?
Me: Think of it as a challenge.
D: Hey, that was my line.
Me: You’ve been of very little help. Just know that I’m going to do everything in my power to kick your ass and keep you out for good.
D: Talk, talk, talk.
Me: Once again, fuck you!

Hi There? Back in What Day? Can You Bake a Pie? Explain a Movie? How Do You Relax?

I thought I'd add these wise words from Marge Simpson.

I got one of those emails asking for money for some worthy cause and it began as follows: “hi there.” I deleted it. They weren’t going to get any money from me anyway as I’ve been charitable enough lately as it is, but usually I hear those letters out. But “hi there” is a deal breaker. I’d literally prefer: “dear human” or “shmuck” or “anonymous person who may have some dough you can send us.” Just not “hi there.” I once worked with a person who “hi there'd" everyone. It was disconcerting. Hi where? Here? Maybe you respond with “and hi over there.”

So you’re probably wondering what kind of a person gets his panties in a bunch over “hi there.” There’s no end to what will irritate me. Like “back in my day.” You had a “day”? Just the one? Or are you referring to a time period? Why isn’t this your “day”? Did I have a “day” too?  I must have missed it. Maybe its coming up. There’s another version of that: “back in the day.” When was “the day.”? Is this not “the day” too? Ya know what I do like? Halcyon days. I want some more of them. I’ve had some and they’re great. I had them back in “my day” which coincided with “the day.” Yeah, back then.

Of course you hear a lot about “the good old days.” White conservative men just love the “good old days.” For many of them those were their “salad days.” What made them great for old white guys was that they were undisputed kings. Women, African Americans, gays, people with disabilities, and other people of color were second class citizens and didn’t kick up a fuss about it — or not much of one anyway. I would love to have a time machine and travel back in time visiting various epochs but as the saying goes: “the past would be a great place to visit but I’d hate to live there.” Ain’t that the truth. Depending upon how far back and where you went you could be dealing with a lot of really awful odors. Showers and baths have not always been readily available nor thought to be healthy. Washers and dryers have not been plentiful until recently, not to mention laundromats. Many rivers and streams, and lakes in urban areas served as sewers and received industrial waste. And of course to spend a lot of time, for example in the US before the 1990s, meant inhaling a helluva lot of second hand tobacco smoke.

Can I share something that has absolutely baffled me my whole life? Well I’m going to anyway. There’s a line from the song Anything You Can Do from the musical Annie Get Your Gun that is as follows:
[Frank:] I can do most anything!
[Annie:] Can you bake a pie?
[Frank:] No.!
[Annie:] Neither can I!
For the whole song the two characters have been asserting that they are superior to the other at doing this or that. This includes such skills as killing a bird and speaking softly (frankly I’m not impressed) then suddenly Annie asks Frank if he can bake a pie. Fortunately for her he can’t. Because she can’t either. So why did she ask? What if he’d said, “why yes, I bake delicious pies.” Then suddenly she’s screwed. That is, unless she lies. Indeed, why doesn’t Frank lie? Because if Annie in fact could bake…You see what I mean? Ludicrous. Yet there it is in the middle of a hokey song from a hokey musical that I wouldn’t watch anyway so what do I care?

Recently on tweeter a well known gentleman asked if someone could please explain the last ten minutes of the recent film, Personal Shopper. I can’t for the life of me understand why someone would want a movie they just watched “explained.” That’s something I need “explained” to me. I saw Personal Shopper two weeks ago and was mystified by the last ten minutes. I was also enchanted, beguiled and amused by it. Someone “explaining” it would be akin to someone telling me why the peach I just ate tasted so good. Saturday night I finally saw Take Shelter 2011 a film which also ends mysteriously. If someone tried to explain it to me I’d sock ‘em in the jaw. Math problems should be explained, new laws need to be explained, computer features have to be explained, but art should be left to wonder at. To savor. To consider. To ponder. When it comes to art, being bemused is one of the most wonderful states I can imagine.

I’m off this week (actually most who know me would contend I’m a little off every week). I love vacations. But they don’t always make me happy. I don’t know how to just enjoy down time. I always feel like I should be doing something. Idling about doing this that and the other, taking naps, scrolling through the internet, feels like I’m wasting valuable time. I’ve got a damn novel to finish. Plenty of reading I can be doing. Languages to study. I get frustrated first with not “achieving” anything, then for being frustrated at being frustrated. I don’t know if it’s a cycle but it is vicious.

I see my psychiatrist today. I’ll probably talk about my difficulty accepting relaxing. Maybe I won't. I never know what I’m going to talk about besides of course updates on my “mental state.” I’m sure we’ll talk meds today. He had me on lamictal and as we were increasing the dose (this med was going to solve everything, by god) I developed an allergic reaction in the form of body wide rash that itched like hell. The rash is finally under control and fading but now the question becomes what — if anything — will replace the lamictal? I’m rooting for something without side effects. Such things do exist. Goodness knows I’ve experienced enough side effects over the past few decades. Lamictal rash effects only 5% of all patients who try it. Aren’t I special?

Hey what am I talking about? I ran nine miles today, finished a poem, finished this blog post, did some chores around the house and will get my head shrunk. This’ll have been a productive day. Tomorrow — the novel.

This is About Right Now, Today, How I've Been, How I Always Have Been

Photo by author

“I planned to suffer and I cannot.” 
-- Anne Sexton

I ran nine miles this morning. Now I’m just sitting in my room unable to do anything. Oh except write this.

I lost my cellphone on Thursday. Got it back on Friday. Now I’m just sitting in my room unable to do anything. Oh except write this.

I had a satisfying work week during which I very much enjoyed my interactions with students. Now I’m just sitting in my room unable to do anything. Oh except write this.

I started to watch a movie then took a nap then got a glass of water then checked twitter. Now I'm here writing this.

I went to a basketball game last night. Watched a movie after.

I’m almost finished reading a book. When I’m done I’ll start another one. I’m probably going to bring some CDs to Amoeba tomorrow to trade in for store credit so I can get some new CDs. Monday I’ll go to work. On workdays I get up at 5:45 then shower then eat breakfast then dress. My wife checks my tie for me to make sure its on straight and the collar on my shirt is okay. After that I kiss her goodbye and walk to the commuter bus. It’s usually a couple of minutes before the bus comes. I get on and sit in my usual spot. Then I read. I’ll sometimes take in the view while going over the bridge into San Francisco.

Once in SF, I walk to the bus that I take to work. I’m usually one of the first there so I end up turning on lights. Typically I have about 30 minutes before my first class. I like to ease into my teaching day. Once that starts I’m all energy, excitement and enthusiasm.

Before returning home I sometimes go to the gym and work out. Other times I swing by the store to buy a few groceries, as needed. On Wednesday I go see my psychiatrist. I sit in the waiting room either reading or looking at twitter on my cell phone. The doctor comes down the stairs, peaks at me giving me a nod and half smile and I follow him to his office. He holds the door open for me and I bound in. I sit down and usually start by telling him if I’ve suffered any depression in the last week. Usually I have. Last week I hadn’t. Next time I’ll have some to report as I’ve been in throes of it since my cellphone went missing. Even its safe return didn’t bring me out of it. Nor did the endorphins from today’s run.

We don’t just talk about depression. There’s usually a number of different topics that come up. Sometimes they’re related to my childhood, specifically my schizophrenic mother. I also talk about my sorted past when I was a practicing addict and alcoholic. I’ve got a lot of good stories. Of course whatever we discuss is meant to get at some deeper truths, to explore my brain and gain access to those things that have tormented me, like panic attacks. Depression, of course, too. I didn’t mention that I’m bipolar. It’s true. I’m fine with it. I’m being treated. Therapy and meds. Therapy and meds. Therapy and meds.

My mind has not always been an easy thing to live with. Anxiety and fear and terror bounce around in my consciousness. I’ve spent most of my life worrying about turning into a lunatic like my mother. Hasn’t happened so far and likely never will.

The good thing is that I’m generally pretty happy. Why shouldn’t I be? Despite my struggles it's a treat to be alive. I’ve enjoyed so much. Like my wife and my daughters and many of my work experiences and sex and food and travels and music and films and books and sports and friends.

I just wish friends didn’t die. One died last month and its hurt quite a bit. I miss him. My best ever friend died in 2002 and I’ll never get over that. He was so young too. My parents and my brother and a couple of other friends and grandparents and uncles and aunts have all died. I miss them terribly. They helped make me a better and happier person than I would have been without them. There was a lot of love between them and I. I guess there still is but when a person is dead it takes on a different form. You can’t touch them. You can’t talk to them. Well, you can, but they can’t talk back.

My wife is making burritos tonight. They’re delicious. She makes them without meat. I’m a pescatarian. That means I eat fish but no other animals. I find meat repulsive. Just like some other things I used to indulge in like cigarettes.

People who stand outside smoking look sad. They’re just practicing an addiction. What can be the joy of it? Sure you can stand outside with your fellow addicts puffing away, but that’s still sad. Why not stand outside and eat an orange instead? They’re cheaper and infinitely better for you. Plus if someone walks by, instead of having to hold their breath to avoid cigarette smoke, they can breath in the odor of an orange.

Until last June I drank coffee in the morning. But after a worst ever panic attack that made me wish for death, I was ordered off coffee by my psychiatrist. I’ve never bothered to ask if it's okay to start again. I really don’t miss it. Plus I have a cup (actually a mug) of black tea every morning. There have been a few times when I’ve been tired and needed a pick-me-up and in those instances I’ve bought a hot chocolate.

I’ve had to quit lots of things in my life. Its okay. I don’t mind depriving myself of something that I’m better off without, like steaks or cocaine or lattes.

So I’m still in my room and having written this I have a sense of accomplishment and feel that I can build on this and do something else. Like maybe finish that book. But first I’ve got to get something to tide me over until dinner. I’m hungry.

Confessions of Rebel With and Without Causes

I don't know what they have to say,
It makes no difference anyway,
Whatever it is, I'm against it.
No matter what it is or who commenced it,
I'm against it.

Your proposition may be good,
But let's have one thing understood,
Whatever it is, I'm against it.
And even when you've changed it or condensed it,
I'm against it. 
-- Groucho Marx in Horsefeathers

I was swimming in public pool one Summer afternoon. I must have been about eight or nine. I was at the deep end. A lifeguard whistled me over to the edge and said that owing to my size and age I needed to swim the width of the pool and back to prove I could handle being in the deep end. I was happy to oblige — show off — and did just as he requested — underwater. I was a good swimmer. Upon completing the appointed task I looked up at the lifeguard anticipating his thumbs up. But no, he said I had to do it “the regular way” which meant the freestyle stroke. Needless to say (I’m saying it anyway) this was ridiculous. If I could swim underwater with ease surely that was sufficient proof that I could handle myself in the deep end. But rules are rules. Again I obliged and made a point of swimming as fast as I could just to show up the stupid bastard.

I was a born rebel and scoffed at society’s conventions as far back as I could remember. Many of my stances have been principled ones that I’d been proud to take. Others were a case of a rebel sans cause, often me just being oppositional. This has sometimes led to trouble (for me). Part of my rebelliousness is that I don’t just go along with the program (as I’ve so often been cautioned to do) but ask questions and see better alternatives. Most kids would have swam conventionally the first time asked and those who didn’t would think nothing of having to comply with the stated rules.

When I was in grammar school we did the pledge of allegiance every morning, hand over heart facing the flag. I never thought this to be a good use of time. I would stand all right, but with my hand at my side without uttering a word. The teacher never noticed. Classmates didn’t care. Even as a wee tyke I saw it as a meaningless rote practice, just as I do the stupid Star Spangled Banner before every sports event. It is the same way that I see group prayers. When a family I’m dining with says grace before dinner I hum the Cal fight song in my head.

Some rules are especially stupid and deserve to be called out. In my twenties I was seeing a psychiatrist at a place that charged on a sliding scale. I qualified for the rock bottom price of a buck a throw with the government picking up the rest of the tab. I’d show up, ramble on about my life and when the 50 minutes was up fork over a one dollar bill. It was peachy. Until I missed an appointment. For a missed appointment I had to pay the full $20. You see, logic. I presented my case to the doc. For showing up and being “treated” I paid a dollar and for not showing up it would cost me $20. We were through the looking glass. I don’t remember how it all worked out but I do know that I never paid that goddamned 20 bucks.

Speaking of shrinks, one of them described me as being provocative. (It’s about the only thing he ever got right about me.) Yeah, I’ve pushed things. I take things as far as they can go and then go one step more before easing up. I’ve done this regularly with employers. It got me in a far amount of trouble when I was a public school teacher. Any rule, policy or directive came along I looked for — and usually found — a flaw. Anything that made bureaucratic sense but was useless or harmful to students or teachers I called bullshit on. I was a pain in the ass.

Once I went into the vice principal’s office and complained about a one-day change of the bell schedule with a proposal that made far more sense (mine was actually logical). The veep shuffled through some papers and muttered under her breath “I knew you were going to be trouble.” The thing was I heard her. But I let it go. So I was trouble. Good. I had a better idea.

As a public school teacher I always had ideas. Its in the nature of teachers to have ideas. At a staff meeting the principal throws out an idea and you will hear a dozen variations. Once something is picked there’ll be another half dozen amendments suggested. Teachers are like that. It’s a pain in the neck for administrators but then again if you’re a teacher without ideas you should go into custodial work. But I had ideas even when they weren’t solicited. Probably some of them were hare-brained but a lot were pretty good. It got so people didn’t want to hear them. I was always stirring the pot.

I’ve mellowed. At my current position I only occasionally ante up my ideas. It’s different working for a corporation. Decisions come from up above (way up) and generally no one has time to indulge one lousy teacher’s ideas. Some of my colleagues tried to be provocative, tried to implement change, tried to fix a broken system and air out their grievances. Amateurs. One of them was leading a staff development session on holding students accountable and he appended it with a searing rebuke of the admin staff, calling them sharks and lauding the previous academic director as a means of discrediting the current one. It was an ambush. It was also purposeless. I couldn’t believe they didn’t fire his ass. But what he’d done was set back any “cause” he had. You want to light into higher ups? Go ahead but bring to the fight something constructive an alternative. Something that will improve things. You don’t just show up half the room. Hell you can get into fistfight with a boss if you do in private. But publicly you mind your p’s and q’s. You can’t just name call and criticize.

I go along to get along a lot more although I still draw lines. Thick lines. Like we’re all supposed to wear name tags. Not me. It’s a stupid rule and I refuse to recognize it. We’re also supposed to wear the company gear on Mondays. I flat out said that unless it comes with tie I’m out. I wear a goddamned tie to work every day but casual Friday and I’ll be pickled in brine before I wear a company shirt. Not big causes but you’ve got to be clear on what you will or won't do. I get away with it  because they like me, they need me. I’m not there to cause trouble but I do have certain standards. So sometimes my stubbornness is a case of adhering to a principle. Sometimes it’s objecting to bureaucratic nonsense and sometimes it’s just me being a jerk. Well, not so much the last one anymore. After all, I’m a grown man.

Dreams, Being a Boy and Depression

I had a dream a few nights ago in which I reluctantly went to see my former psychiatrist, a man who I no longer respect professionally. In the dream his office was re-located to a drafty old building with gaping holes in it and litter strewn about. I sat on a lumpy mattress in the waiting room. I was unhappy about being there but had — for reasons unclear — no alternative. Finally I was summoned by a young lady to the Doctor’s office. I sat down quite far from the doctor as that was the positioning of the chairs in this large room. There was another patient in the room standing talking to the doctor. Another older woman came in who seemed to be the doctor’s assistant. She informed me that there would be two patients in this session. I said I refused to share my session with another person and determined that I would walk out if the other patient was not dismissed. Before that matter was decided the older woman strapped some sort of metal contraption on my head that ran in a circle from chin to top of forehead and back. She produced a drill and said that she would drill into my teeth to test my reaction to pain. She commenced. I protested loudly but the woman carried on. So I removed the device from my head — with great effort — and stormed out of the office shouting invectives at one and all. The entire time the psychiatrist had remained silent.

In another dream I had my brother was alive again. He was in excellent health and attributed his recovery to a cat with magical powers that had been formed out of a small object that had recently landed on Earth and bore magical powers. He presented the cat and it said “no” over and over again in a perfect voice. I tried to get it to say something else but it just gave me a bemused look. It was clear the cat did in fact possess special powers.

*********************************************************************************
Last night I dreamt that I was a kid again and engaging in rock fights. When I was growing up there was always talk of rock fights occurring “somewhere else” involving “other people.” It was presumed that only really bad kids participated in rock fights and injuries of a serious nature were common. We threw rocks “towards” each other a few times but always from a great distance. Depending on how one looks at it we were either too cowardly or too smart to have a real rock fight. Rocks were central to a childhood. They had many uses. Sometimes they were carried for protection should a “gang” approach (gangs never approached). Sometimes they were skipped across lakes. Sometimes they were thrown into the air to measure how far or high one could toss them. Sometimes they were studied and wondered upon as they might be thousands of years old and had been trod upon by famous historical figures. If in a particular shape they might be considered to have been employed as tools or weapons by “Indians.” Rocks could also be collected and piled together to later be knocked about. Part of being a boy was breaking things and that could require making the thing that was to be broken.

Activities engaged in by boys could be pretty damn stupid. This of course included ringing door bells and then running like the wind. When indoors one could always make prank calls. I sometimes called numbers at random and pretended to be a little boy looking for his mommy and asserting that this was the number she left for me and sobbing that I didn’t know what to do. This gambit was only attempted if the phone was answered by a woman. Once Mark Norman and I stuffed a mailbox with dirt clods. We loved dirt clods. They could be smashed on sidewalks or against walls.

I used to do a lot of tree climbing when I was a kid. We had both a walnut tree and redwood tree in our backyard. I could only access the lower branches of the redwood by climbing on the roof of my treehouse. This I did. I would climb to heights that would make me dizzy just to look at today. I never once worried about falling and doubt I ever came close to doing so. Trees and bushes also served as excellent sets for playing “army.” There my friends and I or just me alone could pretend to be doing battle in World War II. Actually I didn’t rely solely on outdoor “sets” to pretend to be a soldier in battle. I could just as easily do it on the living room sofa or even on my bed. I was adept at making the sounds of different weapons. I had noises for machine guns, rifles, pistols and cannons. We had a lot of fun as kids and managed it without a computer screen. We did, however, require and employ fertile imaginations. I hope kids today get to use theirs.

*********************************************************************************
Imagine having a persistent and awful physical pain. The doctor prescribes some medication and says it may be awhile before it takes effect and we’ll check in two weeks hence. A week and half later the pain is only a little better.

That’s what depression can be like. It’s goddamned awful, though you can sometimes distract yourself from it, sometimes by writing — if you can get started. There are several activities that will distract you from the pain but starting them isn’t always so easy. Work does the trick (at least my line which is teaching) and because I have to do it there’s no question about getting started. But in other cases it’s not so easy. Watching a comedy on TV can help but sometimes you just hold the remote control in your hand and stare glumly into nothing as a family member tries to encourage you to turn the blasted TV on. I'm under the assumption that some day I'll be free of depression although when the depression is really bad a future without it seems an impossibility.

The Psychiatric Patient Who Was Visited By Ghosts

“Is it true, Dr. Stern, that itchy skin may be the result of stress?”

“Jack, I think it best that we focus on your belief that you are seeing and speaking with ghosts.”


“Okay but it’s not, as you call it, a belief, it's a fact. Look doctor, I know it sounds strange and I wouldn’t have believed such a thing possible as recently as last month, but I know with all certainty that I am talking to the ghosts of friends and relatives who have been dead for as long as a dozen years. It’s a fact. Not a belief.”

Jack was exasperated. He didn’t see the point in discussing his recent visitations if his psychiatrist doubted him, just as everyone else did.

For his part Dr. Stern was beginning to have serious doubts as to the sanity of his patient and was pondering, among other things, a change in medications.

Jack looked out the window. The view from the window was totally obscured by a massive tree. This was the first psychiatrist office Jack had been in -- and he’d been in many --  that had a window with any sort of view at all, if one considered the branches of a tree a view. Still Jack looked at the branches. He very much thought that he’d like to climb the tree. As a youth he was forever climbing trees and having a grand time doing it. If it was fun then, well why shouldn’t it be now, Jack wondered.

Dr. Stern noted that Jack’s attention was directed toward the window. The psychiatrist cursed himself for forgetting to draw the curtains before the session (it was his first of the day). It was hardly the type of mistake one would expect from a doctor with his many years experience. Dr. Stern had been treating patients for almost 30 years. In that time he’d had many different types of patients. Some had serious problems. Most were just dealing with anxiety or mild depression or a phobia. He’d lost one patient to a suicide and a few had been institutionalized for short times. The overwhelming majority, however, led normal lives and had benefitted from their time with Dr. Stern. Yet he’d never had a patient quite like Jack, a man who came in for treatment for panic attacks and depression and was now claiming to see and talk to ghosts. Ghosts that looked perfectly human.

“Who has ‘visited’ you since our last session, Jack?”

Jack heard the question as if far from away. He felt like he was in a dream hearing someone who was awake speak to him. The patient finally turned his gaze away from the tree and back to his doctor.

“My brother, Bob came yesterday. As big as life. He looked just like he did in his mid 20s when he really had the world by the tail. Bob was going places and doing things and was quite the cocksman. Yessiree those were Bob’s salad days. It wasn’t until his 30s that Bob really hit the skids. He looked fine when I saw him yesterday. Healthy and sharp too. Really articulate.”

“What was your conversation like?”

“Oh we just talked about life in general. You know the funny way things turn out and how plans never seem to pan out and how people change and you can never predict the future.”

“Did you or Bob do most of the talking?

“Oh it was even Steven. That’s usually the way it was when Bob and I talked before he died, expect towards the end when he wasn’t his old self and wasn’t much for talking. But like I said, Bob yesterday was in his prime.”

“Why do you suppose Bob made this appearance in your life?”

“Just to chat, I think. There was really nothing specific.”

“But surely someone coming from the afterlife to visit a living relative must have a purpose.” Dr. Stern realized that he was essentially humoring his patient but it was in the pursuit of a bigger truth.

“Yeah, I see your point.” Jack started to say more but couldn’t find the words or even the thought. He felt stuck. Like God had hit the pause button on him.

“Previously your father and two of your friends and a cousin have spoken to you. All deceased. Why now? Why are the dead talking to you, do you think?”

“Maybe because I’ve been having trouble. You know the things I’m seeing you for. Maybe they want to help in some way.” Jack was impressed. Dr. Stern had snapped him right out of his momentary frozen state and got him talking and thinking. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it. It’s maybe like I’ve sent some distress vibes to heaven, or wherever dead people reside, and they’ve picked it up and have come to help.”

Dr. Stern could tell this was beginning to be one of those times when he helped a patient make a breakthrough. He just had to stick with it and guide the conversation. Fortunately this was a forte of his. The psychiatrist was a humble man with no ego to speak of but he took pride in the service he gave his patients. Jack was a particular challenge but he felt confident.

Jack had stopped talking. He looked into his lap trying to sort out his thoughts.

“Go on, Jack, continue. What’s on your mind?”

“I was just thinking….Why me? I mean there are a lot of people with problems and a lot of them are worse off than me. So how do I rate this special sort of service?”

“Well, what do you think? Maybe you deserve something special. Maybe life has been kind of hard for you these past few years, especially with the attacks and the depression. Aren’t you deserving of special attention?”

“I don’t buy it, doc. There are so many people worse off than me. I just don’t — ya know sometimes I think I’ve imagined the ghosts, I know that’s what you and a lot of other people think. I mean I realize that it all sounds so crazy. But they are as real as this chair I’m sitting in. We really are having conversations, I mean they’re talking to me. I know it.”

“Why do you suppose that sometimes you doubt your own experiences and think that perhaps you’ve imagined them?”


“I guess because I’m trying to force logic and the normal, conventional interpretation of reality into something so extraordinary. I’m doubting the miracle because our culture has real strictures about such things. You’re not supposed to see UFOs either. The weird thing is that believers in astrology are accepted. But if you say you’re seeing the ghosts of friends and relatives it’s a real no-no. People don’t wanna hear about it. Oh some do but they’re the minority and tend to be people on the fringe of society like drug users or ex hippies or the psychotic. I actually kind of wish I hadn’t seen and talked to these ghosts. I’m carrying around a truth that is well outside the norm and like I said people don’t wanna hear about. It’s just that simple. I can talk to you about it but even you must have doubts about my story.” Jack slumped in his chair, sighed and took a sip of water. He looked away hoping that Dr. Stern would soon fill the silence. He didn’t.

Dr. Stern knew when to interject a question or a comment. It was an instinct he’d developed after decades of psychiatry. This was not a time to say anything. His patient had in effect challenged him by stating a belief that the doctor did not believe his accounts of speaking to the deceased. The fact was that Dr. Stern had formed no opinion on the matter as a doctor. He wanted to see how it all played out with Jack. It was important, he knew, to let his patient talk about it as much as possible.

Jack hated the silences in therapy. They made him uncomfortable and felt like a waste of time. He always knew that it was on him to continue talking. That was always the message of the silences.

Finally, “I suppose I shouldn’t worry about what others think of my visitors. I mean why the hell should I care? They’re just talking to me anyway and they only ever appear when I’m alone. And it could be that no one else could hear or see them if they were around. Oh you know this is interesting my father visited me on the weekend. He actually told me that — and this is typical dad — he appreciated how I had mourned his death. It was, he said, an appropriate level and amount of time to grieve. Then he said I ought to stop eating so many potato chips, which I thought was kind of weird. But we mostly talked about when I played baseball as a kid and how he used to be so proud of me and the way I hustled and was such a good teammate. It was nice, actually.”

“Did you say anything to him?”

“Not a lot. I didn’t say anything about the grieving stuff, that was too weird. I did defend my chip consumption. I mean, come on, I don’t eat that much. I also told him how much I appreciated him making time to come to all my ball games and encouraging me. We talked a little about our dog Jacey who we had for like 10 years. Then he was gone.”

“It sounds like you had a nice chat. A little reminiscing and some fatherly advice, however unwanted. How did you feel after?”

“Anytime a dead person visits me I’m a little freaked out for awhile. But then I accept the fact of it and go over the conversation we had and then move on with my day. The thing is though that I don't really feel so comforted by their visits. It's just too weird, too out there. I'm already dealing with panic and depression, this seems to be just piling it on. If these ghosts have come to help me I don't know that it's working."

"But earlier you said this was, I believe the words were, 'a special service' and that they were answering a distress signal." Dr. Stern was concerned that Jack was contradicting himself.

"Yeah I see what you mean. Well I guess the thing is that they mean well and I should take heart from their visits. I do enjoy it and I don't enjoy it. It's weird. If it keeps going on maybe I'll just learn to be happy about it."

"But remember you've had no panic attacks since they started visiting."

"But isn't that just the meds working?"

"Perhaps. Is the depression any less severe?"

"Nah, it's pretty much the same. Should we change or up my meds?"

"Let's give them more time to work. We'll see in a week or two."

"Okay, I guess everything just takes time."

"Speaking of time, ours is up. Next week, same time?"

"Yup." Jack stood up to go. He'd never been satisfied with his visits to psychiatrists, although in the long term he saw their benefits. This had been another okay session. Jack was kind of glad that he didn't mention seeing angels. Maybe next session.

Ever Wonder What it's Like to Visit a Shrink? Wonder No More!

I'm going to give my psychoanalyst one more year, then I'm going to Lourdes. -- Woody Allen

You sit there trying to look casual and relaxed. If you happen to make eye contact with someone there is a very quick exchange of half smiles and then a quick look away. It is quiet. No one would ever dream of saying anything. People look at their cell phones or a magazine or straight ahead. A door opens and one of the therapists, still holding the door knob, looks at a patient, smiles and nods. Maybe the therapist says a first name. The patient gets up quickly as if embarrassed, then follows the therapist.

I make a point not to seem the slightest embarrassed, instead acting as if I’m in the green room of a talk show and have just been told I’m about to be announced. I stride eagerly behind the therapist anxious to unburden myself to this relative stranger, offering all manner of intimate detail about my youth or current state of affairs or anything in between. I sit very casually as if relaxing in front of the television set after a long day of work. I wait for my cue, which usually comes in the form of the question, “so how have you been?” Then I launch into whatever is foremost in my mind. I spew forth until I run out of momentum or until I’m interrupted with a question or a request for clarification.

If I’m seeing a therapist they will offer feedback, questions, or observations. If it is a psychiatrist there are liable to be silences. Long frustrating ones in which I can’t think of what to say or simply need a prompting. I’ve seen all kinds. Some seem to make a practice out of keeping their mouths closed. They regard you as if from afar, appearing to be passing judgment but not sharing it. This can be maddening. On more than one occasion I’ve barked at them, “well, say something!” I got up and walked out on one when I was a teenager. I passed him on the way to the door and he cowered -- evidently fearing that I was about to strike. However, some will talk. These are therapists who actually act concerned.

In most rooms there is the choice between a couch and a chair. I have never opted for the couch. There is a small table or a desk nearby with a handy box of kleenexes. Also accessible is a small trashcan and it often has used tissues in it. I suppose some have been utilized by people with colds or allergies but I further suspect that some patients cry. I’ve never cried. I may have gotten choked up once or twice and had to pause, but no one sees me cry other than my wife. I’m not proud of this, it just is.

There is always a clock clearly visible to the patient and another behind you that the therapist can see. It wouldn’t do for the doctor to be checking a watch or turning a head to find the time. I had one psychiatrist who yawned from time to time — always trying to stifle it and always apologizing for it — and he even left to pee a few times. None of the others have left their post.

For your first visit the therapist takes copious notes. Thereafter their hands are free. Sometimes folded in a lap, other times held in front of them as if in prayer. A psychiatrist will even stroke his chin. They may get a bit glassy-eyed but I’ve never noticed. Their eyes don’t stray. They look at you. I sometimes look straight back but my eyes tend to wander. To recall memories it sometimes necessary for me to tilt my head upwards to the left. When recounting a horror from my childhood I often look down. When talking about anxiety and especially when discussing a panic attack, I’ll fidget, change positions and occasionally work my way into an agitated state.

I love to make people laugh and have been doing since I was a small child and it is quite natural to me. So too during therapy sessions I’ll make quips even in discussing quite painful. Therapists almost never laugh, though sometimes you’ll get a chuckle and often a broad smile.

When your time is just about up (visits are always 50 minutes though you pay for an hour) your therapist will say, “our time is just about up,” and you’ll confirm or decide upon the time of your next appointment. Invariably they will get confused when looking at available times and it will turn out that Tuesday at 7:00 won’t work but there’s an opening Wednesday, how’s 7:30? Sometimes there's payment to discuss. This can be terribly awkward. With medical doctor's any talk about bills is done with someone in reception. To have to sort dollars and cents with the person with whom you have this completely opposite relationship with is weird and wrong. But that, as they say, is the way it is. I've never seen a shrink yet who had anyone else handle payment.

I always get up and say thanks and goodbye. I don’t know if this is par for the course. Once you’re standing the therapist seems anxious for you to leave as if you’re a guest who has long over stayed a visit. If you stupidly make idle chit chat about the weather or something else it is addressed perfunctorily, it is expected that you will be on your way. Once out the door you feel a bit refreshed maybe even rejuvenated. At the very least there is the sense that you’ve done yourself a good deed, that you are a healthier person for having shared the details of your being with another person. Sometimes you will ruminate over what was said and other times you will think of everything but what just transpired. You may or may not mentally re-visit the past 50 minutes later that day or the next.  In any event your subconscious has a lot to mull over and ,as they say in AA, more will be revealed.

If anyone save a very trusted friend or immediate family member happens to ask where you’ve been you simply say, “an appointment" or "the doctor’s.” There is no longer a stigma about seeing someone for mental or emotional issues  but you still don’t tell anyone that you of all people need any kind of such “help.” You’re fine, thanks. Actually you are fine because you are getting help. You’re taking care of yourself and that’s a good feeling.

The Freud Wannabe Will Just Sit There Nodding While You Spill Your Guts -- My Grand Experiences With Psychiatrists

You’re just goddamned well sitting there saying nothing. The other idiot in the room is just looking at you. You know he’s not going to say anything, unless your time is up in which case you’ll get the old, “well I see our time is up for today.” He barely moves for 50 minutes. Maybe once he stifles a yawn. Another time he shifts the weight from one ass cheek to the other. Oh and there could be a leg cross, a later uncross of the leg and then a subsequent recross. I think I saw one of the bastards scratch his beard once but that could be a product of my imagination.

You can rattle on for awhile but eventually you run out of steam. You’ve got nothing to work with. It’s like hitting fungos, it wears you out. If you’ve got someone pitching to you, well, no problem you can whack it all over the place. But you’ve got to supply your own power and that can be brutal after a half an hour of horror stories about your childhood or recounting crippling panic or detailing how just god awful depression feels. Fun.

I refer of course to the hours spent — and I had weeks, months worth of them — sitting in a psychiatrist’s office. I saw my first when I was 16, maybe 15. I kept going and going and going and going. I would sit and talk, sit and talk, sit and talk, sit and talk. They would nod and frown, nod and frown, nod and frown. In later years they were forever trying to push meds. One offered me a prescription when I mentioned that my leg bounced a bit just before dozing off. No kidding. The same quack offered me meds for my hypervigilance. Oh great, more numbing. I’m sure these “doctors” were getting a cut from the pharmaceutical companies. Hey you got kids in private school and your staring down the road toward paying college tuition, why not try to scam your patients into taking some harmless pills? Win/win.

Several of the shrinks I saw wore beards. One had a bust of Freud in his office. Come on, you’re just playing to a stereotype buddy. I had two women although one of them was a counselor. She was maybe my age at the time which was mid 20s and very cute and actually knew so little about what she was doing that she offered sympathy and spoke to me and even made suggestions that went beyond the usual: don’t put a bullet in your head. At the end of my last visit she gave me a hug. If all my doctors were like her I would unequivocally tout the benefits of psychiatry. Course she wasn’t a shrink. She was too good for that. I also have to admit that I sometimes wish I’d asked her out. But that’s a horse of a different color.

I do not mean to imply that all the time I spent in analysis was a waste. Just the overwhelming majority of it. Okay so that’s a little harsh. Certainly I needed to do something and visits to a shrink at the very least made me feel like I was taking control in my life. I was able to explore some of the things going on in my brain and come to some self discovery. But I imagine the same type of process with more feedback and more interaction would have been so much more beneficial. And when I refer to interaction I’m not talking about the constant attempts by my last psychiatrist to try to discuss sports with me. Also some of the meds that they peddled saved me from hysterical lunacy. I was very close to raving in subways and over turning trash cans and screaming about imminent alien invasion.

Psychiatry did nothing to get me off drugs and booze. Indeed one shrink tried to convince me that AA was a sham and that it was possible for me to drink again. I should have shoved a bust of Freud down his throat for that one.

I am a passionate advocate of 12 step programs. Of course 12 step is not a cure all but for anyone who wants to amend their behavior and wants to do it for themselves, it offers a method that is so flexible in application that it is suitable for religious fanatics, atheists, conservatives, liberals, the old, the young, intellectuals and teamsters. You take what you want out of it. Everything is suggested.

Of course most people who are addicts don’t recover whether they try 12 steps or not. Well, that’s life. But a lot of people — a lot of people, a helluva lot of people — have their figurative asses saved by regular attendance at meetings.

But I digressed -- as I am want to do.

Once when I was about 27 and in a particularly bleak period of my life I was seeing this young shrink who I’m pretty sure had just started out in the biz. After I blew his mind with the story of my mother’s brand of crazy and how through most of my childhood she kept it in reserve for me, he got this idea. A wonderful, horrible, simply crazzzzzzy idea. It stemmed from the fact that my “case” was unusual and he was a young up and comer who’d never heard such nonsense. What he did was to arrange to start one of my sessions by bringing me into a room full of his older, wiser colleagues where I would tell my story. So he opens the door to this room and there’s this long oval table with about five or six shrinks sitting around it. Weird. I’m supposed to sit down at the, let us say, head of the table. I look at all these stern faces who are studying me like I’m some sort of lab rat and I can’t think of anything to do so I say, “hi.” None of them so much as nod at me. They instead maintain their stern gazes. So I sit. I’m asked to tell about my childhood. I do. One of the doctors is a woman and I note that she’s the only one betrays the slightest bit of reaction to my story. She seems pained by my recollections, which ,given their nature, seems only natural. The others just continue with the blank stares. When I’m done a few of them question me about my tale of a mother who for so many years only had angry profanity laced arguments with imaginary people when I was around and reverted to normal when others came home. They were clearly calling the entire story into question. I wanted to slap them. Anyway I was soon ushered out of the room. My young doctor assured me that he would consult with the old bastards in order to better help me.

Let me tell you something, that help consisted of the usual sitting there saying nothing bullshit that I had already experienced After a few more weeks I decided that  I wasn’t having it. I 'd had to spill my guts in a room full of doubting thomases so I wanted results. I had the insane notion that help was coming. Not more goddamned sullen nods.

So I ended up getting ticked off and telling the guy I was taking a hike. He practically begged me to continue my sessions. He was adamant that we were getting somewhere (I can’t fucking imagine where he thought we were ever going to get). I told him that I was fed up with all the silence and that I could get the same in a library but at least there I could do some reading. The poor bugger was devastated when I walked out mid session never to return.

It was the second and final time I up and left in the middle of an appointment. Why I never did again is beyond me. When I eventually returned and saw another guy I sat there and accepted the silence. By this time I was on meds and I guess I knew that staging a walk out would cut off my supplies and perhaps leave me eventually sobbing in the fetal position on the sidewalk at midnight. So I stuck it  out. Now I'm on milder gentler barely their meds and my medical doctor does the honor of writing my prescriptions. But like I said it wasn't all a waste. Not by a long shot. A few times someone said something that was useful and they did manage to steer my meandering monologues into directions that proved fruitful. One even referred me for a time to a hypnotherapist and that was -- as they say -- a trip. I got to explore memories almost as if I was in a time machine. This I can recommend.

As for most of the time I spent with shrinks, well it was like I was trying to ride an elevator to nirvana, and could only get as far as Chicago.