Category Archives: simplicity

A Brief Thought on Dying

“It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.”

– Samuel Johnson

Someone close to me recently brought forth the question of whether or not I was curious about what people will say or think about me after I die. I couldn’t help but laugh a little and try and be anecdotal, but nothing that came to mind sounded right.

When they asked me again if I had ever pondered on the issue, I had to be honest and say “no”. I’m of the inclination that this is it. It’s all black after these lights go out…so I’m still trying to plan how I’m going to sneak in a little bit when I get to the “other side”.

I guess in a way I’m so preoccupied with “what’s next” rather than who is saying what about me after I’m gone. I’m a nihilist through and through, but I still don’t have a good enough grasp on the afterlife to be comfortable going now.

Now, I’ve always known what I’ve wanted on my tombstone if that counts: “The future’s uncertain and the end is always near.” A line from “Roadhouse Blues” by The Doors. If you take away the Morrison myth it’s not a bad quote, one of ultimate summation, I think.

What do you want to be remembered for after you’ve left this earthly plane? What do you want your friends and family to say about you? Do you even care? What’s next after we die?

I’m interested to know your feelings on the topic.

Mental Health in Small Town, USA

“There is no standard normal. Normal is subjective. There are seven billion versions of normal on this planet.”

– Matt Haig

Just some brief thoughts:

I live in a small town. Like a really small town. It’s a very conservative, small town in a very conservative part of Illinois, which is most of the state (thank God for Chicago or we would be all Red). There aren’t a lot of resources in my area for people with any type of mental health or psychiatric problems. That seems to be the case for many rural areas across the U.S.

This isn’t news. A 2020 study found that “rural residents in the USA experience significant disparities in mental health outcomes even though the prevalence of mental illness in rural and metropolitan areas is similar.”

These issues may stem from a lack of funding or a lack of understanding of these types of problems. I haven’t even heard of any recognition that May is Mental Health Awareness Month on any type in any local media in my area – not that that is surprising. I have found most people have no idea this is Mental Health Awareness Month.

That’s part of the problem. No, not recognizing May as “ours”, but by not recognizing the issue at all. I had an appointment with my psych doctor yesterday, who practices more than an hour away now. Thank God (or whoever) for Telehealth or that monthly drive would be a killer.

A study by researchers at Wake Forest School of Medicine determined one of the main causes behind the lack of resources for mental health treatment in rural areas is the surrounding shame and stigma. The belief that “I should not need help.”

“We as a society have a hard time asking for help, so it’s hard enough to ask for help [without feeling] that everybody’s going to know it,” Dennis Mohatt, vice president of the behavioral mental health program at the Western Interstate Commission for Higher Education, said. “Your neighbors don’t have a clue in a city if you’re going to go get some help. But everybody [in a small town] will know if your pickup truck is parked outside of the mental health provider’s office.”

He’s right. Fortunately, I do not fall into that category. I’m not out picketing for change or acknowledgment, but I’m far from ashamed.

Other research suggests even suicide rates are affected by the regionality of mental health services.

“There is a higher suicide mortality rate among residents of rural and nonmetropolitan areas than those living in metropolitan areas,” Ty Borders, Ph.D., said. “The discrepancy has existed for decades, and the gap has widened in recent years,”

So, why is this? I’m sure there is more than one answer, but where I live it has a lot to do with what I hope is a lack of understanding (I have to believe that, at least). Funding, too, if that can be looped into it on some real substantive basis. However, I believe it stems from a lack of understanding.

It’s also because of a weakness that gets pinned on those who suffer from any type of mental health problem or crisis. There is very much a “Suck it up and get over it!” mentality among many throughout my community. The idea that mental illness didn’t exist fifty years ago is a very prevalent one.

Poverty plays a role in this dilemma, too. How can someone expect to pay for mental health services when they can’t afford their 10-year-old’s school physical? Especially if those types of appointments are an hour away and are only open certain hours or days of the week.

According to the Rural Health Information Hub, “18.7% of individuals in nonmetropolitan areas have a mental health condition, which is about 6.5 million people. Rural residents are also more likely than urban residents to experience a serious mental illness.”

One report suggests that for every 30,000 rural Americans there is one psychiatrist. This is interesting, and it would be interesting to know how many out of those 30,000 need psychiatric help. But we’ll never get any accurate information regarding that.

So, do we need more therapists? Or is it something more serious, a more systemic issue? I don’t think there is a black or white answer. I mean, I have no real ideas that would matter. I’m just like everyone else: pointing out the flaws in the system with no real alternative measure in mind.

a day in the life: snapshots & hand-me-downs

“The past beats inside me like a second heart.”

– John Banville

I recently had the luxury of finding an old notebook, one that had been used simply for creative purposes. It was about fifteen years old, but you couldn’t tell by its condition. However, the age of the notebook became more than evident after opening it up. To me, anyway.

Upon looking at the chicken scrawl that was my teen handwriting, and the pages and pages of pretentious writing that were also mine…I had a serious cringe moment. I don’t think of myself as a regular Hemingway, but my immaturity was on full display in those pages. It was also real clear that I had no real insight fifteen years ago. Just based on some of the passages I could stomach reading.

“…of the stiff, suspicious statues –

I stumbled along in agonizing anticipation

The voices were hollow and near

hiding in the plaguing darkness

I stopped –

and took in the sky…”

(2007)

There is absolutely no meaning to that. I had no idea what it meant then, and I still don’t. And I won’t try to pretend to spin it now.

The notebook is full of writing that makes me grimace. But its writing shows a side of me, one that I had yet to even define at that point.

It’s only one of many notebooks I could dig out and have the same feeling over (I have even at times thought about getting all the “old stuff” together in a chronological fashion of some sort, but life hasn’t allowed for that to happen). They’re the notebooks that are the basis for anything I am now.

They include song lyrics:

A worried man’s got his worried mind

And sees with two eyes that have gone blind

I been standing in the back just trying to get her name

When you’re that hard-up for a little fix

You ain’t clean, just a sober addict

You’re a million miles away, and everything’s changed

And poetry:

“I bought a brand-new mirror

and I hung it on the wall

I knelt before it every night

And prayed it wouldn’t fall…”

And then I stumbled upon this last little piece. It’s a poem that, at even twelve years old, I have found some merit in.

The Day I Left

the day I left,

in shackles and hand-me-downs,

the hardest thing –

that once remembered dream of

Passion,

I left the beach

I left, strangled and oblivious,

the curtain of hope decaying,

a penned elegy in my place

she was a sad-eyed mystery,

who was whatever I wanted,

sacred remnant

(left the beach for this?)

Instead of diamonds for sand and the sun for a father,

we have this –

Bombs for beachballs, tanks for cruise ships,

war for fun-in-the-sun

I see it all thru concave,

                  visions of mass deception,          

a summertime loss

this wavy clarity takes away

my security

the truth and enlightenment we need is found

in nuclear warfare,

and in our God,

bomb

Blessed,

I left in sleep

Cursed,

I left her

I push this way,

you pull the other

The day I left.

I found salvation

But not the kind I hoped to find

I found loneliness

I was blessed

on the day that I left

I guess if I had a point in today’s ramblings it would be to be careful what you hold onto and what you throw away. It may be old and it may be immature, but it also might contain the plotline for the next great American novel.

A Slight Return to the Madness

woman in gray tank top

“Soon madness has worn you down. It’s easier to do what says than argue. In this way, it takes over your mind. You no longer know where it ends, and you begin. You believe anything it says. You do what it tells you, no matter how extreme or absurd. If it says you’re worthless, you agree. You plead for it to stop. You promise to behave. You are on your knees, and it laughs.”

– Marya Hornbacher

Well, it’s been a week or so since my last post, so this is just me checking in, I guess.

Of course, it’s been one of “those” weeks: work started back up (yards needed to be mowed). On top of that, I spent Wednesday and Thursday in bed, depressed as usual (I wish people knew what it meant to literally not be able to get out of bed).

But in my rapid cycling nature, I am back, and have spent the last couple of days in a state of “stifled mania” (the medication helps the severity of the episodes). Today is Sunday, though, and I’m glad to be able to enjoy the beautiful weather here. And no work. It’s a great day to spend with the family and I’m genuinely happy. It may be fleeting, and tomorrow is a new day. So, who knows, right? All I can do is all I can do.

The above quote is as accurate as it gets. It never goes away, the madness. You eventually realize the demons aren’t laughing with you, but at you. Like every time before, though, damage all but done, it passes like all else.

I’m planning on spending some more time on another writing project, as well, but I’m not going anywhere. I just needed a recharge.

I hope that’s all, anyway.

You Walk on Eggshells, I Walk Thru Fire

orange flame selective focus photography

“Some days, I feel everything at once. Other days, I feel nothing at all. I don’t know what’s worse, drowning beneath the waves, or dying from the thirst.”

– Unknown

Someone close to me recently had their first panic attack and described it as the most frightening experience of their life. Equating it to what a mental/emotional/physical heart attack might hypothetically feel like, it was evident that this person had been truly affected by this incident. And not in any positive way. This person, being aware of my “situation”, came to me to ask if I could remember my first panic attack and what it was like. I paused, struggled, and slowly accepted the realization that no, I could not remember my first panic attack.

I’ve grown accustomed to the panic attacks and the anxiety, just as I have the depression. It all runs together. Not to belabor the point, but this state of mind has become my normal. In fact, I probably wouldn’t know what to do without the highs and the lows and everything else under the sun. Isn’t it funny that the one thing in the world I would do anything to change is the one thing I would miss the most and be lost without? It’s a trap, one of God’s little jokes. And he’s the only one laughing.

I guess that’s kind of my point. For someone with bipolar disorder, learning to live with all of its manifestations and idiosyncrasies becomes an art form, and in the purest sense. I have weathered the storm long enough to not be “used to it” but be accustomed to the qualities you may see as a “hindrance” or a “disability”. It’s quite the opposite at times; bipolar disorder strips away all that you are until you are in your rawest form or mindset. From there, you simply learn to ride the wave because the waves don’t stop. They are forever, and all we can do is attempt to reach a moment of clarity and relief.

I’ve grown so used to being like this that I remain in a constant state of disillusionment. My naturally adopted cynicism never fails to make an appearance. I’m on a constant loop; I’m up, I’m down, I’m level. Up, down, level. By the time I actually do level out and can adopt some perspective, it’s time to get back on that rollercoaster and do it all over again. Never “sane” long enough to enact any real change.

So, anxiety and panic attacks are just par for the course for me. I remain suspended in a mess of pure hopelessness. The difference between us, though, is that I can manage. I can hang. I can hang and you can’t. It may sound like I’m bragging, but I assure you I am not. As it turns out I am not proud. If I didn’t approach this topic with a kind of conceited, bare bones attitude I would be a total mess, and no one needs that.

So, no. I do not remember my first panic attack. I am anxious to a debilitating point at least once a day anyway so you can’t hold it against me. It’s certainly not something I can apologize for. I live in a constant state of panic and anxiety. It’s not that it’s easy or that I’ve gotten used to it. It simply is what it is.

Another Pause: The Little Things

white ceramic teacup with saucer near two books above gray floral textile

“Resting and relaxing is as important as going out there and making it happen.”

– Hiral Nagda

So, we decided to stay another night just to have a full evening of recovery and relaxation (reading for me) before we make the seven-hour plus drive home. We’ve had a full day of family fun and it seemed like a no-brainer to take a night to unwind before we headed home; no need in going home so worn out that the trip becomes something we want to forget. Also, we all seemed to be excited at the idea of just getting to sit around and read or write or color.

Tomorrow, we return to reality (my wife has to work, and we both have two other children to return to). Not some futuristic definition of reality, just back to our everyday routine. There is nothing wrong with that; reality is, I assume, preferable to the alternative.

This post isn’t going to be too long, so I won’t take much, if any, of your time (assuming you’re even reading this). We’ve all enjoyed this little trip but are also excited about a night of nothing. Even though we’re doing things we can do just as easily at home doesn’t mean we always get to. Life can always get in the way of you being able to finish the last chapter of that book you’ve been reading for two months.

So, I guess my point (other than providing another unnecessary update) is to appreciate the simple things. Real original, right? But seriously, no vacation in the world can make up for the little things that are always right in front of us.