"I'm not too big on parties
Never know what to say
And everywhere I stand
I seem to be in somebody's way
Well, I don't mind conversation
Or a friendly chat
But to stand alone in a crowded room
I'm not too big on that"
Never know what to say
And everywhere I stand
I seem to be in somebody's way
Well, I don't mind conversation
Or a friendly chat
But to stand alone in a crowded room
I'm not too big on that"
Grab a tea. Get comfortable. Buckle up. This will be a long read. It was a long write.
This is that one where I'm going to write about a few of those things. Those things are things I sometimes talk about with close friends. Those things are things I've alluded to or danced around in my writing in the past, and addressed head on once or twice but usually not in too much detail. What exactly are those things? Well, that's actually bit hard to say.
I'm writing about the way certain things happen in my head, nowadays and in the past. But I'm hesitant to put particular names on those things, because I'd be choosing words I'm not sure I truly understand. I am someone who adamantly clings to precision, and I've never had any sort of clinical diagnosis for any aspects of the mental states of which I will be writing. In fact, I've never been tested for any of these things and I've never spoken with doctors about these things with the exception of the frequent insomnia that troubled me throughout my teens, 20s, and 30s. But know that my reluctance to put names on those things isn't because I feel embarrassed by them (though that was true when I was younger). These days, if I felt shame over them, I certainly wouldn't be putting them out there in writing for the rest of the world to see, would I? Rather, I suspect it might be irresponsible of me to invoke particular words for those things without ever having seen a professional and had them put so fine a point on it. And out of respect for those who have been to professionals, and been diagnosed with... well... things, I've no desire to diminish anyone else's experience in any way, or to "stake claim" to anything not mine, so to speak.
Let me also be explicitly clear about something important: I'm generally a pretty happy person these days. I count my blessings. I enjoy my life. I've a lot to be positive about these days. And I appreciate that, and precisely because it wasn't always like that. Most of these things don't happen much any more, and when they do I recognize them, employ one or more coping mechanisms I've developed through experience, and do what I need to to go about my day. I've gotten very good at this (I'd like to think), and so they're mostly just "little foibles" to me now. Liza-Ann sees and knows me enough to know when I'm inexplicably "off", but I imagine with most other people I've gotten so good at hiding it, you probably never even notice. I could be wrong, but if so, don't feel like you can't tell me. I'd rather know. Then we're both on the same page.
So I'm writing today not to exorcise any demons of my own, but for two other reasons: First, because I know there are some people in my life (my partner, in particular) who have never had some of the experiences I'm about to describe, and I'm hoping to make it a little easier for those people to understand those of us who do. Second, in honour of Bell's "Let's Talk", I'm publishing this when I am in the hopes that those who do have similar experiences will know they're not alone, and this may help further the conversation around mental health. I want readers to feel a sense of hope, if that's possible, because I feel like I've overcome a lot, and arrived somewhere good, and maybe anyone with similar experiences will feel they can too. If we're really lucky, maybe something in the ways I deal with my things is worth trying for someone else. I wish these were things I could have spoken more candidly about when I was younger. Regardless, I'm glad I can now.
Much of what I'm about to describe won't make logical sense. If you know me, you know I'm an exceedingly logical, thoughtful, (over) analytical person. Yet much of it won't make sense. If I could make it make sense, I would. Trust me, I've tried. Every time these things happen, I try again. And for someone who's never had these experiences, that's the hardest part. You see someone struggling, the compassion in you swells, and you try to apply logic to help them 'sort their problem'. But if simple logic would have fixed it, they'd have figured it out on their own long ago. That you do this is, of course, the logical response. Indeed, in spite of the fact that I can relate to some of these experiences in others, I still immediately jump to trying to apply the same useless logic arguments. ("But what do you have to be sad about?" Nothing, yet I'm still incredibly sad. THAT... is the real problem.) And then I mentally scold myself for it, because I should know better.
Sometimes the problem isn't rational, it's chemical. Maybe it's hormones. Maybe it's something cross-wired in a brain. Maybe it's something I ate. I don't know. I wish I knew. I don't. I know the symptoms. I don't know the cause. And I know what does and doesn't work for me. That's all I can provide. Honestly, I'm not truly sure if these things even qualify as things, now or in the past. Maybe they're just "facts of life". What do I know? But I'll put them out there anyway. Do with them what you will.
So, with that ridiculously large preamble out of the way...
The Worst Thing: Sometimes I haz a very bad sad
During my youth, I experienced a great deal of sadness. Given the circumstances of my life at the time (and yes, I know I had many things to be thankful for as well), growing up watching my mother's health and mobility spiral downward until she died when I was 21, I experienced many long periods of sullen contemplation, alone in a quiet room. In my family, medical matters of any sort were considered very private, physical certainly, and mental most definitely. So I didn't talk to anyone about these downswings, with one or two drunken exceptions, until I saw a grief counselor briefly after mom died. It was only a few sessions, but it did open a door for me. I confided more in close friends following, formed closer bonds with siblings, and unpacked a lot of tangled emotional baggage that I'd been carrying for years. The worst episode was before that, probably when I was 17 or 18, when, one morning in February (not sure why I remember that), on a Sunday (not sure why I remember that), I sat up in bed, quiet tears streaming down my face, and contemplated whether I wanted to go on living. I remember many of the mental gymnastics, but I will spare you the details. (If discussing it would somehow be helpful to someone, speak with me privately.) If I recall correctly, about four hours passed before I got out of bed. I made the right decision (obviously). I have never been to that dark a place in my mind since, though I probably came near it once or twice in my 20s and early 30s. Thankfully, I can tell you today that I don't recall the last visit, because it's been too long to conjure. And I have no intention of ever finding myself there again.
In my early teens, I tried to find solace in faith, good little Catholic boy I was being raised to be. But faith is the opposite of logic, and I'm wired for science. Catholicism failed me miserably, and after several changes of religion, I landed on Philosophical Taoism (which is not at odds with logic, in my mind). Discovering Taoism has helped me immensely ever since through many of life's ups-and-downs, but since it is predicated as much on logic as it is belief, see above regarding how much good logic can be when things happen. This is not a condemnation of Catholicism, Christianity, or faith in general. (When I condemn organized religion, it's for other reasons.) If, as a means of coping, it works for you: excellent! Enjoy. I once met a pair of Mormons on the doorstep with the bold proclamation "No, I haven't found Jesus, but I'm a Taoist, and MY FAITH SUSTAINS ME!" It was a joke to amuse myself at the time, but in hindsight, it's also kind of true.
Many periods of sadness I experienced, even the intense times, were in fact logical responses to bad situations. Things felt desperate because things were desperate, or at least could reasonably be perceived that way in my circumstance. None of this was the fault of my parents, they were great. Neither did it have anything to do with abuse, or trouble at home, or at school, or anything of the like. It stemmed just from being a working class family dealing with my mother's MS, all the changes that brings to a family dynamic, being a skinny nerd, living in a seedy neighbourhood, and so on. No one is to blame. It's the hand that was dealt. That's how it played it out.
I did a lot of drinking in my teens and 20s, and while much of it was social, at least some of it was definitely motivated by a desire to self-medicate, to escape, to forget. I expect most people have that experience to at least some degree, so it's probably not remarkable. I never tried drugs, for which I'm nowadays thankful, since I am self-aware enough to understand my propensity toward addictive behaviour. After mom died, I went out drinking one night and got completely shit-faced, and on waking the next day decided I'd rather eat Pringles every day than become an alcoholic, so my days as a 'skinny nerd' ended as I packed on the pounds at the rate of two cans per day for months. I don't regret this. It's easier to put down Pringles than alcohol.
But as I passed into my 20s and 30s, I also discovered a difficult truth: that while much of the sadness went away as my life got better and I gained more control over life's circumstances, I am sometimes still prone to irrational downswings, usually just for a period of a day or two, and less and less frequently as the years go on. This may come as news for some of my friends reading this. Nowadays, it happens... I'd guess about one day every two or three months. A few days a year is very manageable. It's also much milder than it was in the past. When it happens, I know it's happening. I feel it. I ask myself why I feel sad and can't come up with a rational explanation, but I can't stop feeling that way. The fact that I, as such a logical creature, cannot simply will myself back to sensible thinking and feeling is a special kind of madness-icing on the sad-cake, making me irritable at my own "weakness" (note the quotes) on top of the sadness. I try to stay civil as best I can, but I don't think I'm much fun to be around.
Then I employ my coping mechanisms as best I can. After all these years, here's where I've gotten:
For this particular issue, I tend to isolate myself from others. I remind myself that it will pass: within a day or two all will be well again. I know this. I can't make the sad stop, but I can believe it's only a matter of time. The experience of this past decade or more has taught me this. That much my logical mind can still grab on to. I just need to not panic, to pass that time as quickly as possible, and to not allow myself to look into that dark place I looked so many moons ago (which as I said, I haven't in ages).
My best bet is to bury myself in a solitary activity that is capable of completely focusing my mind. Activities like watching Netflix are generally useless. Watching a show allows my mind to drift in different directions. It would have to be one really goddamn engrossing show to do otherwise. The frustration of being unfocused just heightens the feelings. Origami used to help, but nowadays unless it's something new and particularly complicated, I could do some of that shit in my sleep. I start folding, my mind wanders, emotion wells. No good. A complex and lengthy video game with a lot of depth and detail, something especially good with the "chase the carrot" pacing, is an excellent refuge. Something epic or world-building is ideal. I probably owe Sid Meier a big thank you. If I can bury 18 of the next 36 hours in a video-game frenzy, the mood will likely have passed before I realize. I finish the game and feel fine. Done.
Writing can be immensely helpful, especially if the irrational sadness has at least some roots in something logical. Then the constant editing and refinement process, in order to present the material in a sensible fashion for readers, is a means of sorting through these undercurrents in my own head, such that publishing may bring closure, or at least expedite things. If the sadness is truly irrational, then writing about something completely unrelated may still create sufficient mental focus to push the feelings aside while I type. There are many things on this blog that were borne of this process, distractions to take me away from something inexplicable.
I've learned over time which music in my collection inspires anger, depression, happiness, and so on. It's not always obvious. Surrounding myself with the right auditory input helps. This is especially true if I have to work. I don't tend to take "mental health" sick days. I probably should, but again, because of the whole "unofficial" nature of these things, I feel like I can't or shouldn't. Obviously, perky music is usually the order of the day. (Everyone should bookmark this wonderful thing.) Being sad and listening to sad music is often a recipe for disaster, though there have been times in the past when it helped by accelerating the process. Again, throw away logic. The closest explanation is probably akin to when people say things like "maybe you just need a good cry". "Well, let's get on with it then, shall we?" Since I tend to gravitate to music that stimulates me lyrically, I don't actually own a lot of peppy stuff in my collection that can elevate my mood, but I do keep a few albums around for this very purpose (Ok Go, Red Hot Chili Peppers). I also have a few things in my collection I consider incredibly beautiful music, but which I find so emotionally disheartening that I only allow myself to listen to them in happy, stable moods and only a few times a year. (But not like, really happy moods, because who wants to ruin that?)
In my 20s and early 30s, I sometimes dulled my senses using induced fatigue, intentionally staying up until the wee hours watching late night talk shows and then getting up early and taking less than my usual amount of caffeine. This left me zombie-like and more able to cope with the stress of the day. It's a horrible idea and I (almost) never do it any more. I cannot recommend that. It's stupid and doesn't really work. It often makes things worse. I understand this now, but back then I didn't know better.
Because I tend to isolate myself, unless I inexplicably cancel social plans, I imagine (rightly or wrongly) people around me probably don't notice when these days happen, with the exception of Liza-Ann.
This Other Sometimes but Brief Thing: Cognitive Disso... I.. but.. FAAACK...
I'm a person who plans everything. If you've ever spoken to me and it's a conversation I've started, and it's about anything other than "how's your day?", there's a good probability I had at least the first several exchanges rehearsed in my head before you set eyes on me. It's like planning a chess opening. I do this with as many of my conversations as I can, habitually, even when those conversations are casual ones with friends where there's zero reason to be the least bit nervous (away with you, logic!). I make one exception where I won't allow myself: "matters of the heart". I suppose in some sense, this means Liza-Ann experiences a 'more honest' version of me than others do, because she witnesses more emotionally-spontaneous responses than anyone else. She also has much more opportunity to be the one starting the conversation.
If you're someone who knows me personally, please don't be offended. I'm not trying to one-up or trick anyone. It's a way of creating a sort of "conversational footing" for myself to start things off in the right direction.
I've done this for as far back as I remember, and I know I created my "special exception" rule at 21. (Fun fact? It was based on something from the bible!) If I plan even conversations, you can bet your bottom dollar I plan everything else in my life as much as possible. By the time the car is a block from the house, my mental GPS has mapped the optimal route between the five places I need to go on errands. There are a few odd exceptions, like not always taking a grocery list.
This is both a good and bad thing. I enjoy foresight. I consider it the real definition of genius thinking. But these mental house-of-cards I construct have a glaring weakness:
Whether it's because I was unexpectedly interrupted during the middle steps of one of my elaborate plans (e.g. someone dropping by, the phone ringing unexpectedly), or because I suddenly realize I've made a mistake and omitted something from the plan, it sends me into a confused mental frenzy. It's brief. It lasts only a minute at most, usually much less. During that frenzy I probably can't string together a decent sentence. It's not exactly panic. It's difficult to describe, because it doesn't feel like fear, more like frustration, or agitation. I'm highly agitated. It's a rapid ramble, sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud, of incomplete thoughts as I scramble to incorporate this new information into a revised plan.
The most common example is something people will never witness. When driving in the car by myself, running errands, I realize there's something I forgot and my whole mental-GPS-routing is invalidated. I hurriedly take two spontaneous wrong turns and find myself going in the complete wrong direction. I may then need to actually pull over for a second, calm myself, rework the plan in my head, and finally start off in the right direction.
This could be a common experience. Maybe it happens to everyone and with great frequency. Perhaps it's completely unremarkable. I honestly don't know. I only seldom witness it in others, but since people don't normally see me doing it, I can't tell if it's something we all have, or just me (and that one friend I've watched it happen to).
It's unpreventable but it's brief. My only "coping mechanism" is to stop myself from what I'm doing and take a "mental breather" to re-work the plan (e.g. pull over rather than to take three more turns down side streets in different directions while feeling like a total idiot). Then I move on and basically pretend it never happened and do my best to forget that it did.
That Constant, Mild, but Invisible Thing: I Both Love and Hate Dealing with People This is that one where I'm going to write about a few of those things. Those things are things I sometimes talk about with close friends. Those things are things I've alluded to or danced around in my writing in the past, and addressed head on once or twice but usually not in too much detail. What exactly are those things? Well, that's actually bit hard to say.
I'm writing about the way certain things happen in my head, nowadays and in the past. But I'm hesitant to put particular names on those things, because I'd be choosing words I'm not sure I truly understand. I am someone who adamantly clings to precision, and I've never had any sort of clinical diagnosis for any aspects of the mental states of which I will be writing. In fact, I've never been tested for any of these things and I've never spoken with doctors about these things with the exception of the frequent insomnia that troubled me throughout my teens, 20s, and 30s. But know that my reluctance to put names on those things isn't because I feel embarrassed by them (though that was true when I was younger). These days, if I felt shame over them, I certainly wouldn't be putting them out there in writing for the rest of the world to see, would I? Rather, I suspect it might be irresponsible of me to invoke particular words for those things without ever having seen a professional and had them put so fine a point on it. And out of respect for those who have been to professionals, and been diagnosed with... well... things, I've no desire to diminish anyone else's experience in any way, or to "stake claim" to anything not mine, so to speak.
Let me also be explicitly clear about something important: I'm generally a pretty happy person these days. I count my blessings. I enjoy my life. I've a lot to be positive about these days. And I appreciate that, and precisely because it wasn't always like that. Most of these things don't happen much any more, and when they do I recognize them, employ one or more coping mechanisms I've developed through experience, and do what I need to to go about my day. I've gotten very good at this (I'd like to think), and so they're mostly just "little foibles" to me now. Liza-Ann sees and knows me enough to know when I'm inexplicably "off", but I imagine with most other people I've gotten so good at hiding it, you probably never even notice. I could be wrong, but if so, don't feel like you can't tell me. I'd rather know. Then we're both on the same page.
So I'm writing today not to exorcise any demons of my own, but for two other reasons: First, because I know there are some people in my life (my partner, in particular) who have never had some of the experiences I'm about to describe, and I'm hoping to make it a little easier for those people to understand those of us who do. Second, in honour of Bell's "Let's Talk", I'm publishing this when I am in the hopes that those who do have similar experiences will know they're not alone, and this may help further the conversation around mental health. I want readers to feel a sense of hope, if that's possible, because I feel like I've overcome a lot, and arrived somewhere good, and maybe anyone with similar experiences will feel they can too. If we're really lucky, maybe something in the ways I deal with my things is worth trying for someone else. I wish these were things I could have spoken more candidly about when I was younger. Regardless, I'm glad I can now.
Much of what I'm about to describe won't make logical sense. If you know me, you know I'm an exceedingly logical, thoughtful, (over) analytical person. Yet much of it won't make sense. If I could make it make sense, I would. Trust me, I've tried. Every time these things happen, I try again. And for someone who's never had these experiences, that's the hardest part. You see someone struggling, the compassion in you swells, and you try to apply logic to help them 'sort their problem'. But if simple logic would have fixed it, they'd have figured it out on their own long ago. That you do this is, of course, the logical response. Indeed, in spite of the fact that I can relate to some of these experiences in others, I still immediately jump to trying to apply the same useless logic arguments. ("But what do you have to be sad about?" Nothing, yet I'm still incredibly sad. THAT... is the real problem.) And then I mentally scold myself for it, because I should know better.
Sometimes the problem isn't rational, it's chemical. Maybe it's hormones. Maybe it's something cross-wired in a brain. Maybe it's something I ate. I don't know. I wish I knew. I don't. I know the symptoms. I don't know the cause. And I know what does and doesn't work for me. That's all I can provide. Honestly, I'm not truly sure if these things even qualify as things, now or in the past. Maybe they're just "facts of life". What do I know? But I'll put them out there anyway. Do with them what you will.
So, with that ridiculously large preamble out of the way...
The Worst Thing: Sometimes I haz a very bad sad
During my youth, I experienced a great deal of sadness. Given the circumstances of my life at the time (and yes, I know I had many things to be thankful for as well), growing up watching my mother's health and mobility spiral downward until she died when I was 21, I experienced many long periods of sullen contemplation, alone in a quiet room. In my family, medical matters of any sort were considered very private, physical certainly, and mental most definitely. So I didn't talk to anyone about these downswings, with one or two drunken exceptions, until I saw a grief counselor briefly after mom died. It was only a few sessions, but it did open a door for me. I confided more in close friends following, formed closer bonds with siblings, and unpacked a lot of tangled emotional baggage that I'd been carrying for years. The worst episode was before that, probably when I was 17 or 18, when, one morning in February (not sure why I remember that), on a Sunday (not sure why I remember that), I sat up in bed, quiet tears streaming down my face, and contemplated whether I wanted to go on living. I remember many of the mental gymnastics, but I will spare you the details. (If discussing it would somehow be helpful to someone, speak with me privately.) If I recall correctly, about four hours passed before I got out of bed. I made the right decision (obviously). I have never been to that dark a place in my mind since, though I probably came near it once or twice in my 20s and early 30s. Thankfully, I can tell you today that I don't recall the last visit, because it's been too long to conjure. And I have no intention of ever finding myself there again.
In my early teens, I tried to find solace in faith, good little Catholic boy I was being raised to be. But faith is the opposite of logic, and I'm wired for science. Catholicism failed me miserably, and after several changes of religion, I landed on Philosophical Taoism (which is not at odds with logic, in my mind). Discovering Taoism has helped me immensely ever since through many of life's ups-and-downs, but since it is predicated as much on logic as it is belief, see above regarding how much good logic can be when things happen. This is not a condemnation of Catholicism, Christianity, or faith in general. (When I condemn organized religion, it's for other reasons.) If, as a means of coping, it works for you: excellent! Enjoy. I once met a pair of Mormons on the doorstep with the bold proclamation "No, I haven't found Jesus, but I'm a Taoist, and MY FAITH SUSTAINS ME!" It was a joke to amuse myself at the time, but in hindsight, it's also kind of true.
Many periods of sadness I experienced, even the intense times, were in fact logical responses to bad situations. Things felt desperate because things were desperate, or at least could reasonably be perceived that way in my circumstance. None of this was the fault of my parents, they were great. Neither did it have anything to do with abuse, or trouble at home, or at school, or anything of the like. It stemmed just from being a working class family dealing with my mother's MS, all the changes that brings to a family dynamic, being a skinny nerd, living in a seedy neighbourhood, and so on. No one is to blame. It's the hand that was dealt. That's how it played it out.
I did a lot of drinking in my teens and 20s, and while much of it was social, at least some of it was definitely motivated by a desire to self-medicate, to escape, to forget. I expect most people have that experience to at least some degree, so it's probably not remarkable. I never tried drugs, for which I'm nowadays thankful, since I am self-aware enough to understand my propensity toward addictive behaviour. After mom died, I went out drinking one night and got completely shit-faced, and on waking the next day decided I'd rather eat Pringles every day than become an alcoholic, so my days as a 'skinny nerd' ended as I packed on the pounds at the rate of two cans per day for months. I don't regret this. It's easier to put down Pringles than alcohol.
But as I passed into my 20s and 30s, I also discovered a difficult truth: that while much of the sadness went away as my life got better and I gained more control over life's circumstances, I am sometimes still prone to irrational downswings, usually just for a period of a day or two, and less and less frequently as the years go on. This may come as news for some of my friends reading this. Nowadays, it happens... I'd guess about one day every two or three months. A few days a year is very manageable. It's also much milder than it was in the past. When it happens, I know it's happening. I feel it. I ask myself why I feel sad and can't come up with a rational explanation, but I can't stop feeling that way. The fact that I, as such a logical creature, cannot simply will myself back to sensible thinking and feeling is a special kind of madness-icing on the sad-cake, making me irritable at my own "weakness" (note the quotes) on top of the sadness. I try to stay civil as best I can, but I don't think I'm much fun to be around.
Then I employ my coping mechanisms as best I can. After all these years, here's where I've gotten:
For this particular issue, I tend to isolate myself from others. I remind myself that it will pass: within a day or two all will be well again. I know this. I can't make the sad stop, but I can believe it's only a matter of time. The experience of this past decade or more has taught me this. That much my logical mind can still grab on to. I just need to not panic, to pass that time as quickly as possible, and to not allow myself to look into that dark place I looked so many moons ago (which as I said, I haven't in ages).
My best bet is to bury myself in a solitary activity that is capable of completely focusing my mind. Activities like watching Netflix are generally useless. Watching a show allows my mind to drift in different directions. It would have to be one really goddamn engrossing show to do otherwise. The frustration of being unfocused just heightens the feelings. Origami used to help, but nowadays unless it's something new and particularly complicated, I could do some of that shit in my sleep. I start folding, my mind wanders, emotion wells. No good. A complex and lengthy video game with a lot of depth and detail, something especially good with the "chase the carrot" pacing, is an excellent refuge. Something epic or world-building is ideal. I probably owe Sid Meier a big thank you. If I can bury 18 of the next 36 hours in a video-game frenzy, the mood will likely have passed before I realize. I finish the game and feel fine. Done.
Writing can be immensely helpful, especially if the irrational sadness has at least some roots in something logical. Then the constant editing and refinement process, in order to present the material in a sensible fashion for readers, is a means of sorting through these undercurrents in my own head, such that publishing may bring closure, or at least expedite things. If the sadness is truly irrational, then writing about something completely unrelated may still create sufficient mental focus to push the feelings aside while I type. There are many things on this blog that were borne of this process, distractions to take me away from something inexplicable.
I've learned over time which music in my collection inspires anger, depression, happiness, and so on. It's not always obvious. Surrounding myself with the right auditory input helps. This is especially true if I have to work. I don't tend to take "mental health" sick days. I probably should, but again, because of the whole "unofficial" nature of these things, I feel like I can't or shouldn't. Obviously, perky music is usually the order of the day. (Everyone should bookmark this wonderful thing.) Being sad and listening to sad music is often a recipe for disaster, though there have been times in the past when it helped by accelerating the process. Again, throw away logic. The closest explanation is probably akin to when people say things like "maybe you just need a good cry". "Well, let's get on with it then, shall we?" Since I tend to gravitate to music that stimulates me lyrically, I don't actually own a lot of peppy stuff in my collection that can elevate my mood, but I do keep a few albums around for this very purpose (Ok Go, Red Hot Chili Peppers). I also have a few things in my collection I consider incredibly beautiful music, but which I find so emotionally disheartening that I only allow myself to listen to them in happy, stable moods and only a few times a year. (But not like, really happy moods, because who wants to ruin that?)
In my 20s and early 30s, I sometimes dulled my senses using induced fatigue, intentionally staying up until the wee hours watching late night talk shows and then getting up early and taking less than my usual amount of caffeine. This left me zombie-like and more able to cope with the stress of the day. It's a horrible idea and I (almost) never do it any more. I cannot recommend that. It's stupid and doesn't really work. It often makes things worse. I understand this now, but back then I didn't know better.
Because I tend to isolate myself, unless I inexplicably cancel social plans, I imagine (rightly or wrongly) people around me probably don't notice when these days happen, with the exception of Liza-Ann.
This Other Sometimes but Brief Thing: Cognitive Disso... I.. but.. FAAACK...
I'm a person who plans everything. If you've ever spoken to me and it's a conversation I've started, and it's about anything other than "how's your day?", there's a good probability I had at least the first several exchanges rehearsed in my head before you set eyes on me. It's like planning a chess opening. I do this with as many of my conversations as I can, habitually, even when those conversations are casual ones with friends where there's zero reason to be the least bit nervous (away with you, logic!). I make one exception where I won't allow myself: "matters of the heart". I suppose in some sense, this means Liza-Ann experiences a 'more honest' version of me than others do, because she witnesses more emotionally-spontaneous responses than anyone else. She also has much more opportunity to be the one starting the conversation.
If you're someone who knows me personally, please don't be offended. I'm not trying to one-up or trick anyone. It's a way of creating a sort of "conversational footing" for myself to start things off in the right direction.
I've done this for as far back as I remember, and I know I created my "special exception" rule at 21. (Fun fact? It was based on something from the bible!) If I plan even conversations, you can bet your bottom dollar I plan everything else in my life as much as possible. By the time the car is a block from the house, my mental GPS has mapped the optimal route between the five places I need to go on errands. There are a few odd exceptions, like not always taking a grocery list.
This is both a good and bad thing. I enjoy foresight. I consider it the real definition of genius thinking. But these mental house-of-cards I construct have a glaring weakness:
Whether it's because I was unexpectedly interrupted during the middle steps of one of my elaborate plans (e.g. someone dropping by, the phone ringing unexpectedly), or because I suddenly realize I've made a mistake and omitted something from the plan, it sends me into a confused mental frenzy. It's brief. It lasts only a minute at most, usually much less. During that frenzy I probably can't string together a decent sentence. It's not exactly panic. It's difficult to describe, because it doesn't feel like fear, more like frustration, or agitation. I'm highly agitated. It's a rapid ramble, sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud, of incomplete thoughts as I scramble to incorporate this new information into a revised plan.
The most common example is something people will never witness. When driving in the car by myself, running errands, I realize there's something I forgot and my whole mental-GPS-routing is invalidated. I hurriedly take two spontaneous wrong turns and find myself going in the complete wrong direction. I may then need to actually pull over for a second, calm myself, rework the plan in my head, and finally start off in the right direction.
This could be a common experience. Maybe it happens to everyone and with great frequency. Perhaps it's completely unremarkable. I honestly don't know. I only seldom witness it in others, but since people don't normally see me doing it, I can't tell if it's something we all have, or just me (and that one friend I've watched it happen to).
It's unpreventable but it's brief. My only "coping mechanism" is to stop myself from what I'm doing and take a "mental breather" to re-work the plan (e.g. pull over rather than to take three more turns down side streets in different directions while feeling like a total idiot). Then I move on and basically pretend it never happened and do my best to forget that it did.
I love to socialize, but I really prefer to be in control of the circumstances of my socialization. For example, I hate almost all incoming phone calls. I didn't plan that interaction. Why are they calling? What will they want to talk about? Why now? Is it because something is wrong? Could I not answer? What if it's an emergency? THIS ISN'T PART OF THE PLAN. Hello?
It's not to say I don't sometimes like people calling or dropping by unannounced. It would depend on who calls or drops by unannounced and what I'm doing at the time (see above re: elaborate plans getting interrupted). I love the company of my friends - to a degree, I need my alone time too - but I dread conversations with strangers to the point that I can easily lose sleep over knowing I have to talk to one the next day. And it doesn't have to be a complicated context, where such fear might be reasonable, it can be over the smallest things. I will scour the whole damn section or even store twice before I'll ask where to find something. I will make excuses for not asking. If the waiter or waitress forgets something, it feels like an act of courage for me to ask, in spite of the fact that I'm only asking them to do their job and it's probably something really trivial like "do you have any salt?". Liza-Ann's brother-in-law works managing a garage. This is where I will forever bring the car now, because I know jack shit about cars and the idea of bringing a car somewhere and having some guy I've never met say "yeah, from what you tell me, it sounds like your fribbled breg is not snickering properly with your ignu" will leave me feeling "he thinks I'm an idiot for not knowing this", and this is absolutely horrifying to me. Denny has no idea how much stress he's saved me in the last decade. (Well, if he reads this I guess he does now.)
Recently, Dan admitted one day he didn't quite get the haircut he wanted because he didn't want to correct the stylist for fear of hurting her feelings. I was reminded of my own typical haircut experience: in the shop where I go, there are two women who work there regularly. One gives a decent cut. The other is more experienced and gives an excellent cut. I'd prefer her, obviously, but if I enter the store and her line is longer (which it usually is, because I'm not the only one who knows this), I go with the lesser option, not because I don't have the time to wait, but because I'm afraid of offending this person I see for 30 minutes maybe six or eight times a year and whose name I didn't even know until recently. It's not because I like her (ambivalent). It's not because I'm attracted to her (I'm not). It's because I can't bear the thought that she might give me a dirty look and make me feel awkward.
I can't watch shows like The Office, because I empathize with characters in awkward situations onscreen and it makes my skin crawl. This whole genre of awkward-situation humor is anathema to me.
If you invite me to a house party where there will be a large number of people I don't know, expect me to make an appearance and likely leave after an hour with some excuse as to why I can't stay. If I'm there longer than that, either Liza-Ann is having a good time and I don't want to ruin it for her, or I've found enough people I know to cling to that I've found a way to endure. If I'm not drunk and wearing a lampshade, I'm probably not "having a blast". (If I am drunk and wearing a lamp-shade, it is the way I've found to endure.)
I don't consider it an inconvenience to give a friend a lift somewhere or do any other such small favour. On the contrary, I welcome the opportunity to do a friend a good turn. Love them. Seldom refuse. But I hate asking someone for a ride unless they are in my closest circle of friends because it feels like a horrible inconvenience to me, despite the illogic of this reversible scenario. In fact, even some of those friends, people I've known for 20+ years, I hate asking the simplest of favours, not that they'd ever refuse. I hate the thought of inconveniencing anyone.
YET...
I was able to overcome shyness at a young age enough to do public speaking, classroom instruction, work presentations, and so on. In fact, I do these things confidently. I don't usually feel nervous preceding these events. Oddly, I somehow defer the tension until after. It's weird, right? I can prep a presentation, give said presentation, and then only later, after it's all said and done, will a wave of "was that alright?" pass over me. I'd love to tell people how to do this, but I honestly have no idea how I got here.
Similarly, for all my distaste at the thought of inconveniencing someone or having an awkward conversation with a stranger, I don't shy away from confrontational conversations (counseling, arguments, etc.).
The confluence of all these things about the way I interact with other people is very incongruous, but the relative visibility of each means most people would probably never describe me as "shy". I organize social events and invite them out. I love to host. I speak in front of groups. I run meetings. I organize teams. I lead. I provide advice. I talk things out. I do all this stuff but... I'm afraid of hurting my barber's feelings, or of asking a coworker for lift home.
That said, I still do. I don't exactly have a "coping mechanism" for this thing because while I hate those conversations, while I dread those conversations, while I frequently feel nervous even talking with people I deal with on a regular basis during those conversations, it ultimately doesn't prevent me from having (most of) those conversations. Sure, I don't always get the haircut I want, and sometimes go to a second store unnecessarily to find something the first one had, but I still get what I need, the car still gets fixed, and so on. When it truly matters, I'm able to invoke the courage to do what I have to do to get by. One thing that really helps, and it's a simple thing: the mere presence of a close friend with me gives an incredible boost when it comes to working up to opening my mouth.
I'm grateful that while I feel this thing, struggle with it, and usually succeed in overcoming it, I expect there are others around me who also feel it and struggle with it but who are not so successful in overcoming it all the times they need to. I understand them. I get it. My heart goes out to them.
All those other things...
I, as do many highly-organized, fastidious planners, joke frequently about being OCD. Most of the people who joke about being OCD are, of course, not actually. They are simply highly-organized, fastidious planners. They may enjoy being highly-organized, fastidious planners, but they are not compelled to be. They do not feel irrepressible urges to do certain often-illogical things. They simple understand the merits of being neat. They find it rewarding. OCD is an iceberg: the tip - behaviour - is visible. The base - compulsion - is much larger and not visible. I feel quite certain I am not, in fact, OCD, because while I do experience some odd compulsions: 1) they are either harmless and unnoticeable (backing out of a parking space the exact reverse of how I entered, even if it puts me in the wrong direction), 2) through force of will, I am able to overcome them (I can back out the other way, if I make myself), and 3) they do not consume a significant portion of my day or limit my ability to function. Through the course of a lot of self-awareness over the last number of years, I've come to determine a large number of these behaviours are more habitual than compulsion. Any anxiety I feel at forcing myself to do something "against the grain" is usually very mild, a discomfort. I may experience slight agitation while doing it or at the thought, but it doesn't linger. I actually use a few of these behaviours to my advantage. For instance, I only need to talk myself into starting certain unpleasant tasks, knowing that once I begin, my compulsion to finish with overcome me. Somehow, lying to myself this way keeps working. (Away, logic! I tricked myself again!) At the end of the day, joke as we do about what I'm like, I know I don't qualify to be that particular thing.
I'll go in water deeper than my head with a life-jacket on, and even frolic. If you try to get me into water deeper than my head without a life-jacket, I will literally punch you in the neck before I go in the drink. I don't think this thing technically qualifies as "hydrophobic", but I've almost drowned twice, and the indescribable surge of fear I get if my toes can't touch bottom makes me want to bite off my own tongue. I can probably make myself tremble just by closing my eyes and imaging it, if I could make myself close my eyes and imagine it.
And... done?
There's probably more. I'm full of little "foibles". But that's got to be most of it. These are the ones that come to mind and which I'm willing to talk about, at least. I've catalogued all the misfiring, nonsensical bits of my brain. It feels oddly rewarding.
I wrote this with very little trepidation, very little emotion at all. It mostly seems so matter-of-fact to me now. (Though I'll admit, I
I wrote all this because, well...
This is who I am, this is how I've been, and I'm ok with it.
So, yeah, it's been a winding path.
So if you're someone whose path has been a little crooked too, or who feels right now that you're a little lost in the woods... you're definitely not alone. There are a lot more of us who've come this way than you realize. I heard that even that loud, obnoxious guy in the office who loves giving presentations is a complex mess of really weird shit inside his head.
Persevere. Find a way. There are people who love you, and want you around, even if you don't feel like much fun, even if don't feel like you owe it to yourself to keep going, even if you don't want to keep trying. If nothing else, maybe you can feel like you owe it to someone else who loves you to keep trying, for their sake if not your own.
That's what I thought one Sunday morning in February nearly 30 years ago.
[To my friends who struggle with... things... This one was for you. Kick the darkness 'till it bleeds daylight.]
